Nine Hours

Chapter 18

The view from the cliff is stunning. Salty sea breezes fill the air. But the most breath-taking? The way Gunnar is kissing me right this moment. As if my life depended upon it. Perhaps it does. All I can do is keep my arms wrapped around his neck, because he's literally scooped me into his as if I weigh nothing. One hand wrapped around my back, securing my neck, the other gripping my thighs just under the swell of my ass.

This kiss. This kiss is my undoing. It consumes any and all other thoughts, blocking out the entire universe, narrowing it down to just the two of us. This kiss is everything and, yet, it is not enough.

Not nearly.

****

"Cassie, love. Wake up." Fingers drift across my face as I'm unwillingly roused from sleep. Blinking, it takes several seconds to adjust to the surroundings. Gunnar is here, but he most certainly isn't kissing me like he was a few moments ago. Why is that? Once the confusion abates, I realize it was only in a dream.

"Gunnar? Is something wrong?" Sitting up suddenly, the sheet slips away from my camisole-covered breasts. Gunnar's gaze sinks to the beaded tips, then snaps back up.

"I, uh, have an outing planned for us today. We must set out soon, so I came to wake you. You have time for breakfast and..." His eyes drift again, a tiny smile quirking at the edges of his tempting lips. "...getting dressed. Our meal is ready."

Self-conscious, I slide my legs up until my knees hit my chest hiding the proof of my dream-induced arousal, and clear my throat. "I'll be right out." Gunnar doesn't move. He stares as if he wants to say or do something else. Whatever it is, he decides against it with a sharp shake of his head, turns, and leaves the room. Hopping out of bed, I pull on the pajama bottoms and the button-down flannel shirt I'd dropped on the floor last night.

As we eat, Gunnar explains today's plans. The idea of driving into Bergen, the second largest city in the country, fills me with anticipation and excitement. Up to now, I've been isolated here in the forests of rural Osterøy and the remoteness of Gunnar's house—with the exception of the day we went to his boat, and dinner last night.

Before long, we're speeding off toward the city—about an hour's drive away.

To pass the time, Gunnar cranks up his stereo, blasting rock tunes and singing along to every song. Who would've guessed he has such an amazing voice? It doesn't hurt that he knows the lyrics to nearly everything that plays. Occasionally, I join in, but for some reason, watching and listening to Gunnar is far more entertaining. Seeing him let loose does a funny thing. It's almost like another piece of my wall is crumbling. I can feel it. This both excites and terrifies me. I've been determined to keep Gunnar at a distance, and yet the man is worming his way into my soul without much effort. Inch by inch. Song by song. Touch by touch.

At the outskirts of the city, he turns off the stereo. Rows of colorfully painted salt-box shaped houses ring the water's edge, giving the city a magical feel.

"What would you like to do first?"

Gunnar mentioned a few places at breakfast, and they all sounded interesting.

"I'll defer to you. Which do you like best?"

"Hmm. That's not an easy answer. It's been a long while since I've played tour guide." He quiets thoughtfully as he navigates the streets, pointing out various local sites. After a bit, he parks the car, kills the engine and grins playfully. "Would you like to see how a king lives?"

Shortly, we're on the grounds of a castle surrounded by lush, green lawns overlooking a body of glimmering water. People are scattered around the lawns, stretched out on blankets and soaking up the late-morning sun. A few even have picnic baskets set next to them.