Nordic Lessons

by Christine Edwards

  Nordic Lessons

  Title Page

  Prologue

  October in Oslo

  Chapter One

  The Devil You Know

  Chapter Two

  Party Central

  Chapter Three

  Eternal Enemies

  Chapter Four

  Profound Pleasure

  Chapter Five

  Pure Play

  Chapter Six

  Beneath Me

  Chapter Seven

  New Friendships

  Chapter Eight

  Verbal Thrashing

  Chapter Nine

  Arctic Bound

  Chapter Ten

  Longyearbyen, Svalbard

  Chapter Eleven

  Convergence

  Chapter Twelve

  Lisetta

  Chapter Thirteen

  Expect the Unexpected

  Chapter Fourteen

  Retribution

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lisetta’s Monster

  Chapter Sixteen

  Damage Control

  Epilogue

  Relentless Beauty

  Nordic Lessons

  The Nordic Lights Series

  Christine Edwards

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Fanny Press on Smashwords

  Fanny Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.fannypress.com

  www.christineedwardsauthor.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  Nordic Lessons

  Copyright © 2014 by Christine Edwards

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-552-9 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-553-6 (eBook)

  Produced in the United States of America

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  * * *

  Dedicated to a beautiful, sunshine surfer girl named Brianna.

  This one’s for you, darling friend.

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to especially thank Emily H. of Fanny Press for your divine editing precision. It’s such a pleasure working with you!

  Thank you to Jennifer M. and Catherine T. for assisting me in bringing this book as well as several others to life. It’s a wonderful honor to work with you talented ladies.

  Special thanks to my amazing Norwegian cousins: Angelica, Lasse, Monika, and Christian. I greatly appreciate your time with all of the Norwegian translations.

  Special thanks to Oscar Salas: your breathtaking motorcycle designs are truly works of art. Thank you for sharing your insights into the wild world of bikers.

  Special thanks to my good friend Michael Whitehead for the British terms used in the book.

  To all motorcycle riders, thank you for infusing the world with your zest for life.

  To Florence & The Machine for their inspirational song “Strangeness & Charm.” With every listen I envision Mikkel and Elora’s intense love for each other.

  Also by the Author:

  Claimed in Canada

  Naughty in Norway

  Nabbed in New Zealand

  Captured in Croatia

  Prologue

  October in Oslo

  What captured my attention was her hair. The blazing color reminded me of random sunsets out at my lake house. Gorgeous or not, she is a major inconvenience. I seriously don’t have time for this shit, but what am I supposed to do? I can’t just leave her stranded on the side of the road. Night will fall soon, and from the looks of it she could’ve been out here for a while already.

  The hood of her swank Jag is propped open and she’s peering down into the engine, her slim back turned, looking into the thing as if sheer willpower could magically start it back up for her. I shake my head as I pull my custom chopper over onto the shoulder of the E18 motorway and come to a rolling stop about fifty feet away from her disabled vehicle.

  I hope that the loud growl of my engine, coupled with the noise from its dual pipes doesn’t startle her. Hell, she’ll be reluctant to take any form of assistance from me. I know how I look to strangers. Being so big and mostly clad in black leather tends to scare people, women in particular. I look like an intimidating, badass biker. Just putting it out there, straight up.

  Classy women like her, regardless of the sexual pull they might feel for me, choose security. Yeah, they don’t go there. It’s not like I ever need action, fuck no. I turn down offers on a weekly basis, mostly because I lack any genuine interest. I know that most of them are just curious about my lifestyle, wanting to experiment with a bit of rough and naughty.

  Not what I’m looking for at all.

  No, my tastes and needs lean far toward the exotic. I don’t want to waste my time on another party girl. I’m always aloof, to guard my privacy. It’s easier that way. Not too many questions asked or gossip to throw around the club on weekends. I prefer to keep details about my relationships to a tight-fisted minimum. Period.

  My last serious relationship with a submissive ended with hurt feelings on both sides. After the emotional breakup I decided to stay solo for a good long while. She ran her mouth like a fucking avalanche. Still does. She’s lucky she’s a woman. Otherwise that shit would have come to a halt a long time ago. As the president of Devil’s Wrath Motorcycle Club, I’ve found over the years that staying detached makes my life exponentially easier, if not lonely as hell. That’s fine by me. At least I have my emotional anonymity.

  Parking my ride, I pull my helmet off and push my black polarized KDs up onto my head. I glance down to check my watch. Just after seven thirty p.m. I’ll have to phone Bern soon to see if he won’t mind firing up the wrecker tonight, assuming that he’s still working late on the Frenchman’s ride back at the garage, that is.

  My black leather boots make a heavy crunching sound as my legs eat up the distance that separates us. Cars and trucks rush by at steady intervals, but she remains turned, leaning down, likely trying to figure out why the piece of shit isn’t working. No big surprise there sweetheart. It’s British engineering.

  In my opinion, the only two British car companies that are worth a damn are McLaren and Aston Martin. Yeah, fucking fierce cars, especially Aston’s DB9, but they come with equally high-roller price tags, making them nearly unobtainable, save for the uptight, jackass elite. I know a few people in town who drive them. Yeah, perfect fit, enough said.

  I make my way closer to her and a long-dormant male interest ignites within me like a flare shot off in the darkness. A knee-length pale gray slim skirt clings snugly to a generous, rounded ass that just begs to be spanked. My right palm inadvertently quivers at that potent thought.

  Oh, hell yeah.

  Eyes dropping lower I notice that her legs are very toned and shapely, like those of a sprinter. Her skin is creamy pale and looks soft. I cock my head in appreciation of her sleek black heels. Oh, fuck yeah, I ca
n already see them digging into my hips as I drive her hard. My cock hardens instantly at the wicked image of this woman’s lush assets.

  God damn. If her face is half as visually stunning as the rest of her then maybe this detour will be well worth the effort ….

  I don’t want to scare her. We’re close to the busy highway and she could easily stumble backwards.

  I call out to her before getting too close, “Trenger du hjelp?” Need help?

  That’s all I say, knowing how deep and scary my voice would sound to an unsuspecting female. Women are normally apprehensive around me; at least until they come to understand that I would never harm them. There is nothing I can do about my size and appearance, case closed on that. She’ll certainly be shocked as shit when she sees me. I wait patiently for her to turn around.

  Her shoulders tense just before she ducks out from beneath the silver hood. With a sweep of her small hand she moves her long, shiny red mane away from her face. I suck in a deep, involuntary breath. The force of her beauty hits me so hard that I nearly sway back a step in my heavy boots, uncertain of what my eyes are taking in. Almond shaped, arresting, aqua-colored eyes collide with mine a split second before flaring wide open in feminine alarm.

  My brain can’t fucking absorb what’s before me. I remain motionless while drinking her in. That stunning hair, loose in natural waves, hangs down far below her breasts. They’re tragically hidden from my view beneath a light blue sweater. Plump, shimmering pink lips are set within a perfect, heart-shaped face. Her pretty nose is small, just like the rest of her. She can’t be more than a few inches over five feet tall. She’s like some gorgeous damn angel come down to earth.

  In a flash of panic I wonder if I could have wrecked my bike without knowing it. Could this be Valhalla or some sort of fucking afterlife? Swiftly shaking the confusion away I get busy and watch her closely. Her full, lush mouth slowly parts as if she might be on the verge of saying something to me. I freeze and nearly hold my breath.

  Damn, I hope she’s not about to scream. Yeah, that would just blow.

  Fuck me. I must be hallucinating because I had no idea that beauty like this could actually exist.

  Oh yeah, this is so my lucky day ….

  * * *

  Alexander is going to murder me! The gnawing thought keeps bouncing about in my brain as I hear a loud motor pull off the road behind me. If I had listened to him and kept my hands off his beloved vintage car, then I would never have found myself in this dreadful situation! Damn … damn!

  The roar of the engine cuts off, followed almost immediately by crunching gravel. Seconds later an incredibly deep male voice calls out to me, “Trenger du hjelp?”

  Having no idea what he said, I turn to face whoever has stopped, hopefully to assist me in this horrid scenario. Before sweeping my hair back from my face I only register large and lots of black. I stare, utterly dumbfounded.

  Standing not ten feet before me is the most imposing human being I have ever crossed paths with in my entire life. The word at the forefront of my mind is massive. Yes, massive and quite dangerous. The sensible part of my intellect screams out that I should turn, run, and lock myself inside of the automobile, yet curiously, something keeps me rooted to the spot. A potent shot of adrenaline begins to run through my body as I stare at the tall stranger. He remains still, watchful. He is so large that I have to start at the top of him and work my way down in an appreciative scan. Short, closely cropped, nearly black hair with sleek black sunglasses resting on the top of his head. A handsome, overtly masculine face featuring a full, dark goatee. It frames lips that are beautifully shaped and lightly parted.

  It’s not until I connect with his eyes—smoldering eyes the exact color of Highland Scotch Whiskey—that I begin to tremble, ensnared by his molten gaze. He’s incredibly beautiful in a pure, raw male way, and I’d bet that he would be utterly terrifying when angered. I nearly shudder. I’ve just come face to face with a man who does not seem to belong in this time. His warrior-like appearance and demeanor would better suit a different age, an age of iron and strength. A time when, without those two things, one couldn’t survive.

  He’s watching me with the intensity of a sniper, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that my constant trembling has nothing to do with the chill in the autumn air. Every desire locked deep within me is enflamed, as if I’ve been struck by a bolt of lightning. My body seems to respond to something perilous and primal that this fearsome man has to offer me.

  Heaven help me ….

  He repeats the same question, again in Norwegian, this time slower, his smooth voice so low and thick, like caramel. I struggle to decipher the language, realizing that I haven’t a clue what the foreign words could mean, yet they sound so lush rolling off his tongue. I reply with the first phrase I learned when I arrived in Oslo two weeks ago from London.

  I struggle with the unfamiliar language, pushing the words out slowly, carefully. “Beklager, jeg snakker ikke så godt Norsk.” I’m sorry, my Norwegian is bad.

  Unfortunately for me I forever blush when I’m caught in awkward moments. I feel the warm heat winding its way up my neck to spread right across my apple cheeks. There is nothing I can do to hide it as I struggle with my labored breathing.

  Silence. His stare is all consuming.

  Was he not able to understand me? Is my accent that bad? How awful!

  I march forth, this time in English, hoping that he can catch the gist of what I am trying to convey.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Norwegian.” I attempt a small smile to try to connect with him. Perhaps he will let me borrow his mobile so I can phone for help.

  Those watchful eyes narrow slightly, as if determined to know everything about me. My right hand flies to my throat to fumble nervously with the unfastened top button of my fitted cardigan. I am desperate for any reprieve from the tension wrought by this mysterious encounter.

  A vibrating rumble of laughter escapes his well-formed lips. “I understood your Norwegian fine. You’re British?”

  “Yes, I am British,” I respond, ever watchful. I’m relieved beyond belief that he speaks English. Maybe he’s not as dangerous as he appears?

  I watch him lean slightly to his right, to peer around me at the Jaguar before leveling his imposing gaze on me once again.

  “Yeah, I can see that. You need some help then?”

  His voice is so intense, his accent so sensual that I’m drawn into the lulling tone of it, barely comprehending his words. My eyes drift lower, taking in his black leather biker vest, adorned with a variety of patches. His powerful arms strain against the material of the black tee shirt he wears beneath the leather. His well-muscled legs, thick and toned, are encased in faded, grease-stained jeans that fit him all too well. Oh, my … his wide leather boots have a thick silver chain running across the top and down over the sides where it connects with an ‘O’ ring. Who is this man?

  My eyes slowly come back up to meet his. He stares at me, his brawny arms crossed against his wide chest. His expression is calm and stoic, impossible to read.

  God, his eyes really are golden, like those of an Amazonian panther ….

  I feel the heat in my cheeks, realizing that he has been patiently waiting for an answer.

  “Oh, well, I certainly don’t wish to impose on you. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, would you allow me to make a call from your mobile? You see, the battery on mine died just before my brother’s Jaguar did; hence my current predicament.”

  He ignores my question and responds, “I can get the Jag to a garage for you.”

  “That’s very gracious of you, but it won’t start. I need a tow truck.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  I tilt my head and whisper, “Sorry?”

  “I’m definitely not gracious, woman. I’ll ask again, do you want me to have it taken to a garage?”

  I’m at a loss for what to say, uncertain of where a Jaguar dealership may be in Oslo, much less if one e
ven exists here. Not gracious?

  “May I ask your name?”

  “Mikkel.”

  “Mr. Mikkel,” I begin but I’m cut off mid-question by an unmistakably dominant tone.

  “No. Just. Mikkel.”

  I suck in a slow breath to calm my galloping heartbeat. I begin again cautiously, “Right then, Mikkel, perhaps I could just use your mobile to call an auto repair garage? Please, I really don’t wish to be any trouble. It’s Friday evening and I’m certain that you have some place to be, yes?”

  He whips his mobile out of the inside pocket of his black leather vest. He touches the screen and places the phone up to his right ear. His eyes never leave mine as he speaks fast and low. Once again, with the rolling Norwegian.

  As a new transplant to Oslo I have already begun my introductory Norwegian lessons at the University, but it’s a slow process. Three evenings a week worth of hour-long classes are a far cry from trying to decipher a rapidly spoken conversation with a native.

  I manage to catch the words ‘woman’ and ‘Jaguar.’ I sincerely hope this biker person is not in with a ring of thieves. What if they want to steal my brother’s Jag? My heart pounds harder as I break his stare to scan the darkening sky, desperate to come up with just one alternative option. Perhaps I should try to flag down a passing motorist.

  He ends the call and speaks to me slowly, confidently. “Okay, a wrecker is coming now for the Jag. Get your things and come with me.”

  I stare at him and finally manage to stammer out, “I’m s-sorry?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name?”

  “Yeah, woman. Your name.”