Page 15 of Heal Me

My body seems to have developed a Pavlovian response to his sexy rumbling voice. “Thanks. You look really great too.”

He leans down to kiss my cheek. “Ready?” I nod, and he hands me a helmet. “Hope you don’t mind, I brought the bike again. I figured it was such a nice day you might enjoy it. Oh, and if it’s alright with you, I thought we could stop at my place so you can take a look around. You know, in case anyone at work asks. We have to pass by my exit on the way to Bjorn’s anyway, and we can switch to the car at that point. That is, if you want.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I pull the helmet on and secure the chin strap on my own, thank you very much, then swing my leg over the bike, immediately wrapping my arms around Gunnar’s waist as I press against him. Have I been imagining this since Friday? Yes. Yes, I have. And I’m going to take full advantage of the situation. Gunnar briefly covers my left arm with his, squeezing gently before starting the bike, putting both hands on the grips, and pulling out into traffic.

As we ride down the highway, I move closer, pressing against him from hip to shoulder, unable to think about anything but the feel of his big body against mine. Thank god for the cool wind keeping things a little too chilly because there’s no way he would miss my very interested cock pressing against his ass.

About twenty minutes after we pull away from my building, Gunnar exits the highway and weaves through the side streets of a cute little community. Many of the single-family homes are built in the English Cottage style, and I’m utterly charmed.

We pull into a driveway about halfway down one block, and a little old lady in the next yard stops sweeping her sidewalk to wave at us. I slide off the bike and watch as Gunnar pulls off his helmet and steps across to the picket fence between the yards. “Hi, Mrs. Clarke. How’s it going today?”

“Gunnar! I was hoping you’d be home soon, dear. I have a batch of your favorite cookies in the oven. They’ll be done in about ten minutes. I’ll just bring them over when they’ve cooled off.”

“Oh, you don’t have to, Mrs. Clarke. I can come over and get them. I’m actually heading back out in a little bit. It’s Sunday.”

She laughs. “Yes, I know. Osouf Family Dinner. I remember. That’s why I baked extras.” Mrs. Clarke peers curiously at me over Gunnar’s shoulder, then turns back to him, waiting expectantly.

He chuckles. “Mrs. Clarke, this is Jocelin.” He holds his hand out to me, and I cross the driveway to stand next to him. “Jocelin, this is my neighbor, Mrs. Clarke.”

I extend my hand and gently shake hers. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

She practically beams at me. “The pleasure is mine, Jocelin.” She gives Gunnar a knowing look. “Is this your boyfriend, Gunnar? He’s very handsome.”

My cheeks flame, and Gunnar blinks, momentarily caught off guard, then gives me a shy smile. “It’s early days, Mrs. Clarke, but it seems promising.” He turns back to her. “I’m gonna show Joce around the house, but I’ll knock on your door before we head back out, if that’s okay.”

“Perfectly fine. It was so nice to meet you, Jocelin.”

“It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Clarke.”

She waves to us and turns back toward her house. As we walk up the driveway, Gunnar leans down and whispers in my ear. “She’s my cookie dealer. She keeps me stocked in fresh baked goods.”

I laugh. “And which is your favorite?”

“By far, it’s her butter cookies. They aren’t fancy, but they’re so good! Before I know it, I’ve eaten two dozen. Thankfully, she always makes a ton. Her chocolate chip cookies are really good, too.”

Gunnar opens the front door and ushers me inside. “Welcome toChezOsouf.” I step into the house and glance around. The walls are distressed brick, and the floor is unpolished hardwood covered with multiple oriental rugs. The ceiling is open beams, with a mix of industrial and antique lighting fixtures. It’s a blend of rustic and modern, and it really suits Gunnar’s personality. “Feel free to have a look around. Open cupboards, look under the bathroom sink.” He grins and takes off his coat, tossing it over the back of one of the two distressed leather couches. “There’s nothing here you can’t see.”

I remove my coat, setting it over Gunnar’s, and brush my fingers over one of the many multicolored throw pillows, as I make my way to the fireplace. A plethora of Osouf family photographs vie for space on the mantel, and it’s easy to pick out Astrid and Gunnar. I grin at the younger versions from their teens.

Gunnar reaches past me to pick up an older picture. “These were my parents.”

I gently take the offered photo, feeling the unintended weight of this moment. These two people meant the world to this man, and they left him far too soon. I have an overwhelming urge to call my parents—and isn’t that a surprise. “Erik looks a lot like your mother. And the rest of you look like your father. You especially. It’s uncanny.” The seconds stretch on, and Gunnar is far too silent next to me. I glance at him, concerned by how still he is. He’s staring at the photo, his expression so bittersweet it makes my heart ache. “I’m sorry, Gunnar. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”

Gunnar shakes his head. “I handed you the picture. Remember? And it’s alright. I just miss them. Some days more than others.” He carefully takes the photo back and places it in its spot on the mantel. When he turns back to me, he’s smiling. “Want to see the rest of the house?”

Glad for the opportunity to change the subject, I nod. “Absolutely. Lead on.”

Grabbing my hand, he leads me toward the back of the house and through a doorway to the right. “The kitchen.” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Probably not your favorite room.”

I grin and roll my eyes. “I love the kitchen. It’s where the food is. I just don’t like to cook it. But this is beautiful.” The cabinets and floor are reclaimed wood, stained a dark mahogany. Black granite countertops ring the room and highlight the terracotta tiled backsplash and back of the cooktop. With the stainless steel appliances, it’s a striking combination. “Doyoucook?”

Gunnar see-saws his hand. “Nothing fancy. I can follow a recipe, but I mostly stick to grilling. I seem to manage that fairly well.” He shrugs. “Anyway, onward.” He leads me back through the living room and up a small winding staircase to the second floor, where we exit directly into the bedroom. “My room.”

The exposed brick walls, wooden floors, and ceiling beams give the room a rustic feel. A king-sized cast iron bed, piled high with pillows, takes up most of one wall, and the rest of the furniture is dark wood with cast iron accents. There’s a working fireplace directly across from the bed, and the entire room is warm and inviting. I can easily imagine snuggling under the comforter with a fire crackling in the fireplace on cold winter mornings. “Gunnar, I love it. It’s so cozy.”

“It is. Most days, I struggle to pull myself out of bed. Astrid says I’m a natural born napper.”

The energy in the room turns electric as we both stare longingly at the bed. I can feel his proximity, the heat pouring off his body, and I want to turn into him, feel his arms around me, beg him to touch me, kiss my neck, and pull me onto the bed. Gunnar exhales, and the tension bursts like a soap bubble. “So, over here is the bathroom.”

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