Page 16 of Odin
“Wool? I don’t want to scratch myself alive.”
“Ahh, well. The heated blanket then.”
“You have a heated blanket? In the summer?”
“I do have one. I can dig it out. We might not get winters as badly as some parts of the country, but you have no idea how a cold rain can get into your bones until it does.”
He’s not going to take no for an answer, and as sure as I am that I probably won’t be able to sleep because of my overwrought mind entering into an overtired state that is not going to bode well for rest, I’d like this kind, selfless, beautiful man to be able to get a few hours of sleep.
“Fine.” I unfold myself from the bed. “If you lead the way, I’ll gladly accept your offer. I didn’t hear you mention wine. I have to say, that’s going to be a star off my review.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he walks quietly through the long hallway of doors. His big boots might look likethey’re made for violent stomping, but his steps are light and hardly make a sound. I follow his lead and stay as quiet as I can, mindful that it’s ridiculously late.
He cracks a door near the far end of the hall. The doors are spaced further apart down here, which I figure indicates larger rooms.
I’m not wrong.
Odin’s space is four times the size of the spare room, at least. It makes sense, given that this is his apartment of sorts.
It’s a lovely room. He wasn’t joking about it being homey. A large window on the far side of the room overlooks the compound, rows of bikes glinting past the heavy black curtains. A lighter, sheer set is shoved together in the middle, so he can either let light in or block it out completely. Most of the furniture is mid-century. The shelves are teak and wicker. It’s not a combination I would have expected. Even the bedspread is a dark but cheerful patchwork plaid quilt. There’s a large desk, filled entirely with a laptop and neatly organized camera bags that probably contain all the expensive working cameras and lenses. A beautiful space age, wild looking record player stands proudly on top of a tall shelf brimming full of records. Beside that is a large bookcase, wider than most I’ve seen, filled up with both old and new volumes. Wherever there’s room, there are shelves mounted to the wall, filled with old cameras. It almost seems like the room was arranged entirely around the decent sized TV mounted to the wall right across from the bed.
I forget all sense of propriety and rush straight to the shelf with all the records. I’ve always loved vinyl. I adore the crackly sound of playing through a record. I love the ritual oftaking the record out of its sleeve, setting it down, and slipping the needle into place.
“What’s your favorite?” I say as I my eyes roam over the rows and rows of vinyl. The shelves are practically bursting under the weight of them. There’s rock, country, soundtracks, opera, jazz, classical, metal, and a surprising collection of modern pop and punk music.
“Probably the punk, but don’t tell the others I said that. I don’t have anything I won’t listen to.”
“Classical?”
“Great for relaxation, sleeping, and meditation.”
“Opera?”
“I just love it.”
“Country?”
“There’s nothing better than classic country. Three chords and the truth is a great concept.”
When he says it, it doesn’t even sound cliché or corny. “Pick one for me?”
“Are you going to turn out the lights and try and sleep? Or do you feel like rocking out, dancing on the bed, and headbanging out your frustrations?”
“Will the bed hold up to that?”
“It should. They don’t make furniture like this anymore.”
All the more reason not to test it.
“The bathroom’s tiny. Most officers, or the guys with families, are the only ones who get ensuites, but I’ve been here for a while. There’s no bathtub, but you’re welcome to a long, hot shower. If you’re looking for mood music, I’d put on eighties or early nineties rock. They make for great shower singing.”
The image of this huge, gruff man singing in the shower makes me laugh like I know he intended, but then I think about him soaping himself, starting with his shoulders and pecs, the suds dribbling down over boxy, defined abs, sluicing down, into a trail of dark hair to end up—
Jesus Christ.
Earlier when I was pressed up against him, I’d kind of gotten a preview of what lay further down. I know I came here toostensiblysleep with him, but that was all just going to be for show. I never actually considered it for real. The images of Odin naked invade my brain so fast that I can’t bleach them in time. They’re followed up with flashes of things I have no business imagining. It feels wrong, given how nice he’s been and everything he’s done for me. Imagining myself down on my knees in the shower, wrapping my hand around him and guiding him to my mouth, is the worst kind of objectification. I know that and I don’t want to allow my mind to go straight to filthier thoughts, but they snowball anyway, leaving me too hot and tight in my own skin, and my panties clinging to me damply beneath my skirt.
I turn awkwardly towards the bookshelf, trying to force a deep breath. “Got any books about how to move forward when the bottom drops out and you have no real idea how to pick it all back up again?”
