Chapter 3: Hande's Reckless Claim
The keycard clicked softly in the heavy silence of the Reykjavik suite hallway. Hande pushed the door open, the scent of cold Icelandic air and expensive hotel soap washing over her. Inside, the vast space was dimly lit, the panoramic windows framing the city’s twinkling lights against the deep Arctic twilight. Amartya stood near the grand fireplace, its low flames casting dancing shadows on his face. He was pulling on a thick, soft-looking Icelandic sweater over a thermal shirt, his dark hair still damp from a shower. He jumped slightly at the sound.
"Hande?" His voice held genuine surprise, tinged with warmth. "What are you doing here?"
The sight of him, rumpled and real, hit her like a physical blow. The anxiety that had gnawed at her during the flight, the frantic taxi ride, dissolved instantly, replaced by a surge of possessive heat that flooded her veins. She didn’t answer. She crossed the plush carpet in three swift strides, the click of her designer boots muffled. Before he could react, she wrapped her arms around him tightly, burying her face in the wool of his sweater. He smelled clean, of pine soap and something uniquely him – warm skin and youthful energy.
"Oh, Amartya," she breathed, her voice thick with emotion she didn't bother to hide. "I missed you. Seeing those pictures… you looked so far away." Her fingers dug into his back, pulling him impossibly closer. "I couldn't stand it."
He stiffened for a fraction of a second, surprised by the intensity, then relaxed into the hug, his own arms coming up hesitantly to pat her back. "Hey, it's okay," he murmured, his voice gentle, soothing. "I'm right here. Iceland's amazing, but… yeah, it’s good to see a familiar face." He pulled back slightly, trying to see her face in the flickering light. "Are you alright? You flew all this way?"
Hande looked up at him, her dark eyes glittering. The firelight caught the high planes of her cheekbones, the perfect arch of her brows. "I'm fine now," she said, her voice dropping lower, huskier. She let her hands slide slowly down his arms, feeling the solid muscle beneath the soft wool. Every point of contact sent tiny electric shocks through her. "Seeing you… touching you…" She trailed off, letting the implication hang. Her thumb brushed the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist. "You look tired. Long day hiking?"
He nodded, a yawn escaping him almost immediately. "Yeah, pretty epic. Gullfoss, Geysir… the wind nearly blew me off Skógafoss." He rubbed his eyes. "Just trying to warm up before crashing."
"Come," Hande commanded softly, steering him towards the deep, modern sofa facing the fireplace. She pushed him gently down onto the plush cushions. "Sit." He sank down gratefully, the exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. Hande perched beside him, close, her thigh pressing against his. She reached out, her fingers brushing a stray damp lock of hair off his forehead. The touch lingered, tracing the shell of his ear. He shivered slightly, but didn't pull away, just watched her with those wide, trusting eyes.
"You need to relax," she murmured. Her gaze dropped to his lips, then back up. "Lie down." She patted her lap, draped in sleek black silk trousers.
Amartya blinked, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "Hande, I don't think…"
"Shhh," she interrupted, her voice a velvet command. "Just rest. You're exhausted." She applied gentle pressure on his shoulder, guiding him down. After a moment's hesitation, the lure of comfort overcoming his slight awkwardness, he eased his head onto her thighs. He let out a long sigh, the tension visibly leaving his body. "That's better," Hande breathed, her triumph a warm glow in her chest.
Her fingers began to move through his damp hair, slow, rhythmic strokes. She watched the firelight play across his closed eyelids, the long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His breathing deepened, grew slower. The scent of him, the heat of his head on her lap, the steady rise and fall of his chest – it was intoxicating. Possessive satisfaction warred with a deeper, more primal ache. Her thumb traced the curve of his jawline, down the strong column of his throat, feeling his pulse beat steadily beneath the skin. She imagined kissing that pulse point, tasting his skin.
"You're so warm," he mumbled sleepily, turning his face slightly into her touch.
Hande smiled, a slow, predatory curve of her lips he couldn't see. "Sleep, aşkım," she whispered, the Turkish endearment slipping out. "Just sleep." Her hand drifted lower, resting possessively on his chest, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath her palm. She counted his breaths, each one deepening her own sense of control, of ownership.
Minutes stretched. The fire crackled softly. Amartya’s breathing became utterly even, his body heavy and relaxed against her. Hande carefully shifted, easing him off her lap just enough to slide out from under him. She stood, looking down at him sprawled on the sofa, utterly vulnerable in sleep. The sight sent a fresh jolt of desire straight to her core.
"Not here," she murmured to herself. She bent, slipping one arm under his shoulders, the other under his knees. He was heavier than he looked, solid muscle beneath the lanky frame, but her determination was stronger. She lifted him with a grunt of effort, cradling him against her. He stirred slightly, murmuring incoherently, but didn't wake. She carried him the short distance to the massive, canopied bed dominating the suite.
She laid him down gently on the cool, high-thread-count sheets. He sighed, curling instinctively onto his side. Hande didn't hesitate. She kicked off her boots and slid onto the bed beside him, facing him. She moved close, molding her body against his back. One arm snaked around his waist, pulling him flush against her. Her other hand slid beneath his sweater, seeking the warm skin of his stomach. He murmured again, a sleepy sound of contentment, and instinctively pushed back against her warmth.
Hande inhaled sharply. The feel of his body against hers, the heat radiating through the thin layers of fabric, was almost unbearable. She hooked her leg over his hips, anchoring him possessively. Her hand splayed wide on his abdomen, feeling the muscles tense even in sleep. She pressed her face into the space between his shoulder blades, breathing him in, her lips brushing the soft wool of his sweater. Every nerve ending screamed.
She held him like that, wrapped around him, her body a possessive cage. His steady breathing was the only sound besides the distant hum of the city and the dying crackle of the fire. Her own heart hammered against his back. Sleep was impossible. Every shift of his body, every sigh, sent fresh waves of longing crashing through her. The scent of him filled her senses – clean wool, warm skin, the faintest hint of Icelandic cold still clinging to him. She tightened her arm around his waist, her leg pressing more firmly over his hip, claiming him in the darkness. The vast, cold beauty of Iceland was outside, but here, in this luxurious cocoon, she had him. Close. Hers. For now.
The rhythmic beat of his heart under her hand was a hypnotic drumbeat. Possession. Control. Yet beneath it, a restless hunger simmered, unsatisfied. She wanted more than his sleeping form. She wanted his waking desire, his surrender. Her fingers flexed against his stomach, tracing the defined lines she could feel even through the sweater. Soon, she promised silently into the darkness, pressing her lips against his spine. Soon.