Tell Me a Fantasy

Chapter Eleven

The condo, while luxurious with its marble floors, expensive modern furniture, and sleek steel appliances, was miniscule. Nothing like what I'd expected, and from the way Colin's face scrunched, he felt the same.

"Well, I assume there's more than one bedroom," Colin said in hopeful tone, opening one of two doors and flicking on a light. We both peered into a bathroom the size of one of five linen cabinets at my estate. "But perhaps not."

"Well, I'm so exhausted, I'll sleep on the sofa," I replied. Really, it was true. On the way from the airport to the center of Reykjavik, I could barely keep my eyes open, despite the bright sunlight that was weird for ten at night. Our driver had explained that, since it was the summer solstice, there was hardly any night at this time of year.

Sunlight at ten at night was jarring, disarming. All I wanted was sleep.

"Nonsense," Colin said, walking over to the gray sofa, which was also small. Iceland was typical Europe; everything was tiny, unlike America. He arranged a miniscule blue pillow against the armrest. "I'll sleep here."

"You won't fit on there."

"You won't, either, even at your size," he grumbled.

Since leaving the airport, Colin and I had hardly talked. In the car, he'd checked his emails and made dozens of calls, as had I, fighting through my sleepiness. We both had business to attend to, meetings and affairs that were disrupted by our forced stopover. I was now worried whether I'd even make the awards dinner in London, which was in four days.

I wandered into the bedroom, where the biggest thing in the apartment sat: a king-sized bed. It was, like everything else in the condo, functional, simple, and modern. The bed was platform, with no footboard. It was covered in a fluffy, white duvet with four matching pillows. The headboard was wooden, painted white, and had at least a dozen slats.

An abrupt vision of me naked on my knees, bent and holding onto the slats while Colin was behind me popped into my brain. I imagined him squeezing my body, then feeling his hard arousal stab into me. He'd enter me, and I'd arch my back. He'd pull my hair and smack me hard, on my flesh, with that big hand of his.

I gasped audibly and my fingers flew to my lips, my body humming with a persistent longing. What was I thinking? Dear God. I hadn't had wild sex in years, and it had been more than a decade since anyone had spanked me. I must be exhausted to have those kinds of dirty thoughts flit into my mind. I needed to sleep. Still, a squirming heat spread through me.

"What?" Colin asked, following me into the room.

I cleared my throat. "Oh. Nothing. Um, this bed is as big as the entire apartment."

"We can both sleep here, I guess. I don't mind, if you don't," Colin said.

A pang of nerves shot through my stomach at the idea of lying next to Colin. Especially after that vivid and lascivious mental image of us had played in a loop five times in my brain in the past thirty seconds.

"I guess. If you don't snore," I replied hesitantly. What was I saying? Sleeping next to a stranger? Was my mouth on some different planet than my mind?

"I never snore." He wheeled his luggage into the bedroom and set it on a teak chair. He opened the suitcase, and everything was carefully arranged inside. He rifled through his belongings with the briskness of a seasoned traveler.

"Didn't you say that there were clothes here for me?" Better to concentrate on clothing than Colin.

I'd have to go shopping tomorrow and had seen several interesting boutiques on Laugavegur, the main street, a block from where our condo was nestled in a sleek, gray four-story building. Normally, I bought from the same three designers—Karl Lagerfeld, Donna Karan, and Ralph Lauren—but I was intrigued to see what Icelandic women wore.