Page 7 of Odin
“Oh, no, you don’t have to worry about that. You were basically just a sperm donor.” I freeze in horror, realizing just how bad lowered inhibitions and my terrible sense of dry humor can be when they mix together.
Odin’s grin only widens. Maybe we share the same sense of humor, because he laughs so hard that his nostrils flare and his eye crinkles up until it’s nearly hidden. “That’s about true, no matter that I wish it could have been different. Like I said, it is what it is. You don’t have to worry about tiptoeing around my feelings. I’m a tough old biker. I can handle the truth, and I know you didn’t mean it in a mean way. I don’t think you have a bad bone in your body, Willow.”
Ridiculous.
It’s ridiculous how good my name sounds coming from his mouth. The shivers that run straight down to gather between my legs… that’s all the whiskey. I think. Ihope.
“Just give me five minutes to get my camera.” He points out a wooden chair in the corner. “You can sit there, if you want to.”
“Thanks.” I walk over and plop down.
It’s a nice chair, the kind of thing you’d see behind one of those ancient post office desks.
It’s surprisingly comfortable. I cross my legs and settle in to wait. Odin still pauses, like he wants to make sure that I’m not scared of being alone down here, and then he turns, scoops up the whiskey bottle, and hurries back up the stairs on the far side of the room.
I stroke the wooden arms of the chair. Antiques were never a passion, but I’d like them to be. By the time I got interested, Preston made it clear he hated them. I was never allowed to bring anything into his house that he didn’t like.
When I think back on it now, there were a ton of red flags. I ignored them because I thought I was in love in high school. When we met again in college, just about walking right into each other in the library, it seemed… fated. I’d never stopped thinking about him. Your first love will do that to you. Haunt you. I forgave a lot of things I shouldn’t when it came to his behavior. I passed a lot of things off on his parents. I guess the person I was really and truly in love with was the person I hoped he could be.
Goddamn fucking hindsight.
Chapter 4
Willow
No matter what kind of mood I’m in, watching Odin set up the tripod and reverently take out a gorgeous camera from a fancy black leather bag, fit a lens to it, and then bend over the whole thing with the intensity of a scientist and the gentle touch of a lover, is never going to fail to bemoving.
His huge hands are so capable, so gentle, that sitting in this chair, my head swimming even more violently from the whiskey settling into my bloodstream, I can’t help but have thoughts so wicked that they feel blasphemous.
I suck in a gulp of oxygen to steady myself and clear the fog. The basement is like most old buildings. Slightly musty, maybe a little bit damp from all the rain Washington gets. That’s all I should be able to breathe in, but overriding that is a darker, spicier scent that I know is all Odin. I know what expensive cologne smells like, but it’s not that, and I’m weirdly glad. He smells earthier, in a good way. Like air and soil and trees, but also less elemental. A little bit of oil maybe. A lot like the garage I used to walk past every day on my way to work when I waitressed in high school.
My hand flutters against the edges of my vest nervously, but all I end up doing is fumbling my fingers over the top button.
I nearly jump-scare when Odin raises his head and gives me a thumbs up. “We’re good to go.”
I leap out of the chair and smooth my skirt. My palms are absolutely soaked. Thinking about touching him with them makes me cringe internally. This is fake, but I want to act like I’m not a scared, sweaty girl half his age who just cried her eyes out and begged him for the most absurd favor.
Even if that’s exactly what I am.
What little chill I have left deserts me completely as Odin walks over to the far wall and picks up a length of rope I didn’t even notice was hanging there. It’s old and thick, not smooth looking at all. The fibers will probably chafe the shit out of my wrists.
Why does that thought send a jolt of straight lightning arrowing straight between my legs? Whiskey or no whiskey, that’s definitelywrong.
I walk over as neatly as I can on my wobbly legs. I stand right beneath the hook and raise my hands in the air. I clasp them together and give Odin a steady look that I hope says that I’m ready.
It’s hard to breathe when he approaches. He’s absolutely menacing holding that length of rope, one of the largest men that I’ve ever been near. There were plenty of rough men coming into the restaurant where I worked, but none of them looked like him. Not like they could wrestle a bear. Or maybe like heisthe whole damn bear.
My pulse goes crazy, but the part of my brain that I’ve rarely ever had an opportunity to use other than for survival mode, kicks online. The animal part of me wonders what it would be like to be strung up by this man for real. To have his hand come around my neck in a collar to restrain me, his massive body utterly dominant, my own so ready to submit tohim, to let him do anything he wanted to me because I know that he’d be gentle and make the pain sweet.
I have no idea what that is.
The whole BDSM thing isn’t my jam.
But there is a part of me that thrills at the rush of danger this man represents, even if it’s a false picture in my head. I’ve never been with anyone who could tear their own control away, growling and fucking like an animal. I don’t know why I think he could. I don’t even know why my brain keeps going there relentlessly.
If this is what hard liquor does, then I need to put it on my list of things to never repeat again.
Odin wraps the rope around my wrists, tying it so lightly and gently that I barely even feel the hard rasp of the frayed strands. None of it bites into my skin. The only discomfort I feel is the pins and needles of having my arms raised in the air.
