I Tried to Evict My Three Tenants, So They Moved Into My Bed novel · Chapter 4 of 24

Chapter 4: Rope

"Shut the door," Gunnar said.

I shut it.

The room smelled of wool and soap and the cold salt air that came in around his window.

Beyond the glass, far down the river, the light on the bar swung slowly around and around.

I let Ingrid's robe fall off my shoulders.

Gunnar did not move.

He sat on the edge of the bed with the rope across his knees.

I watched his eyes go over me, inch by inch.

Nobody had ever looked at me for that long.

"Tie me," I said.

"Why?" he asked.

His voice was calm, but his hands had gone still on the rope.

"Because you made a rule so you couldn't take what you wanted," I said.

"So take it. I'll make it impossible for you to stop."

A muscle moved in his jaw.

"Come here."

I crossed the room and stood in front of him.

He stood up.

He was a head taller than I was, and he smelled of cedar and rain.

He took my wrists in one hand, as easily as picking up a rope, and turned me toward the bed.

"On your back," he said.

"Hands up."

I lay down on the cool quilt and put my hands over my head.

The headboard was old brass, with thick round rails that had held up under fifty years of tenants.

Gunnar wound the manila around my wrists twice.

He passed it through the rail and pulled it snug, and tied it off in a knot I could not have named.

He tested it with two fingers.

"Too tight?" he said.

"No."

"Tell me if it is."

"It isn't," I said.

"Gunnar. Look at me."

He looked.

I was stretched out naked on his bed with my arms over my head.

I watched his pupils swallow the blue of his eyes.

"Good girl," he said, very softly.

"Stay exactly like that."

He undressed in front of me.

He did it without any hurry, the sweater first, then the shirt under it.

He folded each piece and set it on the chair.

His chest was broad and freckled, with pale hair down the middle and a long old scar across the ribs.

When he opened his belt, my mouth went dry.

He was big, and he was hard, and he stood there and let me look.

"Gunnar," I said.

"Yes."

"Come here."

"Not yet," he said.

He knelt on the bed between my knees.

He ran both hands up my legs, from ankle to thigh, slowly, with his rough palms.

He found the soft skin inside my knee, and then higher, and my legs fell open for him without my deciding.

"Look at you," Gunnar said.

"You're still wet from them."

"From you," I said.

"Not yet from me," he said.

He leaned down and kissed my hip.

He kissed my stomach, and the underside of my breast.

His mouth closed on my nipple, hot and slow, and I arched into it.

I pulled at the rope.

It held.

Knowing that it would hold sent heat straight through me.

"There," he murmured against my skin.

"That's it. Feel that."

His hand slid between my legs, and two fingers slipped inside me with no effort at all.

He curled them, stroked, and found the place he had found on the table.

I cried out.

"Not yet," Gunnar said, when I bucked, and his voice was a low warning.

He slid down the bed and put his shoulders between my knees.

"Hold the rail," he said.

I wrapped both hands around the brass above the rope.

He put his mouth on me, slow and open and hot, and I felt the whole length of his tongue.

He licked me with long deliberate strokes, and when I tried to rise to him, he pinned my hips to the mattress with both forearms.

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