I’ve almost completely drifted off when I hear Viktor whisper into the dark.
“I need you too.”
Chapter Sixteen
Maggie
There’s something different about the way you wake up when it’s a day you don’t want to face. Even if your first thoughts upon waking are jumbled from sleep, you still know, deep down, that something is going to happen. It’s like sadness hangs in the air above you, a heavy hand that holds you down and reminds you that you will need all the strength you have to get through the day.
Even though I’m wrapped under sheets, with Viktor’s strong leg hooked over mine, the back of my head resting in the crook of his arm, I’m immediately hit with a pang of sorrow. Any other day and I would wake up blissful after these two beautiful days we’ve had with each other, the fact that I fell asleep, entangled in his arms.
But as safe as I feel with him like this, he won’t be able to protect me from the pain that will come later, a pain that will make this anticipatory one seem like nothing more than a scratch.
“God morgon,” he says to me in Swedish, his breath warm on the top of my head. There’s something so beautiful and peaceful about his voice in the mornings. Normally it’s so deep and strong and polished. Refined. As it should be. He has a lifetime of public speaking ahead of him.
But in the mornings it’s ragged, raw, groggy with sleep. It makes him seem less of a prince, more of a young man.
“How did you sleep?” he asks. “I passed right out I think.”
“I slept like a baby,” I tell him, turning over on my stomach and facing him.
Yesterday was our last day and we were so exhausted from Disneyland the day before, that we literally stayed in the hotel room and by the pool, only venturing out to Sunset to grab a meal at a trendy restaurant. The rest of the time, well, let’s just say there was a lot of sex. I am thoroughly worn out but in the best way possible.
“Good.” He gives me a soft smile, his eyes warm as he stares at me, and reaches over, gently brushing my hair off my face.
We stare at each other for a few moments, the moments you know you will remember, the moments that become scenes that become memories. To just stare openly at someone like this, to have them stare at you, to not need words to say, I like this. I like you.
I’m falling for you.
I’ve fallen for you.
Please, please don’t go.
But those might just be in my head. I close my eyes, scared for a moment that he’ll see those thoughts, that they won’t match his.
“Breakfast,” he suddenly says. “I think we need breakfast.” He sits up and I see him look at the clock. He doesn’t say anything about the time but we did sleep in a bit longer than we should have. He does have a plane to catch.
“What would you like?” he says, getting up and walking over to the desk. My eyes are draw to that tight round ass of his, looking extra taut with his slight tan lines. I wonder where he got tanned, where he tans. Being a prince in Europe, he probably spends winter in the Mediterranean, sunning on giant superyachts.
There’s so much more that I don’t know about him and there’s no more time to find out.
I think I’m going to be sick. My appetite is completely gone.
And when my appetite is gone, then you know it’s serious.
“I’ll just have toast,” I tell him.
He glances at me over his shoulder, picking up the phone. “You sure?”
I nod. “And coffee.”
“Well naturally,” he says then says into the phone. “Ah, yes, good morning. This is Vik…this is Mr. Andersson in room 219, I would like to order room service. A pot of coffee,” he looks at me and mouths cream? I nod. “With cream. Some toast with jam and all those fixings and I’ll have two soft boiled eggs and a side of bacon.”
“Soft boiled eggs?” I ask him. “Interesting choice.”
“Very common breakfast at home,” he says as he hangs up the phone. “Served alongside some crisp bread, ham, and of course, pickled herring.”
I scrunch up my nose. “No.”
“Oh yes. Quite good,” he says. “You’d grow to love it.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. I won’t have the chance to.
It’s not long before there’s a knock at the door. Viktor quickly slips on a robe and throws me one and once we’re covered, opens the door for the room attendant.
“I hope you tipped him well,” I say to him after the guy leaves, closing the door behind him.
“What am I, an animal?”
Viktor looks offended.
“No, it’s just, well in Europe you don’t tip, do you? And also no one ever tips hotel staff enough. And also, yes. You are a moose.”
He grins at that. “All of that is true, except that most of us in Europe know how tipping works over here. Do you want to sit on the balcony?” he asks, as he picks up the tray from the room service cart.
I look through the curtains at the bright sunshine, hear the faint splash of people in the pool right below.
I shake my head. “I’d rather eat in here.”
Out there I know I’d be sharing him with the world. We have hours, minutes, left with each other and I can’t bear to not have him all to myself in this beautiful dark world we’ve created in this hotel room.
“Me too,” he says, wincing at the beam of white light coming in through the curtains. “I think I’ve had enough of the California sunshine.”
But have you had enough of me?
He places the tray in front of me and gets on the bed, both of us sitting cross-legged on the messy sheets. He pours me a cup of coffee, then adds a splash of cream.
“That enough?” he asks.
This isn’t enough.
But I nod. “Yes, thank you.” I clear my throat as he hands me my cup and pours himself one, black. “You don’t put cream in yours?” I ask.
His head shakes. “No. We drink it black in Sweden. Puts hair on our chest.” He pounds a fist against his pecs in a mocking gesture. “Apparently it works.”
Viktor does have hair on his chest but it’s the perfect amount, just enough to make him look like some Nordic Viking god, not so much that looks like a caveman.
We both fall silent and sip our coffees and the room seems to hum with this energy of all the things we aren’t saying to each other, of all the goodbyes that loom on the horizon.
“What is it?” he asks me after studying my face for a good minute.
I give a small shrug. “I was just thinking.”
“I can tell,” he says. He brings his brows together until a deep line forms between them and runs his finger along it. “You get this.”
“It’s called resting bitch face here in America,” I tell him.
“I’ve heard about this face,” he muses. “Sounds too harsh for you.”
“What would you call it then?”
He takes an easy sip of his coffee and seems to think about it. “Thinking sexy face.”
“Sexy face?” I laugh. “How is that sexy?”
“Because it’s sexy when you’re all mean looking. Makes me think I did something wrong and you’re going to punish me.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop.”
“It’s true. But I think all your faces are sexy. Especially the ones when you’re calling out my name. Your mouth drops open like a ripe peach. It reminds me of other places. You know what we call a peach in Swedish? Persika. I’m very much in love with your sweet persika.”
I’m blushing. Oh yeah, I’m blushing, probably the shade of a persika. I think he even called me min lilla persika the other night.
But…
Did he just use the L word? It was just to describe a body part–or two–but even so.
I look at him with big eyes but he only smiles at me. If he said something he didn’t mean to, he’s not showing it.
I swallow. “Is that so?” I manage to say.
He leans forward, and with one swift move, pulls the sash around my robe so it opens and my breasts are exposed, and since I’m sitting cross-legged, my persika.
His eyes rest between my legs and I can practically see his mouth watering which makes me wet in return. “If you take a picture it will last longer,” I try to joke, feeling so bare and exposed. Vulnerable. Yet there’s no fear in being this way with Viktor. It’s natural.
“That must be a saying,” he murmurs, his eyes trailing up my stomach now to my breasts and I swear my skin burns in their wake. He moves the tray to the side. “I would love to take many pictures.”
I stiffen at the thought and he smiles gently at the worry on my face. “I’m also taking pictures in my mind. They will be there forever. You know how couples carve their name in the bark of a tree? The sight of you, the smell of you, the sound of you, the taste of you, it’s all etched in my head. It won’t be smoothed away with time.”
My heart swells in my chest, pressing against my ribs.
I won’t be smoothed away.
I won’t be forgotten.
“You know I can’t get enough and I won’t get enough of you,” he tells me, taking the cup of coffee from my hands and setting it down on the tray. “Not with the time we have left, not with all the time left in the world. But I will take my time now, enjoying every inch of your sweet skin while I can.” He then picks up the small pitcher of cream. “Lie back.”
I raise my brows, stare at the cream. What?
“Why?”
He gives me a look that says, just do it, and so I do. I’ll do anything he tells me to.
Apparently even if it involves cream.
He breaks into a carnal grin and takes his time slowly tilting the pitcher, so the cream splashes out delicately onto my breasts.
I gasp.
“Is it cold?” he asks, amused.
“No.” I just think most people would gasp in this situation. I stare at him curiously. “What are you doing?”