My Rockstar's Secret Baby by Jamie Knight (red seas under red skies .TXT) 📗

And yeah, it was probably stupid, but it all came down to that innate feeling of trust. I felt safe with him.

“Good,” he said, kissing the back of my neck. “Are you hungry?”

As far as after sex questions went, it was on the odd side. Though I couldn’t say I wasn’t hungry, so it was also surprisingly appropriate.

“Yes,” I said, still wrestling with the slight oddness.

I didn’t know if it was metal heads in general, or just a fluke with Ragnar that let him ask about food right after cleaning the cum off my back. Maybe it was just a guy thing, food and sex.

Helping me back into my borrowed outfit, Ragnar zipped up his jeans and strolled into the kitchen, like he hadn’t just fucked me six ways form doomsday.

I had a bit more trouble with the walking but managed to make it in, anyway. The most wonderful tingle still sparked in my pussy, even long after his withdrawal.

Ragnar really knew his way around a kitchen. Not too surprising, considering it was his kitchen, but I grew up with the sort of old school guys, my dad and granddad particularly, who would have needed a recipe to boil an egg.

Ragnar seemed to have no such issue, moving with the controlled grace one would expect from an experienced drummer.

For a second, I was convinced I could hear a beat as he cooked.

“Do you like fish?” he asked me.

“Sure,” I said, certain whatever he made would be amazing.

The cod sizzled in the bed of melted butter, making my mouth start to water, and that was before he started adding the spices.

For a second, I wondered I maybe he’d gone out and caught it himself. Seattle was a port city after all, but it didn’t seem likely, unless he had a fishing boat secreted somewhere. Either way, he sure knew how to cook it.

“Old family recipe?” I asked, as he set the plate before me.

“Yes, actually. Passed down through my father’s side. Drink?”

“Sure, what have you got?”

“Water, juice, diet soda, some leftover mead.”

“Mead? Like actual, drink of the gods, mythological mead?”

“Not mythological, but the other ones,” he chuckled, “I usually only drink on special occasions and never when I’m on the job.”

“Very wise.”

“It’s hard to play well smashed, just ask Varg.”

“Varg?”

“Our guitarist. He thinks it makes him play better. Stig, he’s the bassist, and I actually had to record him once and play it back before he would believe us. He still drinks when possible, just not to the point of losing his coordination. I think it might partly be stage fright.

“Dutch courage?” I asked.

“Exactly. He’d never admit it and would probably clock me if I ever even suggested it. Thinks he has an image to uphold.

“Don’t we all?

Stuffed with fish and mead, feeling on top of the world, Ragnar put the dishes in the sink, before coming up behind me. Putting his hands on my shoulder.

“Ready for bed?”

My heart swelled. I’d been hoping he’d ask me to stay. “Absolutely.”

My gentle giant lifted me from the chair and held me close. I half expected him to start rocking me to sleep. Instead, he headed for what I assumed was the bedroom, as I pressed my face to his chest, breathing in his scent.

Setting me down on the edge of his big bed, he pulled my shirt up over my head, as I lifted my arms to help. Then, he took off my jeans and panties.

I really thought he would start touching me again, but instead, he tucked me up under the blankets. Taking off his own clothes, he joined me in the bed, staying on his own side. I was the one who cuddled up to him, which he didn’t seem to mind at all.

It didn’t make sense. All logic would say we shouldn’t work, but there we were. The connection, as well as affection, between us undeniable. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was just a fling, or if there might be more to it. If we might have a future together, despite our hugely different backgrounds and cultures, particularly if Ragnar returned to Norway.

I tried not to think about it, pushing all negative thoughts from my mind, so I could just enjoy the moment. Ragnar and I cuddled and kissed and were happy, right up until the scourge of sleep took us.

Chapter Eight - Ragnar

The sheet was cold. Where there was once an arm full of my warm lover, there only remained a smooth, cool surface. Like a rink before the first skaters took to it. I wondered if maybe I’d dreamt the whole thing.

It did seem a bit too perfect. Life was rarely, if ever, so glorious. A lesson I’d learned at a young age.

There was an odd sensation on my mouth. A sticky wight that called for further investigation by my finger. Fingers which came away smudged with a deep burgundy. Lipstick, like Stephanie had been wearing.

Okay, not a dream, but she was still gone. Where did that leave us? Friends, lovers, ‘fuck buddies’ as the Americans apparently said?

Was it a fling, or something deeper? It felt deeper but how reliable was human perception? A whole philosophy textbook of quandaries to unsettle my mind. It really was a wonder I was able to sleep at all.

Fortunately, I didn’t have much time to ponder. I had to be at the Sanctuary in an hour, and Varg and Stig would be around in just a few minutes to pick me up. At least according to a text I’d received a few moments before. No time for breakfast then.

I had just enough time to wash my face and throw on clean clothes before the distinctive