Fall Hard (11 page)

About to put down the phone, I hesitated. I’d promised to call Viggo, hadn’t I? I wasn’t sure I’d meant it at the time, but now I found myself growing eager. Trouble was, I had no idea what I wanted to say to him. I supposed
sorry
would be a good start. It wasn’t his fault I’d had an attack of survivor’s guilt. Seen at a distance, my accusations of lying just seemed like paranoia.

I wondered if I needed to apologise to Alex too for my earlier suspicions. God, if this carried on, I’d be accusing Mags and Gretchen of conspiring against me. Probably in league with the Tooth Fairy and Father Christmas.

In the end, I took the coward’s way out and sent Viggo a text.
Sorry about Monday
.
Paul
.

Half a minute after I put the phone down, it rang. I muted the television and picked up, my pulse jumping uncomfortably.

It was Viggo, and his voice was warm. “Paul? I’m glad you called. Can I see you? I need to explain.”

I hesitated. This was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it?

Viggo pressed on. “I can come to you, okay? I’m not far away.”

“You know where I am?”

There was a pause, time enough for my suspicions to bloom again.

“You live in Reykjavik, right? To be near the institute,” Viggo said at last.

“Good catch,” I said dryly.

“I don’t understand. You tell me your address, and I’ll come to you?” I could almost see his face, his brow creased in puzzlement. God, was I just being paranoid again? Was it safe to give him my address? But damn it, if my suspicions were right, he knew it already. And if he didn’t, I was just making a fuss about nothing. My mind was going round in circles, but one thing I knew—I wanted to see him. Wanted it rather desperately, in fact.

I gave him my address.

It took him nearly half an hour to get to me—or at least, that’s how long it was before I heard him pounding on the door. I limped over to open it and was struck once more by how tall he was, how broad-shouldered, how muscular. My memory had painted him as smaller. Less…vivid.

The reality, standing on my doorstep, his blond hair ruffled by the breeze, almost took my breath away.

He gave a wide, slow smile. “It’s good to see you again, Paul. Can I come in?”

I realised I’d just been standing there, gawking at him like an idiot, and shifted hastily to allow him to enter. Putting too much weight on my bad leg, I winced.

“Your leg hurts you?” Viggo was all concern. “Come, you must sit down.” He slid an arm around my waist, and my breath caught for real this time.

I tried to hide my reaction as he helped me to the sofa. “I’m fine, really,” I protested. “I just trod awkwardly, that’s all.”

“It was a bad break.” It wasn’t quite a question, and my temper flared.

“Why do you keep pretending you know less about me than you obviously do?” I demanded, pulling away from him.

Viggo froze for an instant, then made a broad gesture with both hands. “It’s not easy to have people know more of your time here than you do, am I right? So I try to make this a new start for both of us. I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable. So now I’ll make coffee, and we can talk, okay?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just ambled off towards the kitchen. Half exasperated and half amused at his presumption—but at any rate, unable to stay angry with him—I took a moment before I levered myself back up off the sofa, grabbed my stick and followed. By the time I reached the kitchen, he’d already put the kettle on and located the jar of instant coffee, which he was spooning into two mugs.

I fetched the milk from the fridge and handed it to him as a sort of conciliatory gesture.

Viggo’s smile in response seemed to start with his eyes—a stark contrast to Alex. “Just a drop of milk,” he said, putting the barest splash of milk in one mug and considerably more in the other. “You see, I remember.”

“I wish I did.” I took the mug he proffered with a rueful smile in return, to show it wasn’t a dig.

Mug in one hand, Viggo shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. We have a new start.”

It was the second time he’d said it, and this time it was like a light going on or a window opening in my head. “Easy for you to say,” I grumbled, but I felt he’d lifted a great weight off my back that I hadn’t even known until now I’d been carrying. It was just so good to find someone who wasn’t obsessed with my bloody memory. I wrapped my hands around the mug and leaned back on the kitchen counter, my stick hooked over the handle of one of the cupboards.

“Okay, so tell me about yourself,” I challenged.

“What is there to tell? You know who I am, what I do.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “I know your name and your job. That’s hardly an in-depth biography.”

Viggo settled himself beside me, mirroring my posture. Our hips touched, the warmth of his body soothing the ache in my bad leg. He turned his head and gave me a sly look. “It’s not all that you know of me.”

Heat flooded through me, arousal pooling in my groin. I could almost feel him surrounding me once more, see the intricate tattoo of Yggdrasil with its branches undulating in front of my eyes. My skin seemed hyperaware of where we touched, even through our clothes, and it got harder to breathe.

I put down my mug.

A smile teasing at the corners of his mouth, Viggo did the same. He put a hand on my waist, almost hesitantly, and when I leaned into the touch, he moved around to press his body against mine, trapping me between his muscular frame and the counter. With his other hand, he gently brought my face to his for a kiss.

God, I’d been starving for this. I kissed him eagerly, my end-of-day stubble rasping against his beard as I explored his mouth with my tongue. Trying to learn how he felt, how he tasted. Hot and bittersweet, from the coffee we’d barely touched. He smelled of the river, with the faintest hint of the sea mingling with oil from the boat he piloted. I wanted to plunge right into him.

He was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt that covered most of his tattoos completely, even Mjölnir half-hidden by the fraying edge of his sleeve. Impatient, I pulled at the hem, yanking it up. Viggo grinned and backed off an inch to strip it off in one easy motion. Jörmungandr writhed as his biceps flexed, seeming to tighten his scaly coils about Viggo’s arm. I smiled and ran my hands up his chest.

“No ink here?” There was just a light furring of blond hair.

“You think I should get some? What would you like?”

I drew in a deep breath, pressing closer to him as I considered the question. “A pair of ravens, perhaps. Or the Fenris-wolf.”

We were much of a height—Viggo perhaps an inch taller—and our erections ground together as Viggo pulled me against him with both hands on my arse. “For you, I’ll get them.”

I kissed him fiercely, thrusting my tongue into his mouth again. God, my heart was beating so hard he must be able to feel it against his chest. I wanted him to feel it.

“We go to bed this time?” he asked almost shyly when we broke apart, our breathing ragged.

“If you like.” I was rewarded by those ice-blue eyes crinkling up once more in easy delight. He was born to smile. I pulled him back to me for another kiss, this one softer, gentler.

I led him the short way along the corridor to my bedroom with its bright white bed. Subdued daylight still filtered through the window, but I switched on the bedside light and drew the curtains. The room seemed warmer in the artificial glow, the bed less clinical. More inviting.

Apparently Viggo agreed. He kicked off his shoes and lay on top of the duvet, leaning his weight back on his elbows. His gaze never left me and his eyes, already the deep blue of a glacier at sunset, darkened further as I unbuttoned my trousers. I hesitated, unnerved both by his scrutiny and by his physical perfection compared to my…not.

Changing my tack, I left my trousers on but unfastened and clambered onto the bed. Onto Viggo. His faded jeans were soft with age, a clear bulge at his groin. I nuzzled at it briefly, breathing in his musky scent, then moved on. He lay back on the bed, letting me dominate him. “You’re beautiful,” I whispered and leaned over to kiss Jörmungandr’s coils.

“Should I turn over?” he asked softly.

“No.” Maybe it was strange, but I enjoyed knowing Yggdrasil was there, but being unable to see its branches, its root. “Just get those jeans off.” I moved back a little so he could do as I’d asked, running my hands up and down his sides, brushing his nipples with my thumbs. When his cock sprang free, I didn’t wait for him to finish undressing, just slithered down and nuzzled into him again. His scent was overpowering now, and the heat of him almost burning. I heard him gasp, felt his abdomen tense as I took him into my mouth. He tasted salty and fresh, like the wind coming in off the bay. He was unshaven, his balls covered in wiry, golden fuzz, and I rolled them in my hand as I sucked him, feeling them tighten. I pulled back to tongue the head of his cock, teasing, then pulled off altogether.

Viggo was breathing hard and looking at me with an expression I couldn’t work out. It made him seem vulnerable, somehow, so I moved back up to kiss him on the mouth, thrusting my salty tongue between his lips. He clutched me to him tightly, his hands slipping under my shirt to caress bare flesh as his hips pushed up against me in a gentle rhythm I was sure was unconscious.

“Want me to continue?” I asked, not sure I wanted to leave where I was now.

“No. Kiss me again.”

I did, reaching down to free my cock from my underwear. Then I wrapped my hand around both of us. It felt almost painfully intimate, in a way being inside him hadn’t. I couldn’t have explained it. He felt good in my hand, against my cock, with his tongue in my mouth and his fingertips leaving bruises on my hips. We rocked together, still kissing, until Viggo tore his mouth from mine to breathe harshly in my ear, his stomach muscles clenching. I pumped harder, kissing and sucking at his neck below the beard line, nipping gently at his collar bone, until he groaned and tensed, and I felt hot spurts hit my belly. I worked him through the aftershocks, carrying on until he pushed gently at my shoulders.

“Enough?” I asked.

He grinned. “More than enough. Lie down.”

I did as he asked, lying on my back by his side. My shirt was a mess, so I stripped it off. Viggo knelt on the bed and bent down to put his mouth on me. It felt cool on my heated flesh—and then his tongue swirled around the head, and all I could feel was incredible pleasure and need. I bucked up into his mouth, unable to stop myself.

Viggo chuckled and pulled off. Bastard. “It’s good?”

“Yes. Don’t stop.” I moaned aloud as he went back to his task. His hands were everywhere, smoothing over my sides, pushing my trousers off my hips to tease at my arse, then one of them going back to wrap around the base of my cock as he sucked me.

When he opened his throat and swallowed me down, I whimpered. His beard scratched at my thighs, my balls. Then his finger traced my perineum, pushed at my hole, and I lost it, bucking up and coming hopelessly down his throat, pleasure shooting down to my knees and up to my chest in sparking shocks. Viggo kept on me the whole time, swallowing around me, wringing me dry. I had to push him off in the end, it was too much. I wanted to tell him but I couldn’t find the words, the voice, even.

“Come here,” I managed, tugging ineffectually at his shoulders. Viggo looked up at me through eyes black as a lava field, then slithered up to enfold me in warm, muscular arms. We kissed, a strangely chaste affair, and I smoothed damp strands of hair from his forehead.

“I’m glad I called you. I don’t mean just…” I waved a hand at our mostly naked bodies, trying to indicate I wasn’t just congratulating myself on a successful booty call. I felt sleepy, relaxed in a way I hadn’t been for months. My trousers were getting annoying, though, so I kicked them off and dived under the duvet, pulling it out from under Viggo so he could get in beside me.

“I’m glad also,” Viggo said, settling down half on top of me, grounding me with his weight.

“You never did tell me about yourself,” I said, idly stroking Viggo’s hair, his head pillowed on my chest. It wasn’t just one colour, I realised lazily; different strands were lighter or darker blond, depending no doubt on the sun’s caprice.

“What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. Family, I suppose. You must have one. Are they all in Iceland?”

There was a too long pause. “I don’t have a family.”

“Your parents are dead?” I asked softly. “Mine too. But I’ve got a sister. Gretchen. She’s younger than me, although you wouldn’t think it. Works for the Citizens’ Advice Bureau in London.” It was freeing, this “new start”, I realised. I felt absolved from the worry I was telling him things he already knew.

Perhaps he didn’t in any case, as his next sentence seemed to imply.

“She looked after you? When you were in England?”

“Mmm. You haven’t got any brothers or sisters?”

“Not that I know.” Again he paused. “My father was a tourist. Danish, perhaps. My mother didn’t remember. She was drunk. She was drunk a lot.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just pulled him more tightly into my arms. “My parents died in a motorway accident,” I said in the end. “I was still at school. My aunt—my dad’s sister—she took us in after that, but she wasn’t really into kids. It was Gretchen who mothered me, more than Aunt Ruth. She died a few years ago—my aunt, I mean. Cancer.”