by Jenn Bennett
“Tsk, tsk. You’ve had too much glögg, Miss Magnusson.”
“I’ve had no glögg whatsoever, Mr. Yeung. I’m the picture of tolerance tonight.”
He peered into her eyes—an excuse to lean closer to her face, really. “Why, you’re telling the truth. I think you and I might be the only sober people in the house. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone slipped akvavit into baby Karin’s cup.”
“Pfft. Winter hasn’t let go of her the entire night.”
He nodded slowly. “I asked him if he was going to start breast-feeding her, too, and came this close to being flayed like a fish.”
“Aida says he’s getting sentimental,” Astrid said. “Maybe he’d only paralyze you.”
“As long as it’s from the waist up.”
“Now that I’d drink to.”
He smiled down at her and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “I’m worried I might accidently paralyze myself from all the self-abusing I’ve been doing the last couple of days.”
Her cheeks flushed. She furtively glanced over her shoulder and murmured, “Now that’s a picture.”
“I’ll give you a theater-worthy performance if I can just find a way to be alone with you for five minutes.”
“Is that all it would take?”
“Honestly, I wish I could say otherwise, but yes. Maybe even two.”
Mischievous eyes slanted sideways toward his. “We could race.”
He sucked in a quick breath and was thankful his suit jacket was buttoned over the front of his pants. “Christ, I need you,” he whispered.
“I need you, too,” she whispered back.
Upon realizing he was still holding on to her hand, he reluctantly let go and checked to see if anyone was watching them. Not a soul. People were too sozzled to notice, anyway, so he slipped a couple of fingers between Astrid’s wrist and the bracelet-like band of her watch and tugged her arm closer. He was just about to suggest they accidently bump into each other somewhere in the house where there were fewer people when Winter stepped in front of the Christmas tree and got everyone’s attention.
Bo heaved a dramatic sigh and released Astrid’s wrist.
“I wanted to take a moment to thank Lena and Julia for working so hard on the julbord,” Winter said in a booming voice. “It might be the best meal we’ve had all year, and it certainly was the most bountiful.”
Cheers and applause roared through the living room. When it died down, Jonte spoke up from the piano. “And that goes for the holiday bonus, too. Tack så mycket!”
More applause, and Bo clapped along with them. He was shocked when he’d opened up the red envelope from Winter. It was too much—more than he earned in two months’ time, and that made him feel grateful and guilty at the same time. If he only knew, a negative voice in his head chastised. He pushed it away.
“It was a good year,” Winter said. “Pappa always said, ‘Shared joy is a double joy.’ We are all part of this household, and we all share in its successes. And that’s why I wanted all of you to know that, God willing, we’ll become one member bigger next year. Little Karin’s going to have a baby brother or sister.”
A cascade of surprised noises, cheers, and whistles went around the room, and while Astrid hugged Aida, Bo shook Winter’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good job. Keep it up, and you two will have those five empty bedrooms filled in no time.”
“Smart aleck,” Winter murmured, but anyone could see he was pleased. And when Bo moved to congratulate Aida, her freckled arms swept him up in a hug as she whispered, “Thanks for keeping my secret. Road goes both ways.”
Flustered, he pulled back to see her face, and she smiled at him surreptitiously before the rest of the clan descended upon the fertile couple. As Bo sidled out of the crowd, Astrid caught his arm and said in his ear, “Meet me at the top of the turret in five minutes. I want to give you my Christmas present.”
—
Bo sneaked out of the merry crowd and climbed the back stairs to the upper story. No lights shone. Two of the low-ceilinged rooms were bare and closed off. He passed a powder room with a severely slanted ceiling and pushed open the door to the turret.
“It’s only me,” he said softly, in case she hadn’t heard him come upstairs. “I thought we agreed we weren’t giving each other presents this year, so—”
He stopped in the doorway and stared at the windows banding the rounded wall. She was waiting for him, perched upon the window seat of their hiding spot, wearing nothing but stockings and garters. Above her head, a stem of mistletoe hung from a ribbon.
“Merry Christmas,” she said.
“Buddha-Osiris-Jehovah,” he mumbled. He shut the door and leaned back against it for a moment to take it all in. The inky sky dotted by starlight. City lights like powdered sugar sifted over rows of streets that ended at the foggy Bay. The soft panes of moonlight spilling over her shoulders and lining the tops of her breasts. The red dress strewn on the floor by her feet. He took a mental photograph and filed it away under Things I’ll Never Forget as Long as I Live.
He exhaled a calming breath, adjusted the angle of the growing bulge in the front of his trousers, and tried to sound causal. “Did I ever tell you the story of the fox spirit that climbed over the rooftops at night to sneak inside a young scholar’s bedroom window?”
“No,” she said, a slow smile spreading over her face. “Tell me.”
He fumbled around in the dark and found a chair to wedge under the door handle. “She came to his room every night for a month and aroused him to three orgasms.”
“Every night?”
“She was a remarkable fox.”
“I’ll say. He must have been a little remarkable himself.”
“He wasn’t one to brag, but he was bigger than the average scholar and had spent many years studying books about pleasuring women.” He began stripping off his suit jacket and necktie. “He gave her two orgasms for each one of his.”
“I’ll bet she was happily surprised about that,” she murmured with a smile. Her hands glided over the tops of her thighs and rolled her stockings a little lower. “What kind of books taught him these tricks?”
“You’d be surprised what you can find in the back room of your average bookstore in Imperial China. The scholar had a boss who collected . . . interesting drawings that he thought no one knew about”—Astrid snorted a soft laugh—“so the scholar got an early education in rare books when he went into town to pick up the boss’s special-order packages.” Bo unbuttoned his shirt. How much time did they safely have? Half an hour?
“He probably should have taken the fox spirit with him on these trips,” she said. “They might have realized earlier how much time they could have spent on orgasms all those years.”
“The fox spirit was much too young.”
“I seriously doubt that,” she said as one hand lazily skimmed over her breast. Down, and then up. “Why did the fox spirit only come to his window for one month?”
“Because the scholar’s father was superstitious of supernatural creatures. He caught her sneaking in one night and was afraid she was siphoning his son’s vitality, so he nailed the window shut.”
“The bastard.” Her knees slowly opened. The hand that was on her breast dipped down between her legs, shielding his view. Teasing his imagination as it made slow movements. “I hope that didn’t stop them.”
“Not a chance. They had already fallen in love. So the scholar climbed up the chimney and met the fox on the roof,” he said, stopping in front of her. “Spread your legs a little wider and let me see what you’re doing,” he murmured, enjoying the thrill that careened through his chest when she complied without hesitation—and the way that thrill echoed in the tightening of his balls and the jumping of his cock.
“What happened on the roof?” Astrid asked in a breathy voice as her fingers te
ntatively dipped lower. She slipped a finger inside herself and he nearly lost his mind.
“He was covered in soot, so she didn’t recognize him at first, but he knew a way to prove his identity to her.” He stopped in front of her and unbuttoned his fly. His cock sprang free. “And she instantly knew it was him.”
“Oh,” Astrid said, shyness and daring warring on her face. The daring won out. She leaned forward and ran her tongue up the ridge of his cock, root to tip, forcing a contented sigh out of him before she drew back again. “Quite right,” Astrid murmured. “I’d recognize that anywhere.”
He cupped the crown of her head and urged her forward. “Again,” he murmured. “And this time, take it inside your mouth. And keep your hand between your legs.”
Gripping the open fly of his pants as an anchor, she set to the task without hesitation. He watched her gazing up at him, her indrawn cheeks, and then closed his eyes as his head lolled back in bliss. He could only stand it for a moment, and then it was too much. “Any more and this will be over in thirty seconds,” he said. “Lean back against the window.”
Her eyelids were heavy with lust. “What happened to the scholar and the fox?”
“It wasn’t easy for them, because not only did they have to worry about his father catching them, the entire town was superstitious and would watch the rooftops, ready to shoot any fox spirits with arrows. So every night she came to him, she risked her life.”
He dropped to his knees, cock glistening as it bobbed in front of him. Then he wrapped his hands around the underside of her thighs and scooted her closer. “Open for me,” he said. Beneath the nest of blond curls, he could see the flesh of her sex, plump and slick, unfurling like the petals of an exotic orchid. He trailed kisses on the insides of her thighs, one on each side, back and forth, until he got to the tender crease where her leg met her torso and licked there.
“Have you missed me?” he said, looking up at her.
“Every minute,” she whispered.
“I missed you, too. Let me show you how much.” He breathed in her scent, inhaling deeply, and swept his flattened tongue against her hooded clitoris. He went slow at first, but her clean, salty taste and soft moans made him harder. He licked and suckled. Kissed and kneaded. Flicked and rubbed. And as her stomach tightened, he dropped a hand to his cock and gave himself a few strokes, just to pacify it.
But when he felt her feet digging into his shoulders and her hips began pushing upward—and when her soft moans increased in volume—he settled his forearm over her stomach to give her something to buck against. “No . . . screaming,” he instructed her between licks, and then paused. “Or I’ll stop right now.”
She roughly pushed his head back into position, and he laughed a little and took up a steady rhythm as she fisted the edge of the window seat cushion in both hands. It gave him joy to watch her as he worked: eyes squeezed shut, open mouth, contorted face, a deep flush of red spreading over her upper chest and neck as she strained. And when she switched her straining grip from the seat cushion to his bracing arm, he watched her face turn to the side as a silent scream floated from her open mouth.
“Good girl,” he said when the tremors slowed and her legs tried to close around his head. He gave her one last lick, a lingering kiss, and then released her.
He wanted to feel her skin. As her breath steadied, his palms drifted over the smooth silk of her stockings, up her calves and thighs. He continued exploring, molding her curving hips and the flat expanse of her stomach. He skimmed over the tips of her breasts and savored the way his touch made her jump. The way, when he caressed her breasts, she came back to life. The way her legs parted once more, inviting him closer. And it was then that he realized, with no small amount of excitement, that the window seat was the perfect height. He could take her like this, kneeling between her thighs, framed by the lights of the city winking over a dark sea of rooftops.
“Are you ready for me, now, huli jing?” he whispered as her damp curls tickled the head of his cock.
“Yes,” she whispered back. “I want you.”
He didn’t bother to take off his pants—they didn’t have the luxury of time—so he only pushed them down below his knees so he could find better leverage on the woven silk rug that covered the floor.
“You know,” he said, momentarily sucking her nipple into his mouth because he couldn’t resist, “I think I’ve heard if two people come together beneath mistletoe, you’ll both have good luck for ten years.”
She choked out a laugh, and then her eyes became serious and glossy. “Have I told you how much I love you?”
“No,” he admitted, pushing back a wave of emotion so strong, it made goose bumps spread over his arms. “But tell me afterward if you haven’t changed your mind.”
He drove himself into her as far as he could, allowed a moment for the overwhelming pleasure of it to pass (hot, wet, tight, mine-mine-mine), and then gripped her hips and picked up speed.
If the newness of her body was a pleasure during their night at the lighthouse, then the familiarity of it was its own grand reward now. He knew how to angle himself to hit the spot inside her that she liked, right at twelve o’clock. He knew how hard to push her, and when it was too rough. He knew if he kissed her now, with the taste of her sex still on his lips, the taboo of it would excite her and she’d squeeze around him a little tighter.
But most of all, he knew when that pleasurable squeezing started and stopped, started and stopped, started and didn’t stop, that she was racing toward climax.
He raced for it with her.
They dug their nails into each other. He felt the silken soles of her feet leave the ledge of his buttocks to scrabble for foothold on the edge of the window seat. Heard the rhythmic squeak of wood keep time with his quickening thrusts and the lush sound of their flesh smacking together, the finest symphony ever composed. And when she opened her mouth against his neck to stifle her scream, the gathering warmth in his balls shot forward and he came—quietly, muscles quaking, heart stopping, soul bursting apart into a million points of light.
When he pulled out, still hard, he was so spent, he wobbled on his knees. “Come here,” he murmured, summoning the strength to hoist her onto his hips while he repositioned them. He sat on the window seat with her across his legs, and wrapped her in his arms.
“Look at that,” he said, gazing through the window. The rooftops of Pacific Heights rolled down the hill toward the Golden Gate. “If you look close enough, I’ll bet you can see the lighthouse past the hills.”
“No, you can’t,” she said with a husky laugh and pressed her hand against the windowpane. “But it’s beautiful, isn’t it? And it’s ours.”
Their city. For it seemed at that moment to have been painted across the landscape just for the two of them.
He sighed, wholly content. Another minute, perhaps, and they’d have to leave. If they stayed gone too long, someone would notice. He thought of Aida’s words in his ear: Thanks for keeping my secret. Road goes both ways. If she knew, how long would it be before she confessed her suspicions to Winter?
“Bo?” Astrid asked. “What happened to the young scholar and the fox spirit?”
He rested his chin on top of her head, stroked over her bare shoulder, and then gently grazed his nails down her arm, memorizing her anew.
Impossibly soft.
Scent of roses.
Voice that made his heart warm.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m afraid I just don’t know.”
TWENTY-FIVE
The week between Christmas and New Year’s Day was, bar none, the happiest in Astrid’s life. Firstly, it didn’t rain a single day; the historic storm was finally, truly over. Secondly, they didn’t catch even a glimpse of Max and his knife, nor did Astrid experience any disturbing visions—though a visit to Velma told her that the tea she’d prescribed wasn’t helping; th
e unwanted shadow on Astrid’s aura was still very present. But despite this disappointing news and the fact that Bo and Astrid’s impending date at the carousel of Babel’s Tower was quickly approaching, they were able to put it out of their minds.
Easy to do when you’re basking in bliss. Because Bo made time every day to steal away and visit her at the top of the turret. And one morning he even sneaked her into a taxi and took her to his apartment in Chinatown, where they spent two glorious hours wearing out the springs of his single bed before walking a block to eat dim sum at Golden Lotus.
“I remember you,” the restaurant owner, Mrs. Lin, had said with a kind smile after she’d kissed both of Bo’s cheeks and seated them at a table with a view of Grant Avenue’s bustling sidewalk. “You are Mr. Magnusson’s sister. You and another young girl came to visit Aida when she boarded with me upstairs.”
“Benita,” Astrid said, remembering fondly and wishing her old friend was here to share her secret about Bo. She’d almost written her about it, but changed her mind; it felt too intimate a thing to share in a letter. “She was my seamstress. We’d brought Aida a new coat that afternoon. That was right before the fire in her room.”
Mrs. Lin’s face darkened for a moment, but she quickly shook it away. “Mr. Magnusson paid for the repairs and now everyone wants to rent that room because it has the shiny, new private bathroom. I charge big dollars for it. What do they call that? Silver lining,” she said with a grin.
The old restaurant owner had then proceeded to command every dim sum cart to make a beeline to their table with hot food straight from the kitchen, and Bo fed her steamed pork dumplings from the tips of his chopsticks until she nearly burst—from both the abundance of food and the sheer happiness at being able to sit beside him at a public table while he laced his fingers through hers.
Astrid carefully preserved all of these moments in her mind and tried to be grateful for today, and today only. But the morning of New Year’s Eve, she found herself unable to stop the future from leaking into her thoughts. And after some deliberation and self-honesty, she finally made a plan for what she was going to do about school. What she was going to do with herself.
