Page 24 of Out on a Limb

“Yeah,” Stig pants into my neck, still grinding between my thighs, working me through the waves. “Yeah, Jana. Give it to me. Show me how you feel when you come.”

His thumb finds my clit and chases me even higher somehow, daisy-chaining another explosion after the first. My voice cracks as I cry out, weak from exhaustion and pleasure, and our bodies are wrapped so tightly together now that we might never untangle. Blurring into one.

Stig waits until the last aftershocks quake through my body, then wedges as deep as he can get between my thighs. With two hands clamped on my hips, holding me tight to his lap, Stig Hansen groans and fills me with three long, hot spurts. It’s filthy—and so delicious.

The cabin seems quieter afterward. We cling together, still kneeling up in the center of the messy bed, limbs trembling and bare skin tacky with sweat.

And all the while the fire pops in the log burner, as the wind moans past the cabin window and an owl hoots somewhere out in the darkness.

* * *

Reality takes a few hours to settle in. The reality of what we’ve done—the line we’ve crossed—doesn’t really catch up to me until I’m lying in bed hours later, my belly full from dinner and my body pleasantly sore from round two, watching Stig Hansen breathe steadily on the other pillow.

He fell asleep so easily. Like switching off a lamp. One minute, my adventurer was awake and chatting to me, teasing and smiling and sneaking one hand beneath my pajama top to stroke my waist—the next, his head was tossed back and his breaths turned slow and deep. How does he do it?

Chewing on my lip, I stare at Stig in the lamplight, memorizing every faint line at the corner of his eyes; every burnished gold beard hair; the divot in his square chin. The harsh line of his cheekbones and the angular lump of his Adam’s apple.

This face is so precious to me. Even his flaws are perfect in my eyes—the worry lines and old scars.

Oh, jeez. I’m screwed, aren’t I?

Anxious bees buzz in my stomach, getting louder and busier until there’s a whole killer swarm in there. And when I first lay down in this bed with Stig, I was relaxed and happy, but now that I’m alone with my thoughts…

I’m rigid as a plank. Sweating under my pajamas, and not for fun reasons this time.

A high-pitched noise starts ringing in my ears.

My hand shakes as it reaches toward Stig, resting gently on the adventurer’s chest. His heart thumps steadily beneath my palm, strong and sturdy even through his gray cotton t-shirt, and I wet my lips. Force myself to blink.

My breaths are coming shallow now. The bees buzz angrily inside me, stinging me with constant zaps of nerves.

Because… what was I thinking? What am I doing?

This man wants a marriage of convenience from me. A partnership on paper; a fake arrangement to win some bet, nothing more. I’ve got no business catching feelings for this man, let alone sleeping with him, and now…

My thighs squeeze together reflexively, and I wince against the ache inside my body. Earlier, I relished that soreness, loving every twinge and reminder of what we’d just shared, but now the faint ache taunts me.

I gave him everything. Let him touch me in ways no other person has.

And… how can I possibly do this? How can I ‘date’ Stig Hansen, and marry him knowing full well that it’s a transaction, nothing more?

How can I go through the motions of the thing I want most in the world, knowing that it’s all hollow and meaningless, without breaking my own heart?

Answer: I can’t. Obviously.

…Shit.

A million worries rattle around my head as I sit up in bed, the covers rustling and pooling around my waist. Worries about things like accommodation, and where the hell I’m going to live over the winter season; things like my friend Tess and what she’ll think of me after this bonehead mistake.

But the loudest, most insistent worry in my head is for one person: Stig.

Will he be okay? Will he hate me for leaving?

Or will he move on without a second thought, and find another arranged wife? Is it awful that I’d hate that even worse?

My throat is tight as I swing my legs out of bed. My bare feet pad over the floorboards, softened in places by the rug, as I gather my belongings and stuff them in the biggest backpack I have. The circle of lamplight is small, leaving the rest of the cabin in shadow, but I move around those areas by memory, feeling my way in the dark.

This is how I came here, after all: stealing in like a thief, carrying one single backpack of belongings. Wracked with guilt and sick with shame, but too desperate to turn back.

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