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I ignored his last remark, uncomfortable at the comparison. “Your mother never remarried either?”
“She had a couple of long-term relationships, but she left her last partner after a while. Differences, you know?”
“No, not really. My parents were devoted to each other.” A tear welled in one eye and I flicked it away with a finger.
“I’m sorry.” He nestled his nose in my hair. “I do remember a time when my parents loved each other very much. Little glimpses of happy times. Christmas spent here with snow outside. Dad and Mum waltzing in the hallway to Strauss. Snippets.”
He nuzzled his nose farther into my strands. He returned to exploring me, moving his hand from my arm and heading down my thigh. I clenched, that inner response that happened spontaneously whenever he drifted closer to my sexual core.
“I want to fuck you,” he murmured. “Now.”
I snatched a breath and my heart did that skip and a jump thing. Below, in his lap, his pants tented with a clear indication of his arousal.
He lifted my cotton top with a roving hand and caressed my belly. I knew if he went higher, uncovered my warm breasts, he would find two pert nipples eager to be pleased. I tipped my head back and mouthed, “Stefan,” then I hissed, “Yes.”
The scramble of sex on a sofa—how to describe the rampant acts committed in the next hour. The fumbling of buttons and zips, the stripping off of clothes and the continuous stream of kisses. First me underneath—a repeat of our first sexual encounter—then astride him, riding him hard and fast. Our tongues explored each other and I rediscovered why I’d shaved my privates. The touch of flesh against flesh, no longer masked by inert hairs, electrified me.
Each rise and fall of my pelvis on his cock allowed my clit to brush unhindered against him. He encompassed my breasts, squeezing them, pinching my nipples in time with my bounces. I squirmed with each painful nip and returned the gesture with a tease of my sharp teeth on his shoulder.
He whispered, “Naughty mouse,” in my ear.
I countered with, “Wicked man.”
All the verbal nuances played back and forth until we were too breathless to speak. We tumbled, rotated, spilled onto the floor then back on the sofa, allowing me to kneel on all fours comfortably. The orgasm ripped through me as he entered me from behind. He came, too, joining me, spurting his cum with juddering spasms and grunts of pleasure.
“Stay,” he panted.
After a few minutes, he returned with a small towel and ensured that I was not going to ruin his father’s expensive sofa with our spilled juices. I giggled at his diligence, painting a mental scenario of a teenage son fearful of his father’s wrath i
f he found out he’d been wooing a young lady alone in his house.
We dressed with smug smiles, and me with wobbly legs from my exertions. The kitchen beckoned and I helped cook a meal of schnitzel and fries. Stefan remained keen to treat me to local cuisine. He poured red wine—French, not German. He didn’t rate German wines above French when it came to the red grape. We chatted about the health care system in Germany, the best parts, the worst. I gradually opened up about my father’s last days, the pain of watching him pass before my eyes while in intensive care. Stefan thoughtfully held my hand, stroking it with his thumb as I wept.
“You’re tired,” he said. “Bed. Sleep. Nothing else. In the morning, I want to show you somewhere special.”
I wiped away my tears. The mystery plan perked me up. He wouldn’t tell me, so there was no point asking. “I look forward to it.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Why do you drive differently here?” I asked, my hands reposed in my lap, rather than gripping the passenger seat.
Stefan chuckled. “You’ve noticed.”
He turned a corner, and I experienced none of his usual slalom techniques, which typically involved careering about the road. Rather, he glided around the apex of the bend.
“It’s my father’s car. Wouldn’t dare scratch it. Also, German police are notorious for on–the-spot speeding tickets.”
I joined in with his laughter. We’d set off after a hearty breakfast with me none the wiser about his intended location. We drove through idyllic villages, similar to his father’s, always at a sedate pace. Stefan seemed to be very familiar with the network of roads, anticipating corners and junctions.
The worries of the previous day rematerialized fresh in my mind—his relaxed posture, the hardening of his German accent, the reminiscing about his childhood. I couldn’t contain myself from asking, “Do you miss Germany?”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation in his answer, no pause to consider my question. He didn’t even glance in my direction. I pressed my lips together with disappointment. What did I expect him to say?
“I also miss England when I go home,” he added. “I know what you’re thinking, Callie. I made my choice a long time ago. England is my home. I shall also visit here, even after my father has gone, because it is my heritage, but my life is in Cambridge.” He briefly patted my thigh.
My shoulders dropped with relief. His cultural past he could keep. I had no issue with the legacy. We would both have ancestors who had fought each other during world wars. It didn’t matter. As for religion, I suspected his upbringing might have been Catholic. Mine had been the occasional visit to the local parish church at Christmas and christenings. I assumed that if he were steeped in religion, we would have been visiting the church that morning, not going on a mystery tour. The idea of Stefan confessing his sexual habits to a priest wouldn’t sit well for either of us.
