by Nicole Fox
“I see that. Does it make you feel like a big man?”
“Be careful,” Cora whispers behind me. “I don’t want you getting hurt for me.”
That strikes me as an intimate thing to say, and the way she says it is full of emotion women don’t usually use with me. It’s like she actually cares.
“You have two options here, Charles,” I say. “You can either walk away with some small part of your dignity, or you can come at me and we can settle this. If you think that blade gives you the edge you need to beat me, well, fine, come’n prove it.”
He lets out a scream and charges me. I weave forward, duck a right hook that would’ve impaled my eye, and then bring my arms up around him, forcing his shoulders up so that his arms are above his head. I twist, and he yelps, dropping the knife. I twist again and he falls to his knees, making another yelping sound like a hungry cat. I lower him to the ground and turn him over, placing my fist on his chest. I’m bleeding, I realize, a two-inch cut across the forearm. Blood drips onto his quivering jowls.
“Let me give you a word of advice,” I say. “Women don’t like it when you come at them with blades. I know. It’s a fuckin’ revelation.”
He spits.
I hit him a couple of times in the face, one slap and one punch, opening up a cut under his eye. “You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood today, ’cause otherwise I’d make a phone call and get some real mean bastards down here, bastards who make me look like a goddamn reasonable man.” I hit him again, feeling the bloody ache of violence rising inside of me, the ache that fills me when bullets ricochet around me and there’s killing to be done. I tighten my hand around his throat. “Maybe I’ll just keep squeezing,” I tell him, “until your eyes pop like grapes and your mouth fills with blood. Maybe that’ll teach you not to treat ladies like dogshit.”
Cora places her hand on my shoulder. “That’s enough. He gets the point.”
It’s the feel of her hand that does it. It’s like a balm, soothing my rage. I let go of him and stand up, studying the cut on my arm. It’s not deep, but the blood pours freely.
“Get out of here,” I say, giving Charles a nudge with my foot.
He stands up, rubbing his red throat, and then waddles away.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Cora says.
I turn to her. “I wasn’t about to let him stab you.”
“Thank you …” She bites her lip. When she releases it, she looks surer of herself. She squares her shoulders. “We can get a drink, if you like.”
“Sure.”
“But maybe you should come back to my place, so I can patch up that arm. But I really mean to patch up your arm, and maybe have a drink. This isn’t an invitation to anything else. I want to make that clear up front.”
I tip an imaginary hat. “Ma’am. Just let me get my leather. I’m not leaving it here, even locked up.”
When I return, she asks, “So you’re one of those outlaw bikers, then?”
“Is that a problem?”
“My dad was a biker. At least he tried to be.” She hurries on quickly, as if conscious of having shared too much. “Come on. Let’s get you patched up.”
Chapter Six
Cora
I remember reading the story about the giant who was hired by the gods to build the walls of Asgard, only they didn’t know he was a giant and never thought he could do it. I remember wondering if it was possible for a person to build a wall around themselves without knowing everything about the wall, or how it was built, or what would happen if it crumbled. And now, as I drive myself and this stranger back to my apartment, it seems like those questions are in danger of being answered. I built a wall around myself just as the giant did, and now I am simply welcoming somebody through them. Cora Ash was meant to be celibate and alone, and yet here he is, a man, a handsome man at that, a man who makes my body sing.
I tell myself I should ask him to leave when I bring the car to stop, or apologize and take him back to the dive bar, but instead I say, “Let’s go up, then.”
My one-bedroom apartment is a bit of a mess, with clothes spilling out of the bedroom and piled atop the wash basket, a few dishes in the sink, and a pile of books on the coffee table. I go into the kitchen and root around under the sink for the first-aid kit as Logan wanders over to the table, picking up a book at random. “The Poetic Edda,” he says. “What’s this one about?”
“It’s a book of Old Norse poetry,” I tell him.
“What’s that?”
“Vikings.”
“Ah, so that’s what you were singing about? I don’t know much about that.”
“That’s odd, because you’re very much like a Viking.”
I curse myself for the line even as I say it. He does that cute gesture, tipping a fake hat, and I feel something inside of me drop away. Walls crumble, walls cave, and Cora Ash collapses with them. He grins at me, and I smile back, unable to stop myself. He looks even sexier with his jacket on. The patch shows a blood-colored demon riding a motorbike made of charred bones. Demon Riders.
I nod for him to sit down and dab his arm with the alcohol, and then bandage it up. Heat radiates from his body. I feel it on his face, in my hand, the kind of heat which makes me wonder what it would be like to have it unleashed on me. Once I’ve bandaged his arm I go into the kitchen and get a glass of wine and two glasses. I stand there, watching as he looks over the books, willing myself to call over, “I’m sorry, but I think you should go.”
I’m nervous, and scared. One year without a man will do that, I guess. But it’s more than that. I feel too close to this man, far too comfortable. It’s making me do things I’d never normally do, like invite men I just met up to my apartment, or drink with them. I don’t call over, though. Instead I join him and pour two glasses of wine.
He holds the glass up, studying the liquid. “I don’t usually drink this fancy stuff,” he says.
“I’m out of whisky and grit, I’m sorry.”
He chuckles. “You’ve got some fire in you, Cora.”
“Have I?” I shrug. “I never noticed.”
“I bet you haven’t,” he says. “I’m sure every man you’ve ever met has tried to put that fire out in some way.” The dim lamplight plays in his ice-white eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’ll make me blush.”
“I wasn’t looking at you like anything,” I protest.
He holds my gaze. “Sure, whatever you say.” Then he waves at the coffee table. “You’re really into this Viking stuff, then?”
I nod. “I’ve been into it ever since I was a little kid. I had this picture book about myths and legends and I’d sit for hours reading it over and over, even when Mom wanted to dress me up and paint my face. That was before she was in the car crash.” Stop it, I tell myself. Stop oversharing!
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Logan says. “So, your tattoos, they Viking?”
“Two of them are. This one’s the World Serpent. You see how it’s biting its tail? At the end of the world it will let go. This one’s a rune. It means burning desire, or something close to that.”
“You have another?”
“It’s on my lower back.” Suddenly the room seems very hot. My palms are sticky. I’ve finished my glass of wine without realizing it. I pour another.
“Are you gonna let me see it?” he asks.
If any other man asked that I’d laugh in his face, but there’s no desperation or boyish excitement in Logan’s voice, no lascivious widening of the eyes. He just asks it, casual, almost uncaring.
“Sure,” I say on impulse.
I stand up and turn around, lifting my shirt to show him my lower back. The tattoo is of a microphone with a lightning bolt through the middle.
“Rock and roll,” he says, smiling.
“Rock and roll,” I agree.
I sit down, cheeks flushed, body tingling. I can’t stop looking at his neck, corded as though the muscles of his torso are tugging at it. He sees me looking and then
dramatically looks at my chest. “Wow,” he says. “Breasts.”
I giggle, not laugh: my first giggle since I was sixteen, as far as I can remember. I sip my wine and cover my mouth. I find it difficult to look at him, because looking at him pushes my mind into overdrive. I finish my second glass and he drains his first. My head is starting to get woozy, hazy, soft and blanket-like.
“I’m trying to figure something out,” he says.
I look at him, eyebrow raised.
“I’m trying to figure out why I’m not seeing you on billboards or on the Internet or anything like that.”
“I have a page,” I say. “Five-hundred and twenty-two followers, not that I check it every day to see if it’s gone up, and not that I get incredibly upset if it goes down.”
“But you’re so damn good. I’ve gotta be careful here, ’cause I don’t usually drink wine and I’m in danger of coming across like some fanboy, but damn, Cora. Damn.”
“Damn is a good compliment.” I smile, pouring another glass of wine. Then I pour one for Logan. Our hands touch. Electricity transfers from his hand to mine. I feel the hairs on the back of his hand, tickling me, a little static, a little preview of what could be if I let myself go. The hunger inside of me rises, grows larger, sprouts teeth; it wants to bite and devour. He senses my lust. I read it on his face. He knows how I’m feeling and holds his hands beside mine a moment longer than is necessary, eyes locked on me.
I remove my hand.
“So you’re on the noble artist’s road, then.”
“Is there any such thing?” I ask. “I wish there was. I wish I could feel like I was making steady progress toward some Holy Grail or whatever. But sometimes it just seems like I’ll spend the rest of my life singing in dive bars, and the worst part is I don’t even have the rest of my life. I have the rest of my twenties and maybe some of my thirties before no one will want to sign me.” I point at my face. “Once this ages, you know what happens.”
“Being a woman must be so hard.” I think he’s being empathetic, but then I see his wicked grin. “I really feel for you. I might just cry because having a vagina is so difficult.”
“You’re an asshole!” I slap him playfully without thinking. He laughs. I giggle again. Something sparks between us, something unidentifiable, but it definitely carries lust with it. Lust everywhere: lust in the walls, lust in the floor, lust in the ceiling, trapping us.
“I am an asshole,” he agrees. “Does that bother you?”
“I don’t like assholes. Charles was an asshole tonight.”
“Are you saying I’m like that asshole?”
“Okay, you’ve got me. There are many different types of assholes.”
“What category do I fall into?”
“Maybe the acceptable asshole type,” I say. “You’re an asshole on the threshold of being a prick.”
He moves across the couch, sitting so close to me I can once again feel the heat emanating from him, a heat which caresses my skin and makes me wonder what it’d be like to have other parts of him pressed up against me. I swallow: wine and nerves. I try to look at him bravely but I suspect my lips tremble. I set my jaw.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Sitting.” He drains his wine. “Drinking. You can tell me to move if you want, Cora Ash.”
“I know I can. I can also slap you across the face or throw this wine at you.”
He nods. “Will you?”
I bite my lip, release it at once. He’s casting a spell on me, just like the Norse seidr, ancient practitioners of magic who could accomplish all kinds of arcane feats. Logan’s arcane feat is to get a woman who has sworn off men to be irresistibly attracted to a man, and all because of casual curly hair, a strong jaw, piercing white-blue eyes, and muscles honed to sculpted perfection. And his cocky attitude, which is perhaps the most attractive part of all of him. His grin, the light dancing in his eyes. Looking at him, I get the sense that he could give me the immense pleasure which most men are incapable of.
I realize it’s been several seconds since he spoke. “No,” I say. I sip my wine. The elixir blossoms in my belly, warmth spreading its smoky hands throughout me.
“Okay then.” He places his wine glass on the coffee table next to a book with a picture of a longship on it, and then brings his hand to my knee, laying it on me firmly. “What about now?”
My lips tremble like mad, my hands just the same. I try to exert some control over my body but my body isn’t listening, and I don’t want it to listen. The last thing I want from it is to listen. Suddenly my defenses seem cruel. Why should I withhold this man from myself? Why should I forgo those immense muscles because of a name change? It’s not like I have to marry him. I can tell myself it was the wine, the nerves, the set, whatever … a thousand excuses, and I can wield them all if need be.
“No,” I whisper, placing my wine glass next to his and sitting up so that our faces are close.
He moves his hand slowly up my thigh, so slowly that in almost half a minute he’s only at my inner leg.
“Kiss me,” I say, voice breaking just a tiny bit.
“Maybe I like seeing you hungry for it.” His breath touches my face.
“Yeah, but I don’t.”
I lurch forward, pressing my lips against his, and in my mind I see the well-built walls crumbling like dust, billowing clouds of dust rising into the air and miniature mushrooms skating along the ground. I will them to dust, and in their place I bring pleasure. I bring a clit which burns and nipples which are so hard all I can think about is Logan sucking them. Our kiss is immediately passionate. Maybe it’s the wine or just how attracted we are to each other, but there is no fumbling like I’ve experienced before. It is not a graceful kiss—our teeth click together, our lips smack—but it is a kiss full of pent-up energy. We press our mouths against each other, eating each other, our tongues meeting in the middle and stroking as though we are starving.
Then he breaks it off, looking down at me. “I need to know that you want this,” he says. “Because you’re so damn sexy I’m about to turn an animal on you, Viking lady, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.”
“I want it,” I say, body screaming out for him. “I want it fucking badly.”
He darts his hand down between my legs, no longer teasing me. Eyes still locked on my face, watching every change of expression as though taking as much excitement from my pleasure as from his own, he rubs his hand up and down the crotch of my jeans. The rough denim scrapes against my panties, the panties against my clit and my lips, all of it squashed in my jeans. I close my eyes, listening to my moaning rather than moaning it. The raspy singing fills the room and he rubs me faster, harder, pressing down with such pressure that there’s some pain from the rough fabric. I grind against his hand, propping my hands on the arm of the couch and moving my hips in a circle.
“Ah, ah, ah …” I sigh, the memory of celibacy and good-girl behavior seeming distant now.
I open my eyes and look down at his crotch. He’s rock-hard, as hard as a sword hilt, as hard as a man ready to fuck raw, and fuck mad. I press my hand against it, gripping it through the denim, feeling the immense size of him. It’s difficult to tell in the denim but he must be ten inches, maybe bigger, pressing so hard against his zipper that the button looks like it might pop free. I undo the button and pull down the zipper and then wedge his underwear under his balls. His cock springs up, and it’s Thor’s hammer: huge, powerful. A vein runs down one side. The helmet bulges.
“Oh, fuck,” I moan, gripping his cock and moving my hand up and down to his balls and to the tip. Pre-come smears my palm and even that is sexy. I rub the pre-come up and down, up and down, watching his cock as it twinges and bulges. He keeps rubbing me, his fingers pressed hard against my clit, crushing it.
I stand up and so does he. Both of us know what to do. We don’t discuss it. We don’t say anything. We just undress ourselves and each other, eyes locked the entire time. I pull his T-shirt over his hea
d and he yanks my jeans down around my ankles. In a matter of seconds, both of us are naked. He looks magnificent, dangerous, and handsome all at once. He looks half-wild with his longish hair. His muscles are even more intimidating without clothes covering them. His chest is tight, his belly solid and square, ridges marking it, his pubic bone a triangle from his fatless belly to his cock, and his cock is huge, pointing almost straight up: a ten-inch rod of power. He studies me as closely as I study him, taking in my beasts, my pussy with its tuft of brown hair, my legs with a small gap in the middle.
“Fuck.” He growls. “Fuck,” he repeats.
“I thought that was the idea,” I say, panting with anticipation.
He leaps forward and grabs me by the hips, half-tackles me to the couch, and then falls to his knees before me. “I need to taste your fuckin’ cunt,” he snarls. “I need to feel you come, Cora.”
