Extreme

by Lark O'Neal

  He laughs. “Poor little kid. But I would have been so happy to have all those siblings around.”

  “Yeah, I never wanted to be an only child, for sure.”

  “There’s a great swimming pool here. There were so many Icelanders drowning that they had to build a pool so they could learn to swim. It’s hot springs water and it’s right at the base of this mountain—so cool.”

  “I’d love to see that sometime.”

  He glances at me. “Maybe we’ll get a chance. The volcanoes are not going to stop within a couple of days. They’re trying to keep panic at bay in the financial communities, but now her sister is rumbling pretty substantially. We think there might be another eruption.”

  “What kind of eruption?”

  “We’re not sure.” But something about the set of his shoulders tells me that they’re very worried.

  “Could it be really bad?”

  He glances in the rearview and then at me. “It could be. We’re hoping not.”

  I watch the blackness sliding by, thinking about that. But it’s almost too big of an idea for me to really take in—that a volcano could change my life, life around the world. “Well, I guess if that happens my worries about my finances will seem very small.”

  “Yeah.” He touches my hand across the seat. “Do you want to talk about your fight with your parents?”

  “It wasn’t a fight, exactly. My mother doesn’t exactly fight—she just gets things done. She found this position for me, as an intern at a camp aimed at getting kids out of the city and into nature.”

  “And?”

  “It’s not snowboarding, so I turned it down.”

  “And that led to the financial crisis?”

  I laugh because it makes me think of governments. “Yes.” I take a breath. “I made a tactical error, actually—I hung up on her. My mother will absorb a lot, but she does not take well to being dismissed.”

  “Ah. Maybe you can apologize?”

  “I don’t think so. This has been looming for awhile.” I shake my head. “Never mind. I just sound whiney and spoiled and— Oh my god! Look!”

  In the black sky arching above us are sudden wide, undulating streaks of pale green. I grasp his arm. “There they are! Oh, it’s beautiful!”

  “Hold on there,” he says, laughing. “Let me find a place to pull over. They’re not going anywhere.”

  I am entranced. The light moves like a gauzy curtain blown on a wind across the night sky, curving, dancing. The very top layer turns a soft purple and fades back down to green and yellow green. Behind the lights are stars, stars as bright and thick in the sky as I’ve ever seen anywhere.

  Gabe turns the battered old Rover onto a narrow road and parks. “C’mon. Grab that backpack behind the seat.”

  I’m almost unwilling to look away for even one second, but I do what he’s asked and join him as he spreads a thick sleeping bag over the ground. He has another in his hand, unzipped. “Come sit down.”

  We settle on the sleeping bag. I’m wearing really good gear and there’s no wind, but it’s still pretty cold. Gabe reaches into a canvas bag at his feet and brings out hand warmers. “Beautiful,” I sing, tucking them into my gloves. It’s always hands, feet and shoulders that get cold first. He swings the open sleeping bag around our backs and draws the other one over our legs. Our arms brush, the sound a swish of nylon. “There,” he says. “Perfect.”

  “Did you bring food, too?”

  “I did, hungry girl. Do you want it now? I thought we might need to retreat to the truck and warm up at some point.”

  “That’s a good plan.”

  Over our heads, the lights move and dance and twirl. “I’ve heard about them all my life and never had a chance to see them,” I say. “This is fantastic.”

  “See, there are positive things about Iceland in the wintertime.”

  “I’m amazed that we can actually see them, with so much ash in the air. It’s crazy that it’s so clear here and yet planes are grounded.”

  “Hekla is about 200 kilometers southeast of here, and we have a strong eastern wind, which is why Europe is under so much pressure.”

  “They were talking in the cafe about how much economic trouble this is causing.”

  He nods. Shrugs and gives me a smile. “Nothing to be done. We may as well live for today.”

  I smile up at him. “True enough.”

  “Come closer, little disowned heiress,” he says, and tucks his arm around me, making room for me to lean into him.

  I laugh, looking up at him, the shifting green putting his face in silhouette, his strong nose and long lashes, and I feel a fluttering in my heart. An actual fluttering. I lean in and let my head rest in the hollow of his shoulder, and it feels weirdly like coming home, like I’m supposed to be here, that maybe I did promise to find him, in the before times.

  Which sets up a little echo of terror through me. I don’t seem to have the best judgment in these things, after all. He must feel my stiffening, because he wraps me closer yet.

  “One of the legends is that the lights are the armor of the Valkyries, who led the dead in battle to Valhalla,” he says.

  “Valkyries are warrior women, right?”

  “That’s right.” He brushes his chin against my hair. “Like you.”

  “I’m not a warrior.”

  “You’re a powerful woman, an athlete. You could go to battle if you needed to.”

  I imagine myself in one of those metal bras, riding a big white horse with a staff in my hand, hair flying behind me, and laugh. “I like it.”

  “I watched your gold medal run,” he says quietly after a little while.

  “Yeah?”

  “It was amazing. You’re like a creature from some other world, boneless, so graceful.”

  “Thanks. It was a really good day. That’s the thing, that it has to all come together so perfectly—the conditions of the slopes, the weather, your own body, and you’re competing against other people who are that much in tune, too. It could have been any of us, any of a small group, anyway.” I pause, catching my breath as a ripple of yellow crosses the green. “It’s a lot of hard work, honestly.”

  “It was beautiful. I take back everything I said about it not being serious enough.”

  I look at him. “Really? Because you don’t have to say that.”

  “Beauty is important. Skill, grace. All those things. That’s why we have music and books and—” he spreads an arm, indicating the crazy gorgeous sky “—this.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper. My head is cradled in his elbow and he bends over me, shifting me into the crook of his elbow.

  “You’re welcome.” He kisses me, long and slow, his lips so deliciously warm in comparison to the air around us. It’s impossible to really make out with all the layers of clothes and gloves, but the kissing warms me plenty.

  After a minute, he raises his head, and I lean into his chest. “How long will you be in Iceland?” I ask.

  “Depends on how long it takes to finish my thesis, but probably another six months at the outside. I’ve been here for eighteen months already.”

  “And then what?”

  “Doctoral work somewhere. Hawaii or here, most likely.”

  My heart plummets a little. “Hmm.”

  “I know. Where do you train?”

  “Colorado, Utah, BC, Tahoe when there’s snow. In the summer, it’s usually Chile.”

  “Right.” He rubs my arm.

  “So, we’re having a fling.” I lean back to look at him. “I’ve never done that before. We should make the most of it.”

  “How will we do that?”

  “I think that a fling usually involves really hot sex for a little while, then we part tearfully, sure we are in love, and text and talk and Facebook or Instagram or Snapchat each other for awhile, and then get hooked up with somebody more realistic.”

  “I kinda hate that plan,” Gabe says softly. “Except the hot sex part.”

  “We’ll
always remember each other fondly.”

  “Still.” He pulls me closer. “I might want more.”

  That thorn sticks in my heart again. “I know. Me, too.” I look up at him, memorizing the way his eyelashes are in silhouette against the green sky, and the shape of his mouth. “Better to know we have no future, isn’t it?”

  “No,” he says, “but I’ll make do with a hot fling.”

  I smile up at him. “How hot?”

  His dark gaze travels over my face and neck, downward. “I say we should pull out the stops. Hottest things we can think of.”

  It makes my knees week. “Okay.”

  He kisses me, hard, using his gloved hand to haul me close to him, crush my mouth beneath his. My whole body ignites, and I meet his ferocity with my own, pressing my body into his, letting him wrap me tighter and tighter. My blood turns into lava, burning through me, creating blisters of possible explosion in my lips and my breasts and thighs and groin. We tumble backward and he’s on top of me, braced on one elbow, devouring my mouth. I push him sideways and straddle him. “Stop. I’m going to burst into flames. I’ll be like one of those people who spontaneously combust and turn into a pile of ash.”

  “That would be terrible.” Boldly, he raises gloved hands and covers my breasts under my coat. Even through fifty layers of clothes, I can feel it and I lean on him. There are too many clothes between us for any real sensation, but it makes me remember this morning and my body wants more. All of me wants more. The light kisses his face softly, illuminating the clean line of his jaw, his Renaissance mouth.

  “Let’s go back,” he says. “Do you want to go to my place, or back to your hotel?”

  “Your place.”

  “That’s what I was hoping.” He rolls me sideways, leaps to his feet and reaches a hand, but I’m springing up.

  “Let’s go work on that fling,” he says, roughly, and kisses me again.

  “I’m in.”

  “No, I’ll be in.”

  I laugh, but the promise gives me an acute vision of him naked, over me, in me, and I stand on my toes to kiss him. And for a minute I get lost in the perfection of the way our mouths fit, the way our lips slide, the way he tastes, the way he feels against me. He must be lost, too, because he keeps kissing me and kissing me, lapping, suckling, devouring, teasing, and starting the whole cycle again.

  “I love kissing,” I whisper. “Kissing you is so good.”

  “I love kissing, too. But I never liked kissing anyone like this.” He pauses and the full lips sweep sideways, sip on my lower lip, slip up. “You taste like morning.”

  The more we kiss, the weaker my legs and after awhile, I am practically boneless. “Take me back before I turn to ash.”

  “Keep touching me in the car,” he says. “Will you?”

  “I don’t want you to wreck.”

  “I promise I won’t.” He opens my door, yanks off a glove, and unzips my coat. Holding the glove in his teeth, he shoves up my shirt and touches my breast. “I love it that you don’t wear a bra,” he growls. His finger tips are cold and I slither backward. “Too cold!”

  But the palm of his hand is warm, and he slides that down to cover my nipple. “I want you to stay right here, in this mood, crazy to fuck.”

  The language thrills me a little, and his cold fingers pluck my nipple, and it sends a hot, buzzing, almost violent need through me. I grab his hair and haul his mouth to mine, nipping his lip. In return, he hauls me closer, nestling his cock between my legs, hard, and digging his fingers into my ass.

  I push him away. My breath is panting. “Not yet. This time for real. I want you in me.”

  “Hold that thought.”

  He dumps all the stuff in the back seat, jumps into the driver seat and starts the Rover. Dashboard light illuminates him pulling off his cap, letting the curls fall free. He shrugs out of his parka, and says, “Take off your coat and come closer. There’s a seat belt right there.” He cranks up the heat and we haven’t been out there very long because it comes on hot and high, filling the cab with comfort.

  Gabe smiles. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I’m suddenly shy, a little freaked out over my aggressiveness just now, but I can still feel the hungry pulsing between my legs. I am not quite sure what to do, which is where the experience thing is getting in my way. I’m no innocent—I’ve seen and read plenty of sex—but what do real people do when they are actually doing something sexy? What’s real? What’s just for entertainment?

  As if he reads my mind, he takes my hand and settles it on his thigh, then slides it upward and I feel the hard, strong heat of his dick. I squeeze it lightly and he makes a soft sound.

  “Is that okay?” I ask.

  “Very okay. Unbutton your shirt,” he says. “Let me see.”

  We’re out in the middle of nowhere, so I do him one more. With one swift move, I reach down and pull the shirt off over my head.

  “Holy shit,” he whispers, looking and then looking back to the road. With the back of his hand, he touches my nipple, and it makes me bold. I reach for his jeans. “This okay?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah,” he says, steering as I carefully unbutton then unzip him. I can touch him through his boxers, but—

  “Hang on.” He brakes and parks the Rover, lifting up his hips so I can push the jeans down, the underwear, and his cock springs free, tall and proud. While he’s stopped, he bends and kisses my nipples, first one and then the other. “I’m going to make you quiver,” he breathes, “and shiver and weep and then scream.”

  “You can try,” I say, covering my inexperience, but I’m already hanging on to myself by a thread. “Keep driving.”

  “I’m going to tell you when to slow down or stop what you’re doing, okay?”

  “Okay.” I am glad to touch him this way, have a chance to look at him without him looking at me. I’m not so familiar with the male anatomy. I haven’t been bold enough to really look. “How’s this?” I ask, brushing my hand up and down softly. I can’t see it as well as I’d like, but the texture is silky, and the skin moves almost like the skin of a cat, easy, up over the top and then back down.

  “Okay,” he chokes out, halting my hand. “Maybe I can’t do that right now.”

  I’m pleased, and move my hand to his thigh.

  “Touch your breasts for me,” he says.

  For a minute, I’m shy. It seems so porno, but I’m the one who tore off my shirt, and we are supposed to be going to the limits of being hot. I raise my hands and pinch my nipples between my fingers, the way I would if I were in a bed alone and needed a little release.

  “Fantastic.” He’s driving a regular speed, but his breath is heavy. “Now put your hand on me. Don’t move it. Just touch me.”

  I lean in and my body presses into his arm. “Like this?”

  “Yeah.” He moves his hand to my thigh, runs his fingers upward until he touches my pussy, but not hard enough. I shift my hips into his fingers. Tweak my nipple, accidentally tighten my hand on his dick.

  “Mmm.” He makes a pained noise. “Okay, too much.” He pulls his hand away and pulls mine away. “You’re just going to have to sit there until we get back.” He stops the car again on the side of the road and pulls up his jeans. I reach for my shirt and he halts me. “I’d love if you’d just leave it open. So I can see. And reach in.”

  My sister used to listen to a song called Celestine, about a slut who lives inside a good girl and takes over when the good girl isn’t looking. I feel like that now, like Celestine. “What are you going to give me in return?”

  He reaches for me, kissing me hard, his hands on my torso, my breasts, his tongue thrusting into my mouth the way he wants to thrust his cock into me. “You are so hot.”

  “Take off your shirt,” I say, feeling dizzy at the sense of control.

  He yanks it off over his head, and I sweep my hand over his chest, touching his nipples, feeling them pearl, then his belly. “Now drive us to your apartment,” I say. I tug m
y own shirt onto my arms, but leave it open as he requested, and as I lean close, I brush his arm with my breast and touch his thigh. “Is this going to be a hot enough fling?” I ask, run my fingernails over the placket of his jeans, lean in and suck his earlobe into my mouth.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he says. “If I can keep us on the road long enough to get to the flat.”

  I laugh, and it sounds like Celestine. “Okay, I’ll leave you alone.” I lean back, reach for the radio, knowing he needs to calm down, and so do I. I can’t wait for his apartment, but for the moment I ask, “Did you have a dog when you were a kid?”

  “I did.” He grins at me. “A few, actually. Best one was May, a big mutt who loved to swim.”

  I feel the tension fade slightly, giving me room to breathe, but I pull the shirt open and slump low in the seat so any passing traffic can’t see what I’m doing. There is just enough light from the radio and dashboard to illuminate my small, round breasts with their overly aggressive nipples. I’ve always been a little embarrassed by those nipples, not tidy little neat buttons like so many of my friends, but dark, noticeable points. Points that are so aroused they practically cast a shadow now. Gabe touches one, slides his hand down my belly, and I stop him when he starts to slide his fingers inside my pants.

  “What color was she?”

  “Black from head to toe,” he says, eyes on the road. He flicks my fingers away from his wrist and dives hard into my pants, all the way in, to the hot wet center between my legs and I jump, grabbing his arm hard.

  “You have to wait.” I say, even as my hips lift against his fingers.

  “Just let me have two seconds, okay?” His voice is so raspy it’s almost like the voice is moving against my clit instead of his fingers.

  “Okay, two…seconds…,” I say, and close my eyes as two fingers slide into me, then slide out and over my clit, running in a circle around it. I’m ready for him to do it again, and he pulls away, trailing moisture up my belly to my nipple, which he pinches lightly before moving way.

  He puts his fingers into his mouth. “I can’t wait to taste that, every centimeter.”

  I’m dizzy and suddenly it seems we must be close to town. “Are we there yet?”