Lena

 

 

 

I'm still not entirely sure what just happened. I have never climaxed like that, with such overwhelming force. I'm still shaky. My legs are wobbly, my hands are trembling, and my mind is still incapable of processing the past few minutes, or even hours. How long has it been? I've lost all sense of time.

I've also never been fucked like this before. I know I'll be sore, not only from where he spanked me, but also between my legs. I wonder if I would have been so fast to tease and submit to him if I had known what kind of monster I was luring in. Probably. Maybe I would have been even worse.

"So, why again is there a squirrel in your house?" he asks. He takes a hearty sip from the fresh mug of mulled wine I served him after he freshened up. He returned wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, whereas I quickly wrapped myself up in one of my late Oma’s robes. It dawns on me how natural it seems to be sitting on the couch with him, curled up under a blanket, each of us holding a mug of steaming hot mulled wine in our hands.

I'm having trouble believing that just two days ago, I didn't even know him, and based on our first interaction, I never would have expected to find him here, like this, with the marks of his belt adorning my backside and a luxurious ache between my legs from the best sex I've ever had.

And he's asking about my squirrel, as if that's what's truly quaint about all of this.

"I told you, I'm taking care of her," I answer, glancing over to the cage at the other end of the room. Risu hasn't made any noise since I fed her, which is not unusual. Squirrels rest a lot, because when they move, they move at full speed, using so much energy that needing naps is inevitable. And she is still recovering from her injury, too. I can tell that she's eager to jump and climb as squirrels do, but her leg isn't quite there yet.

"She was brought to me with a broken leg."

"Are you the town's vet?" he asks, raising one eyebrow. "Why would anyone bring you a broken rodent?"

"A broken rodent?" I repeat, taking his unusual choice of words as a cue for me to take a turn at raising an eyebrow myself.

He rolls his eyes. "A squirrel in need. Better?"

"Slightly," I retort. "I'm not a vet, but we've been working with the local wildlife rehabilitation for quite a while."

"You and your grandma?"

I nod. "Yes. Well, she's been doing it for decades. She was really the one who did all the work, I just helped out here and there. I thought I'd stop doing it after she died, but apparently... I'm not."

He takes another sip from his mulled wine as his gaze wanders curiously through the room, studying one section of space after another. Another rush of embarrassment travels down my spine when his eyes linger on my bookshelves again. I've never been ashamed about the books I read, because they entertain and comfort me. I sometimes refer to them as guilty pleasures, but after they helped me through so many tough times, especially after the death of Oma, I don’t really feel the label does them justice.

"Those books seem to be the only thing in here that is you," he assesses. "Other than that, this house looks like it belongs to an old woman."

I huff. "That's because it is the house of an old woman."

He turns to me, fixing his dark eyes on mine.

"Not anymore," he says. "You live here now. It's yours, isn't it?"

I shrug. "I guess so."

"Are you planning to leave?" he queries. "Maybe go back home to Germany?"

I shake my head. "No. I have nothing waiting for me there."

"You never miss it?"

I sigh. He's sure asking the hard questions. After all, how could you not miss a place that was home for the first fifteen years of your life?

"Sometimes I do, yes," I reply. "But it's not so much the place I miss, it's the life I used to have there. My parents, my friends at school, things like that."

I pause for a moment, needing to take a deep breath before I can continue. "But all of that is gone. My parents are gone, my friends have moved on, everything has changed. It's been seven years since I left. If I was to go back now, I wouldn't find what I left behind back then, even though it's still what I consider to be my home.” I pause and then catch myself. “But so is this place."

I smile in an attempt to convey that this place brings me happiness, too, even though it’s a different kind of joy. I know the smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes, and he's seeing it, too.

"In a way, I consider myself lucky because I have two homes," I add. "Two cultures, two languages, two stories. I appreciate that."

He studies me, trying to interpret the meaning behind the smile on my face. It's odd how the way he puts his arm around me now feels so much more intimate than the intense physical connection we shared just a few minutes ago. I can feel the warmth of his embrace so intensely that it starts to unravel me. It's just a simple hug, a gesture of comfort. Why does it feel like so much more?

"Two homes," he says in a low voice. "I guess that is better than not having any."

I try to catch his eyes, but he’s evasive, diverting his focus to the mug balanced in his lap.

“You don’t have a place you call home?” I ask. There’s a smug tone underlying my question, and he doesn’t miss it.

He shakes his head. “I have a place where I live, yes, but calling a place “home” requires a lot more than just living in one place for a while."

"True," I agree. "But you live in New York City, no?"

He nods. "Manhattan."

"In a fancy penthouse?"

It was supposed to be a joke, but he nods. "Yes, I guess you could call it that."

"You must be pretty rich then," I say, immediately chastising myself for being so intrusive and presumptive.

He doesn't seem to be fazed by it, and when he looks at me to answer, he repeats his earlier statement, "I guess you could call it that."

I don't know why it is only now occurring to me, but I really have no idea who this man is. I simply chalked him up as 'some business dude' when I met him at the convention, and based on our negative interactions there, I never cared to know more than that.

Until now.

"Your name is Jason, right?"

He nods. "Yes, Jason Conner."

Conner? Where have I heard that name before?

Then it hits me. Aileen! She mentioned that name at the convention!

But that means...

"You're Jason Conner?" I blurt out. "You're a fucking Conner?!"

The expression on his face changes from mild amusement to alarm, when I rip myself out of his embrace and jump to my feet, the blanket covering the two of us dropping to the floor at his feet. I look at him with wide eyes, my mouth partly open, as I try to process this unsettling revelation.

"Shit," I hiss after a couple awkward seconds.

He knits his eyebrows in confusion. "Care to let me in on what's wrong?"

"What are you doing here?" I stammer. "You're a fucking big deal. What the hell are you doing in my house?"

He laughs at me then, and it only makes everything seem a lot worse.

"You invited me here, remember?" he says. "And based on what I saw earlier, you had a pretty good time since-"

"But you're like a... fucking gazillionaire," I cut him off. "How could someone like you possibly ever end up in a place like this?"

"Trust me, I've asked myself that very same question."

"Why didn't you stay at the hotel? Or you know...," I stutter, fighting for words. "Or book something somewhere? You can afford to do anything you want."

"That's right," he says. "I can afford to do whatever I want, which is why I was able to rent a car during the middle of a blizzard when no cars were available."

"But-"

"I told you how I got here," he cuts me off. "I have to be back in New York ASAP, and I thought I could make it."

"Did you follow me?"

The questions slips out before I have a chance to filter my thoughts. Suddenly, I'm having a very hard time believing that showing up here was purely coincidental and the result of bad decision making on his part. To end up in my town, and at my diner, of all places. It seemed weird from the beginning, but somehow it seems even less likely now that I know who he is. He's the heir to one of the wealthiest families in the country, and he's telling me that he's stranded and helpless in Greymeadow? By coincidence?

But he sticks to his story. He is clearly annoyed with me for suggesting that he might have followed me here.

"Don't think too highly of yourself, young lady," he says. "It's not an attractive quality."

Now I'm the one who is annoyed. I finish my mulled wine in one large gulp and check the time on Oma's old wall clock.

"I think we should get some sleep," I say in a tense tone, refusing to look at him. "It's getting late."

"What happened here?" he asks. "Why do you suddenly distrust me?"

I turn to face him, but I’m unsure what to say. I'm overrun by a turmoil of emotions… shame, regret, yearning. This was all too good to be true.

"I don't know," I answer truthfully. "It's just... weird."

"Weird?" he probes. "How so?"

"You...," I mumble. "You, here, me. I had no idea that you're..." I shake my head, as if to rid it of all the confusing thoughts.

"You had no idea I'm what?" he asks. "And why does it matter who or what I am?"

I know it shouldn't, but somehow it does. It was a whole different story when I thought I had brought home a normal stranger, a perfectly average - albeit insanely handsome - business man, a nobody, just like me. Someone who would drop in and out of my life just like that, and whatever happened between us in the meantime would just become a pleasant memory. No drama, no obligations, no consequences.

But would that be possible with Jason Conner?

He's rubbing his temples. It’s obvious he’s both exhausted and annoyed.

"We should really get some sleep," I insist, picking the blanket up off the floor and handing it over to Jason.

His eyes follow my actions and then he looks up at me. A number of unspoken questions are as evident in his eyes as they are mine.

"You can sleep down here," I announce, gesturing to the sofa on which he's sitting.

He seems somewhat surprised, but just for a second, and then he nods, appearing defeated.

"Fine," he says, diverting his gaze away from me. "Let's both get some sleep."