Once there and he had captured my gaze, he said quietly, “You have ten minutes to prepare yourself and meet me up there. We will see how it goes as to whether we guard against conceiving or, perhaps, forget.”
Ho boy. I knew what that meant because I figured that meant the same thing on both worlds.
“You haven’t had pie,” I pointed out in an attempt to stall.
“We’ll have it later…” he paused and grinned. “Maybe. We might be too busy; we might need sustenance to keep going.”
Ho boy!
“Frey –” I whispered.
He cut me off. “You now have nine minutes, Finnie.”
Shit! Shit! Shit!
“That wasn’t a minute,” I argued.
He pressed his lips together but I knew what it meant this time because his eyes were so close, I saw them dancing.
Then he warned softly and effectively with one word, “Finnie.”
I stared into his eyes.
Then I saw there a clear indication that there was no way I could delay.
This was happening and it was my choice whether it happened in the loft or on the farm table. Since that was my only choice, I definitely needed the loft.
So that was why I muttered, “Oh, all right.”
That got me another grin. It also loosened his arms. And this meant I scrambled off his lap and hurried out of the room trying not to look like I was hurrying. I hit the trunks, found what I was looking for and went to the bathroom space not bothering with the lock on the door because he could easily break it down if he had a mind to.
Only then did I start hyperventilating.
Chapter Eight
Elves
I stood in the bathroom space thinking that I really needed fifteen meals.
Maybe twenty-one.
Or, perhaps ninety.
I was so not ready for this.
And I had been in the bathroom way longer than nine minutes. I was pretty certain Frey was going to bust down the door any second.
I totally shouldn’t have lost it at dinner and thus made Frey skip pie.
I needed pie.
I needed to think!
How to get out of this?
I stared at myself in the mirror.
For reasons unknown to me, probably nervous energy, I had decided to arrange my hair loosely at the top of my head with one of the scads of ice blue ribbons that had been packed in my beautification trunk. I didn’t know what I was going for, sultry vixen or innocent virgin (probably the latter in hopes that Frey would take it slow and be gentle) and to get this to look even slightly good, it took what had to be nineteen minutes, not nine.
I had also changed into the nightgown I was pretty sure Sjofn was supposed to wear on her wedding night. This was because you didn’t sleep in this nightie. This nightie was an occasion nightie, it was meant to be seen and it was way too delicate to sleep in.
It was beautiful, elaborate winter white lace over ice blue satin. The thin straps were ice blue satin too. It had an empire waist and showed serious cleavage and leg. This last was because the skirt only fell low enough to cover my rear…barely. It was mostly simple but that made it elegant, the lace made it extraordinary and the ice blue satin made it beautiful (not to mention it felt great against my skin).
But I thought, at that moment, it was too short, too suggestive and way too sexy.
Not that I had to suggest anything and everything was sexy when you were essentially a sure thing.
But it had been purchased for Frey. And for some crazy, stupid reason (even though he could be a very big jerk), when I’d been considering what would happen that night, I decided to wear it. And I did this because I thought even men should have what they looked forward to on their wedding nights. Like women, they only got one and it should be a good one.
So he messed up his first shot. But before my nerves overwhelmed me, I felt some weird drive to give it to him just the same.
And he sure wasn’t going to get anything like it when Sjofn came back.
So I’d picked that nightgown.
Shit.
I stared at my reflection, my mind whirling.
Then I realized I had no choice. I made the deal, I had to do it. I couldn’t go running into the night, Frey would find me and anyway, I’d freeze to death. I had to go to the loft and when I got there, maybe I could talk him into taking it slow, as in, making out tonight for awhile, getting the hang of each other and then seeing what tomorrow brings.
I could do that, I could make out with him. I already knew he was a good kisser. That would be nice, hell, that would be great.
Then my mind came back to reality with a, Fat chance of convincing him of that, Finnie.
I stared at my face in the mirror.
Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. That was what Dad (and a bunch of other people) always said.
I blew out the candles in the bathroom space and walked out to the living room.
All was dark except the fireplaces that had been fed and were blazing big and bright. The curtains had been pulled by me, way earlier, to shut out the draft after the sun went down. I’d learned that early, as in, after the first night I slept there when I woke up on the couch with a stiff neck.
The curtain at the railing at the loft was mostly closed, light was coming through where it was opened at the end.
By the ladder.
Eek!
I tried to remember if Penelope was in or out when I saw her rise to all fours where she was curled on one of the fluffy throws on an armchair. She stretched her back, sat on her ass and blinked through the firelight at me. Then she looked up at the loft like she knew what was about to happen there. Then she looked back at me and blinked. Then she jumped off the armchair, landing with a fat kitty thump and waddled into the kitchen.
Well, guess she wasn’t going up there with me to assist me in talking Frey into a make out session.
With no choice, I went to the ladder and climbed up.
When I got up, I didn’t look. I entered the space bent double (because I had to, though this was not good considering my major cleavage and the fact that it made the nightie ride up my ass) and turned to shut the curtain. Then I sucked in a deep breath while hiding sucking in a deep breath and let it out while turning back.
I had put three candleholders in each corner to light the space. When I read at night, I moved six of them beside the bed but I kept them in the corners normally to keep them away from the bedclothes.
All of them were lit, the fire in the grate was blazing, the space seemed warm and cozy and Frey was wearing nothing but breeches and crouched before the fire.
He looked hot. His muscled shoulders looked broad. His defined lats looked powerful. And his eyes were on me. Or, more accurately, they were on my nightie.
Ho boy.
I should have crouched, though that wouldn’t have been much better.
