High Risk

by Simona Ahrnstedt

  But she no longer wanted to. She continued to cling to him, and they skated in circles at a leisurely pace. She would probably never be an ice-skating queen, but it felt good to do something she had always considered impossible.

  “I’m ice-skating,” she said with a laugh, both her hands clutching his arm. She managed a few more minimal strides forward, and that counted as skating in her world.

  Somewhere after their third loop of the little rink, Tom took off his gloves and shoved them into one pocket. He pulled off one of hers and took her hand in his. “I need to keep you warm,” he mumbled. They kept going like that, her hand in his, and after a moment he turned around without letting go of her for a single second.

  “What are you doing?” she squeaked. He was skating backward, and took both of her hands in his.

  “Bend your knees a little,” he encouraged her.

  Ambra did as she was told and concentrated on not falling. She teetered, and panic coursed through her, but he stepped forward and took her in his arms again, as steady as a rock.

  “I’ve got you,” he mumbled.

  She clung to him. “Don’t let me go,” she said.

  “I promise.”

  She would be aching all over tomorrow, but it was worth it. Music and the scent of mulled wine, people skating, laughing, and smiling. This was the kind of thing people fantasized about their life containing, but it rarely did. They slowly floated across the ice, being overtaken by practically everyone else, but Ambra loved every second of it. She was steadier on her feet now. It was all about the right combination of balance and fearlessness, she realized, even if she still clung to Tom, leaned her head on his shoulder, reveling in the feeling of being safe and taken care of.

  She looked up at him as he looked down. His eyes glittered in the colorful lights surrounding the rink, and he was so close that she could make out every eyelash, every individual eyebrow hair, and he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, brushed his lips to hers gently, just a light kiss with his mouth closed and his lips soft, all while continuing to hold her steady. She probably wouldn’t have been able to fall even if she tried to. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink into his kiss. His arms tightened around her, and they skated slowly around the rink until the music fell silent. She smiled at him, dazed.

  “How are your feet?” he asked quietly.

  “A little sore,” she admitted, though that was an understatement. They had gone numb a long time ago.

  “I’m impressed you managed so long,” he said, steering her slowly toward the bench where they’d changed their shoes earlier.

  “Sit down,” he said before he bent on one knee in front of her. His breath was like a cloud around him, and Ambra studied the back of his neck as he grabbed hold of one of her skates. He untied the laces and slowly pulled the boot from her foot. She breathed out. Ouch, it really did hurt. He took her foot in his hand and massaged it gently.

  “You’ll feel it tomorrow,” he said. She sat there on the bench letting him take care of her. Neither of them said anything more. She reached out and stroked his hair. It was smooth and cold, and she allowed her fingers to glide through it. He slowly pulled off the other boot.

  “Tom,” she said, and he took her hand and kissed her palm. It was such a tender gesture, his mouth against her skin, his bristly stubble, warm lips. She bent down and moved her forehead toward his, closed her eyes, and breathed him in, breathed in the moment. Jesus, she wanted him so hard, wanted him to want her. She couldn’t quite get her head around it, the fact he was so attractive to her. It wasn’t just that he was handsome and exciting and clearly knew how to do everything, including teaching her to skate. It was his entire being. The way he smelled. His body. His everything. This never normally happened to her, definitely hadn’t happened with any other man. She could barely think. Wasn’t he in love with another woman? He had been just one week ago, and Tom didn’t seem like the kind of man who changed his mind so quickly. This could, in other words, be a highway to heartache. No good could come out of this. But he bought me earmuffs.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, getting up to return the skates. She got to her feet, and when he came back, he put an arm around her and pulled her close, as though it was the most natural thing to do.

  If they’d had protection in Kiruna, they would have slept together in the house; she was certain of that. If she took what she could, now that Tom was in Stockholm, could it really be so dangerous? If she knew there was a time limit on whatever they had, she would be able to protect herself from getting hurt. Right? She pressed herself into him. Worst case, she would suffer a little heartache. People did actually survive that kind of thing. What was she meant to do now? Should she just ask? Imagine if he said no, if she’d misunderstood everything again? Though he had kissed her. That had to mean something?

  “Ambra? Is everything okay? You’re really quiet.”

  Say it now.

  Want to go back to my place? Want to sleep with me? No strings, just your huge body against mine. But she was in too much of a cold sweat, disproportionately terrified. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, she just couldn’t.

  “I’m just a little tired,” she said instead, almost pulling a face at herself. Was there any more idiotic phrase to say at that moment? He was the world’s biggest gentleman; he would probably just say good night.

  “You’ve had a long day,” he said, as though to order. “Should we see about getting you home?”

  Yeahyeahyeah, may as well. The evening had been almost too perfect. It couldn’t go on like that, not in real life. She would go home and date the couch instead.

  Chapter 42

  Tom didn’t want the evening to end yet. It was that simple. But Ambra was pale and silent next to him. She had probably been working hard these past few days, and now he had forced her onto the ice rink until she could barely stand up. Not so smart, now that he thought about it. He’d worn her out, and now he couldn’t assume they would spend the whole evening together just because he wanted to.

  “I live in the Old Town,” she said. “It’s almost easiest to walk from here.” She straightened her earmuffs. She looked incredibly sweet in them.

  “I’ll walk with you, if that’s okay,” he said.

  “If you like.” Her tone was neutral, not exactly inviting, but he wanted to, and so he decided to interpret it as an encouragement. He wanted a lot of things, actually.

  She had pulled away after their kiss. Or rather, it wasn’t even a kiss, more an erotically charged touch, but Tom’s entire body had stood at attention, been drawn to her, wanted to lay claim to her.

  She was so pretty, with her obstinate eyes and intrepid courage. He could see how scared she was when he’d suggested ice-skating. It was heartbreaking when she admitted she didn’t know how, and he might have bossed her about a little. He would have understood completely if she wanted to run a mile, but she swallowed her fear and refused to give in. It was admirable. And, unexpectedly enough, sexy as hell. Then he had kissed her, and he couldn’t bring himself to say good-bye yet.

  They passed the red walls of Saint James’s Church and then the Opera House, where guests in evening dress were smoking and laughing on the steps.

  “Do you like the opera?” he asked.

  “Not really. I saw Madame Butterfly once and cried the whole way home. She was forced to give up her child,” she added when she saw his surprised expression.

  “Not for you, in other words?”

  “Lots of the so-called classics have a warped view of women, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely,” he said, convinced she had a better idea of that kind of thing than he did.

  They cut across King Gustav Adolf’s Square and crossed Norrbro bridge. The parliament building was dark. The royal palace was covered in a dusting of snow, and as they made it into the narrow streets of the Old Town, the snow started coming down more heavily. The buildings glittered in their Christmas lights; there wer
e fire barrels burning outside of restaurants. If they hadn’t eaten waffles earlier, he would have suggested they get dinner, which was what he had initially planned. Maybe he could take her for a drink. While Tom debated with himself, Ambra came to a stop.

  “This is me,” she said.

  Tom looked up at the peach-colored facade. It was an old building. The windows got smaller the higher up they were, and the whole building seemed almost lopsided.

  “It was built in the sixteen hundreds,” she explained. “I think they called it picturesque in the real estate brochures. My apartment is at the very top. No elevator, just a set of incredibly uneven stairs.” She seemed to hesitate. “Want to come up?” she eventually asked.

  Her tone sounded slightly reluctant.

  “I’d love to see your place,” he said as nonchalantly as he could. She quickly entered the door code and opened the heavy door. As she climbed the wide staircase ahead of him, he saw that the steps were worn and smooth and definitely looked like they could be four hundred years old. They climbed higher and higher. Eventually, she stopped in front of a door that looked like it belonged to a different era; it was dark and heavy. Vinter, he read on the mailbox. She unlocked it and showed him in.

  “It’s not so big,” she said apologetically, hanging her coat on a bright red hook.

  It really was small. A tiny hallway; a kitchen that only just had room for a table, three chairs, and a stool; and a small living room with a purple couch, a huge flat-screen TV, and some bookshelves on one wall.

  “The floors slope so much that if I dropped a marble at one end it would roll to the other. But they’re original, and there’s something special about several-hundred-year-old boards.”

  “I guess so,” said Tom, though he had never given much thought to antique floors before. The two windows in the living room were different sizes, and the ledges had to be close to fifty centimeters deep. The apartment was cozy: not tasteful, not modern, just cozy. Colorful and snug, and not quite what he had expected.

  Ambra pulled at her sleeve as she often did. Was she nervous? Or just tired?

  “Want something to drink?” she asked, heading to the kitchen. He followed her. The room was as colorful as the hallway and living room. A rounded, cream-colored refrigerator, shelves of mugs in different colors, mismatched bowls, and a bright yellow toaster. An elegant chandelier in all the colors of the rainbow.

  “Your place is great,” he said as Ambra opened the refrigerator.

  “Thanks,” she said, but then she frowned. “I’ve actually only got water to offer you,” she added apologetically.

  “Water is fine.”

  She took down two pale blue glasses from the shelves, mumbled an apology when she bumped into him. The kitchen was tiny, and he was in the way no matter where he stood.

  “Do you like living here?”

  She tested the water with one finger. “I moved around so much when I was a kid,” she said, filling the glasses. “I rarely had my own room, never stayed anywhere particularly long, never felt at home. So when I got my first permanent position, I took out a huge bank loan and bought this place. Most of my salary still goes on the payments, but it was a good investment. It’s gone up in value and it’s my security, my base.”

  “Like a symbol of your independence.”

  “Exactly.” When she handed him the glass, their eyes met.

  He took a sip and put down the glass just as she made an unexpected movement. The room was so small that they inevitably came into contact. His extended arm brushed against her body, and the hairs on his arms stood on end. The air between them vanished. She was perfectly still.

  “Tom,” she whispered, looking up at him. Huge eyes. Vulnerable expression.

  He took hold of her and pulled her close. She was still looking at him, intently, and then he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her the way he had been wanting to for the past few hours, days. A real kiss.

  Ah, but she tasted fantastic when her lips opened for him. Her tongue met his, eager and bold. Her hands moved up his chest, continued around the back of his neck, and she greedily returned his kiss. Tom’s body responded, becoming hard, hot, and primitive. He pulled her to him until they almost fell back against the wall. Pots and other kitchen items rattled, but he just wrapped his arms tighter around her, couldn’t let go, didn’t care about anything else but the woman in his arms. Ambra tugged impatiently at his sweater, and then her hands were beneath it, on his skin. He felt fingers and nails, and it was like his brain short-circuited. He grabbed her thick sweater, tore it off, and threw it to the floor. She was wearing another one beneath it, so he impatiently pulled that off too. Yet another, thinner, beneath it. And another.

  “How many tops are you wearing, exactly?”

  “This is the last one,” she said with a laugh, peeling off her camisole and then standing in front of him in a simple black bra and jeans.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he rumbled, drinking her in. She rolled her eyes so he cradled her face. It felt important that Ambra knew he meant what he said, that his words weren’t just empty compliments, that he wasn’t the kind of man to say things he didn’t mean. “Yes, you are,” he said, his lips brushing against her chin.

  She trembled, and he kissed her neck, too, lingering there feeling her panting and the pulse beneath her warm skin. He kissed her collarbone, nibbled at her silky skin wherever he could, heard her pant again. His mouth moved across her bra, and he heard her mumble something like Oh God as his cheek rubbed against it. He felt her nipple harden, felt a reciprocal wave of desire in his own body. This thing between them, it was an erotic madness; he felt almost wild with want. All he could think about was satisfying her. It was like a task he had been given, an operation. Ambra’s fingers snaked around his neck again. He loved it when she did that, clung to him, laid claim to him. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her tightly toward him, toward his throbbing cock. She whimpered as he fumbled with the buttons on her jeans, pushed a hand inside, and cupped her through her panties.

  “Oh, Tom,” she gasped.

  He kept his hand there, between her smooth thighs, against her soft warmth and inviting wetness. She pushed herself against him, and he cast an eye at the table. It was small, but it looked sturdy; it would do. He lifted her up onto it. Her eyes glittered. Without a word, he started to pull off her jeans. She helped by placing her hands on his shoulders, wiggling backward. Then he managed to peel them off.

  Jesus, she was hot. That black underwear against her pale skin, those fine features, long lines. She looked like a cross between a glittering fairy and a cocky superhero. He put a hand on her shoulder, pulled at her bra strap, wanted to see her naked. Now.

  “Tom, wait,” she said, placing a hand on his chest. He wiped his forehead. Her chest was rising and falling, and she studied him intensely. “Take off your sweater,” she finally ordered after he had started to think she wasn’t going to say anything more. He raised his arms and pulled it off, then stood bare-chested in front of her. He could feel his own heart thudding inside his rib cage, felt his muscles flex. She didn’t seem to have anything against what she saw, because she smiled.

  “Take it off,” he said, nodding to her bra. She moved her hands behind her back and unclasped it. She had the most perfect breasts. He raised his hand to one of them, kissed her hard, pushed her back until she was lying with her elbows on the table. Moving in between her legs, he kissed her throat, her breasts, her stomach, breathed in the scent of her until he was dizzy with lust. He pulled at her panties, upward, so they strained against her slit. She moaned, so he bent down, kissed her through the moist fabric, used his teeth to nibble, tugged her panties until they slid into her slit, increased the pressure against her sex by pulling them upward.

  “God, that feels good,” she mumbled.

  Watching her, he pulled the panties off, let them glide over her skin, down her legs, over her feet, before he threw them to one side. Her legs dangled over the edge o
f the table. He parted them with his hands, touched her gently, placed a hand on her stomach, stroked her almost glowing skin. Christ, she was beautiful. Naked. Parted. His.

  “You don’t have to,” she protested faintly.

  But Tom hadn’t needed to do anything so much in a very long time. He bent down and licked her sensitive, trembling body. She panted, and he took his time, using his index finger to explore her, trying to find out what she liked, listening to her sounds, working his way forward, getting used to her taste, her smell.

  “Don’t you want to go into the bedroom?” she whimpered from the other end of the table, her voice lacking all conviction. No, he wanted to do nothing other than what he was doing right then. He spread his palm over her soft stomach and pushed her against the table, parted her legs, and began to lick her. She stopped moving, exhaled, deeply. He played with one finger, dragged it carefully along her beautiful opening, his tongue following closely, pressing himself against her. He felt her start to tremble, and smiled at the confirmation her body was giving him. He took his time nibbling the inside of her thigh. Her skin was as smooth as fresh snow, and he was rewarded with a gorgeous shiver.

  “More?” he mumbled, parting her again and running the tip of his tongue over her most sensitive areas; tasting her, testing to see what made her shudder, made her pulse beat harder, his too.

  “Yes, oh yes.”

  His finger moved downward, from one sensitive spot to another. Hidden, secret, exquisite spots. He loved to see her pleasure. Using his hands, he pushed her thighs even farther apart, took in her pink wetness, her damp, dark curls. She was a study in contrasts: soft and tough, light and dark, brave and afraid. He liked seeing her like this, exposed and vulnerable to him. Laid out like a feast. He bent forward again and licked her, methodically, pressed with two fingers, drew circles, used all his skill and intuition, as well as the raw desire that had built up in him, practically boiling in his veins, felt her swell, become hotter and tighter when he carefully moved his index finger inside her, felt all those amazing muscles contract around his finger, her thighs tense. It was intoxicating, watching this gracious, curvy, strong woman come apart beneath his tongue, his fingers, his movements. He closed his eyes, his senses heightened, kept up with her speed, pressed and licked and felt her drawing closer, felt her nails dig into his hair, one foot bracing itself against the tabletop. He grabbed her ass with one hand, used the other to caress her skin, to move over her, and then he felt it, the orgasm spreading out beneath his tongue and fingers like an underground explosion. It made her jerk and shake, and he continued until it ebbed away. He took in her scent and taste in his nose, his mouth, wanted to keep it, be intoxicated by it for as long as he could.