Chapter 3: The Unexpected Interruption
The world had narrowed to the sensation of him, thick and unyielding inside her, and the brutal, perfect rhythm of his thrusts. Each one punched a ragged cry from her lungs, each withdrawal a loss so acute it bordered on agony. She was boneless beneath him, reduced to a vessel of pure feeling, her fingers clutching at the tangled sheets.
A tight, familiar coil began to spiral in her gut, a pressure building towards a cliff edge. She felt it in him too—a telltale stiffening of his muscles, a sharp hitch in his breath, a deepening of his thrusts that became less controlled, more urgent.
“Erling, I’m close,” she gasped, her voice shredded.
He understood. A groan tore from him. “Jeg også.” Me too.
BEFORE ERLING KNEW IT HE WAS ABOUT TO REACH HIS PEAK. The tension in his body was a live wire, seconds from snapping. A last shred of responsibility flickered through the haze. His rhythm faltered. He tried to pull back, to withdraw. “Juda—legs—let go,” he managed, the words strained.
However, Juda had her legs wrapped around him, a vise of muscle locked at the small of his back. At his words, she simply tightened her grip, her heels digging into the hard planes of his ass. She pulled him deeper, impossibly deeper, taking him to the hilt.
She looked up at him, her eyes dark and defiant, her lips swollen. The Spanish slipped out, low and heated. “Todo. Quiero todo de ti.” Everything. I want all of you.
The command, the sheer possessive want in her voice, was his undoing. He came with a raw, shattered shout, his body convulsing as he emptied himself into her. The force of his release pulled a long, trembling moan from her in Spanish, her own climax hovering just out of reach, taunted by the pulses of his.
And however, he was still hard inside her, even after his peak. The aftershocks were still rippling through him, but he remained full, rigid. The feel of him, still so present, re-ignited her own desperate need. She started to take them, rocking her hips in small, frantic circles, seeking the friction that would send her over. The oversensitivity was a bright, almost painful sting for them both, a exquisite torture.
Causing them to painfully fight while he was still inside her—a desperate, grinding struggle where every movement was both too much and not enough. He was spent, sensitive, but her need was a tangible force. She whimpered, frustration edging into her cries.
“I can’t… it’s too…,” he rasped, his forehead damp against her shoulder.
Then she told him in English, the words a breathy, broken confession against his skin. “I liked it… when you pulled my hair.”
The statement hung in the air, charged and quiet. He went still. Slowly, he raised his head to look at her. Her gaze was wide open, vulnerable, pleading. He searched her face, finding only truth. Carefully, he released one hand from where it braced beside her head.
He reached up and grabbed a fist of her hair where it fanned across the pillow, the dark braids weaving through his fingers. He pulled it gently, not expecting much, a tentative question. The shift in angle was slight.
However, he felt her tighten around him as a response, a sudden, fierce internal clench that made his breath catch. Her eyes fluttered shut, a soft “ah” escaping her parted lips. The reaction was instantaneous, undeniable. It was permission. It was a demand.
A switch flipped.
The tenderness evaporated, burned away by a hotter, darker fire. In one fluid, powerful motion, he pulled her off the bed with him still inside her, the sudden movement wrenching a yelp from her throat. He spun her, the world a dizzying blur of dark room and city lights, until she was on her hands and knees facing away from him on the rumpled duvet.
He loomed behind her, one broad hand splayed on the small of her back, holding her in place. Then his other hand fisted in her hair again, higher up, closer to her scalp. This time, there was no gentleness.
He now forcefully grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled.
It was not cruel, but it was absolute. It arched her back, exposed the line of her throat, pulled a sharp cry from her that melted into a deep, approving groan. And he felt her tighten even more than before, a vice-like grip that threatened to unravel him all over again.
A guttural sound of pure male triumph rumbled in his chest. He then started to move quickly, finding a new, driving rhythm from this angle, one that went deeper, touched something that made her see stars. And he worked her hair like a rein, following his rhythm: every time he pulled out, he would release the tension; every time he thrusted inside her, he would pull her hair again, a sharp, synchronizing tug that matched the slap of their bodies.
The duality was everything—the invasion, the claim, combined with that sharp, stinging pull that centered her, that owned her. She was chanting now, a stream of broken English and Spanish. “Yes—ah—así—right there—don’t stop—Erling, please—”
The combined sensations, the loss of control and the sheer physical domination, catapulted her. Her climax ripped through her without warning, a seismic event that tore a scream from her that was raw and ragged. Her body convulsed around him, milking him violently, and the intensity dragged a second, shuddering release from him, less voluminous but no less powerful, a deep, pulsing surrender that left him collapsing over her back, his face buried in her shoulder, his hand finally releasing her hair to splay protectively over her stomach.
They stayed like that for long minutes, a tangled, sweating, breathing mess, connected still. The only sounds were their ragged attempts to draw air and the distant hum of the city far below.
The only sounds were their ragged attempts to draw air and the distant hum of the city far below. Erling’s weight shifted, and he slipped out of her, a sudden emptiness that made her sigh. He rolled onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes, his chest still heaving.
“Okay,” he breathed after a moment, dropping his arm to look at her. “That was… a lot.”
Juda turned her head on the pillow, a weak smile tugging at her lips. “Your tactical analysis needs work.” Her voice was sandpaper rough. “Try ‘earth-shattering’ or ‘life-altering’.”
He chuckled, the sound rich and warm in the quiet room. “Life-altering,” he agreed, reaching for her hand. His fingers laced with hers, squeezing gently. “But I’m not done analyzing.”
The humor in his eyes sparked something low in her belly again. She propped herself up on an elbow, wincing at the ache in her muscles—a delicious, earned soreness. The torn shirt, the scattered belongings, the memory of his hand in her hair—it all felt like a dream she never wanted to leave.
“What’s the next phase of study, Professor?” she asked, her tone lightly teasing.
He pulled her on top of him, her body slotting against his with familiar ease. “Field work,” he murmured, his hands settling on her hips. “Repetition for verification.”
Their laughter faded into another kiss, slower this time but no less hungry. The cool air from the balcony brushed her skin, raising goosebumps that he soothed with his palms. They moved together with a renewed, aching slowness, rediscovering each angle and curve.
Soon, the pair went round for round in every position and every inch of the bed. They moved to the floor when the sheets grew too tangled, her back against the plush rug as he knelt over her. Later, she pushed him into the armchair by the window, the neon glow tracing the sweat on his shoulders as she straddled him.
They lost track of how many rounds they did and how many times they reached the peak of pleasure. One moment she was begging into his shoulder, the next he was whispering Norwegian promises against her thigh. The world shrank to the slide of skin, the taste of salt, the shared gasps that echoed off the high ceilings.
The world shrank to the slide of skin, the taste of salt, the shared gasps that echoed off the high ceilings. Eventually, the frantic energy bled away, leaving a hollowed-out, tender silence in its wake. They found themselves side-by-side on the ruined sheets, staring at the shadows shifting across the ceiling, their fingers loosely entwined.
The cool air from the balcony finally reached them, raising gooseflesh on their damp skin. Juda shivered, and Erling, without a word, tugged the corner of the duvet over them both. He pulled her back against his chest, her body molding perfectly into the curve of his, his arm a heavy, secure weight around her ribs.
“So,” he said into her hair, his voice raspy. “The hair thing.”
She let out a shaky laugh, the sound muffled against his bicep. “Yeah. The hair thing.” A beat passed. “It’s not a thing I knew. Until it was.”
“Good to know,” he murmured, his lips brushing her shoulder. “For future tactical planning.”
She pinched his thigh, and he chuckled, the vibration rumbling through her. They lay in comfortable quiet for a long moment, the events of the night—the chase, the ripped shirt, the counter, the floor, the armchair—settling over them like a new, shared skin. The reality of it, the sheer monumental shift, began to dawn past the physical haze.
“What happens tomorrow?” she whispered, the question escaping before she could cage it.
His arm tightened around her. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding against her back. “Tomorrow,” he said slowly, “I make you terrible coffee. And we order those pastries you like from that place with the pink box.” He nuzzled her neck. “And we do not answer the phone.”
“And the day after that?” she pressed, needing the blueprint.
“The day after that,” he sighed, his voice dropping into a softer, more serious register. “We have a match. In different cities. We’ll get on planes, and we’ll do our jobs.” He shifted, rolling her gently onto her back so he could look at her. His expression was stripped raw in the dim light. “And then I will call you the second I’m off the bus. And I will probably tell you I miss you in some really embarrassing way.”
The tension in her chest loosened. It was so simple, so profoundly Erling. No grand declarations about the press or their teams, just the next practical steps. Just them.
“Embarrassing how?” she asked, a smile tugging at her lips.
“I’ll say something like… ‘the hotel bed is too big’,” he grumbled, imitating his own low monotone. “Or ‘the room service is bad’. And you’ll know what I mean.”
“I’ll know,” she agreed, her hand coming up to touch his jaw.
He kissed her then, a slow, deep communion that tasted like forever and promise. It ignited one last, slow-burning ember in her blood. She guided him back over her, her legs curling around his waist, pulling him home. This time was different. There was no frenzy, only a deep, rolling cadence, a reaffirmation.
She guided him back over her, her legs curling around his waist, pulling him home. This time was different. There was no frenzy, only a deep, rolling cadence, a reaffirmation. He moved within her with a devastating slowness, his eyes holding hers, refusing to let her look away from the sheer, unmasked devotion in his gaze.
It built not as a crash, but as a tide—inexorable, all-encompassing. Every nerve ending was alight, singing a sustained, rising note. She could feel the exact moment his control began to fray, the rhythm stuttering. It pushed her over the edge.
BY THE END OF IT, JUDA WAS SHAKING FROM PLEASURE, A FINE, CONSTANT TREMOR IN HER LIMBS THAT FELT LIKE THE AFTERSHOCK OF A GLORIOUS QUAKE. A sob caught in her throat, not from pain, but from the overwhelming fullness of it all—the physical release intertwining with the emotional floodgate finally bursting open. Erling followed, his own release a quiet, surrendering groan against her neck, his full weight settling onto her in a way that felt like safety, not suffocation.
HOWEVER, BOTH WERE EXHAUSTED AND QUICKLY FELL ASLEEP IN EACH OTHER’S ARMS, WITH ERLING STILL INSIDE OF JUDA. The last thing she registered was the solid beat of his heart against her palm and the distant, silver shimmer of the river far below her windows, a silent witness to the quiet revolution in her sheets.