The Dare Collection October 2018. Nicola Marsh
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somehow merged with a kind of industrial feel that, once again, shouldn’t have worked as well as it did. The light was dim and suggestive. There were seats grouped together in intimate little clusters, taking advantage of the deep shadows. Unearthly Icelandic music played while various configurations of hotel guests talked. Flirted. And maybe did more than that under the stout wooden tables where no one could see.
Stop seeing sex everywhere, she ordered herself.
Margot ordered a drink from the friendly bartender and carried a gratifyingly large glass of wine to a little booth facing the windows on the far side of the bar, where she couldn’t begin to figure out the relationships on display at all the other tables even if she wanted to. Instead, she had a front-row seat to the storm wreaking havoc outside.
Every now and again she saw glimpses of the surging sea far below, pounding against the obsidian volcanic rock the way it had done forever on this remote, northern island. But everything else was the snow. The wind rattled the windows, but it wasn’t threatening now that she was sunk deep into a comfortable seat, safe and warm.
And yet a kind of threat seemed to roll over her anyway, making her skin prickle.
“Excuse me, I—”
Margot stiffened. She lifted a hand without looking up, stopping whatever was happening before it started.
“Thank you,” she said coolly. “But I’d prefer to be alone.”
“You are trapped in an isolated hotel in the middle of a blizzard,” came the amused, decidedly male voice again, English spoken with an Icelandic accent that kicked its way down her spine like another caress. “It would be difficult to find more solitude than that.”
“I understand that this is a sex hotel,” she said crisply. She turned as she spoke, twisting around in her seat. And then looked up. And up further. And then still further, until she found the face of the man towering over her like a Viking god of old. “But I’m afraid I’m not a sex tourist. I’m just an accidental visitor.”
The man standing beside her seat laughed. Loudly and deeply, as if he might break the windows in another moment if he let himself go. And Margaret was surprised to discover that his laughter seemed to move in her, too. It washed down her back, then spiraled even lower, settling like a fierce heat between her legs.
“This isn’t a brothel,” he said, all that laughter a kind of honey in his voice, and pooling in her, too. It made her feel almost...sticky. It made her very nearly wish that she really was a guest like everyone else. Like him. “What dark tales have you been reading?”
“The reputation of the Hotel Viking speaks for itself.”
Margot was used to traveling alone. It rarely took more than a few cool words and an unapproachable expression on her face to deter unwanted male advances. Especially in Iceland, which prided itself on its civility. But the man standing over her was...different, somehow.
He was so big, for a start. Iceland was filled with tall men, broad of shoulder and long of leg as befit the descendants of Viking raiders. This man was all that, but something else besides. Something more. Every inch of him was packed with lean muscle, as if he carried a leashed danger in every sinew and held it in through sheer force of will.
And yet the way he stood there was easy. Lazy, almost.
Margot was meant to be a clear-eyed observer of humanity in all its complexities, damn it, so she was forced to acknowledge the simple fact that this man was easily the most striking she’d ever seen. He was beautiful, in fact. His hair was a tawny gold, worn in a careless length that looked as if he spent his days raking his fingers through it—or more likely letting others do that for him, if he spent time here.
And he had the face of a saint.
Nordic cheekbones. A carnal mouth.
And eyes so blue they burned.
Good lord, she burned.
“Exactly what have you heard about the hotel?” he asked in that same boneless, effortlessly suggestive way.
Margot tried to school her expression to her usual academic disinterest, but she couldn’t quite get there. Her pulse seemed to be everywhere, too hard and too fast. She fingered the stem of her wineglass and sat back in her chair, hoping she looked as irritated as she wished she felt.
“The hotel is the premier international destination for extremely high-class pursuits of pleasure,” she said, well aware that she was practically quoting from the website. “In whatever form they might take.”
“Perhaps you misunderstand the word pleasure,” he replied, but Margot doubted it. Not when she was looking at his mouth, hard and sensual. “A ‘sex hotel’ suggests a certain lack of consent. Prostitutes, for example. There’s none of that here. The Hotel Viking caters to consenting adults.”
“And of course there are no blurred lines,” Margot said, as if she was auditioning to be a Puritan, all pursed lips and clutched pearls, when all she really wanted to know was how he made the word consent sound so hot. “Not in such a fine establishment as this.”
“Some lines are better blurred.” There was a gleam in the wild blue of his eyes that made her think of the northern lights that danced in the skies here, unworldly and impossible all at once. “But lines are not laws. Laws, you will find, are taken very seriously here.”
She felt breathless, which was ridiculous. As if something about the simple fact of this man standing next to her table had reached inside her and scraped her hollow. Margot felt something like...jittery.
It was the storm, she told herself. The unpleasant novelty of finding herself stranded when she couldn’t fix it. She couldn’t walk away. She couldn’t simply call a cab. There was no amount of intellect or cash that could beat back the snow.
Of course she didn’t like it.
Margot told herself that was why she was reacting to this man the way she was. As if he was electric, when she didn’t believe in that kind of thing. She didn’t want it—it was messy and she hated opera and she had no interest in sex hotels on remote Icelandic peninsulas. She had too much work to do.
It was more than time to send him on his way. “It wouldn’t matter if this was a convent. I’m not interested.”
He laughed again, louder and longer than before. And once again, Margot could feel it everywhere, licking all over her like flames against her skin.
“I admire a woman who speaks her mind so distinctly. So there can be no mistake. You would be surprised how many people do not possess that particular talent.”
“And yet here you still are.”
“Forgive me,” the man said, and that mouth of his curved into a smile that Margot absolutely did not feel directly in her breasts. Or in between her legs. Because she liked sex that was fun while it was happening but didn’t interrupt her life afterward. Or even her schedule. She did not like...this. “I didn’t come over here to ask you for a quick little fuck while the snow rages down, as diverting as that sounds. I am Thor Ragnarsson. I believe you’re here to see me.”
He pulled out the seat beside her and settled himself into it, while Margot couldn’t seem to do a single thing but stare in shock.
Her heart was pounding in her chest, and her mind was spinning, desperately trying to figure out how she hadn’t recognized him, while her body was getting a little too...operatic for her peace of mind. It was the angle, maybe. She’d seen pictures of him straight on, not from below, looking up. She might as well have been kneeling before him, head tipped back to receive his cock—
She sat up straighter, ignoring the fact her ears felt red and singed with the force of her embarrassment.
It had to be embarrassment that made her flush like that. It couldn’t be anything else.
“Yes,” she said, stiffly, casting around for her lost professionalism. “Mr.