Steamy Romance And e*****a Super Bundle

Chapter 1-2

We've been driving for almost two hours in an ancient pickup carrying a full load of dried hay and tools in the back. Quintessential farmer stuff. I'm a city girl by nature, but these idyllic country gigs are some of my favorites. The people are always so warm and welcoming, even Farmer Sven sitting in the driver's seat next to me. The three of us were seated uncomfortably shoulder to shoulder. The only way we can fit all of our luggage (and us) in the cab is if I sit in the middle of the bucket seat with the stick shift knob wedged between my legs. Sven doesn't seem to be even slightly phased by adjusting the gears between my thighs, but looks straight ahead focusing on the road as if he's done this drive a million times. I look over at Guy nervously when I sense he's about to make a very dirty and awkward joke about our new farmer friend, shifting gears, and I. He gives me a playful wink but knows better from our almost 15 years of marriage to stay silent when I elbow his side gently and glare at him.

"Not your type, I guess?" Guy mutters quietly under his breath in a playful tone, a teasing grin on his handsome features.

"Not even close, buddy." I mumble back, a smile creeping up on my face.

Guy is very aware of my "type". It's actually something that has made us grow even closer as a couple over the years since falling in love in high school. I'm bisexual and Guy and I live a "secret" lifestyle of hedonistic threesomes. Not that it's a secret to us or the special women who join us, just something the average person who knew us would never expect. I decided when we first started dating that I want to explore my sexuality in a safe and loving environment and Guy supports me all the way. By this point in our marriage he often knows when I'm attracted to a woman before I even say a word. Usually they're attractive college-aged girls; I have an affinity for them.

I'm jostled from my thoughts by Farmer Sven's hand quickly shoving the gear (and my knee) sharply to the right as we approach a turn onto a tiny dirt road. I venture to guess that is what's on this road, but at the present moment it's covered under almost a foot of snow, so I can't really say for sure if the dirt actually exists.

It's mid-afternoon in Sweden, and the scenery is quite breathtaking. Picturesque villages surrounded by miles of forests, lakes and open fields: although everything at this time of year is covered in a heavy blanket of snow.

We turn onto a long winding road and make our way to the humble farmstead at the bottom of a valley. The only sign of civilization in my sightline is a large farmhouse, a big barn structure and a few outbuildings scattered throughout the farm's acreage; we're literally all alone out here.

Before Farmer Sven has even turned the engine off a small tornado of energy bounds out of the front door of the big farmhouse and runs up the driveway to the truck.

"Hallo!" Shouts a happy voice coming from a face with the most piercing blue eyes I've ever seen.

This must be our hostess, Freja?

I'm guessing it is, although our agent didn't tell us much about the host family we'd be staying with for the next few days. I'm pleasantly surprised, I pictured someone older, and definitely, well, more "farmer-ish". This girl can't be much older than her late teens, bundled up in multiple layers of fashionable winter clothing. She looks more like a model than someone who drives tractors all day.

A jolt of positive energy buzzes through my gut. I can feel it even before we clamber out of the truck that I've just encountered my next crush.

"Eeeeeek! You even prettier than picture online," she squeals as she runs over to me and draws me excitedly into a giant, enthusiastic bear hug. The petite Swedish woman almost knocks me over with the force of her affection which takes me off guard as she can't be much more than a hundred and ten pounds sopping wet and about my height of five feet five inches.

Before I can catch my breath and say anything to Guy or Farmer Sven, she's tugging my arm and ushering me up through the big farm door into a cozy kitchen, talking a mile a minute. In the distance I hear the clunky old pickup truck drive away and thuds from Guy slowly lugging in all of our bags across the porch and into the house.

Thanks for the ride, Farmer Sven. I think, regretful I hadn't been able to say goodbye.

"Papa say I can NOT hug you now, so I give you time to unpack the things. But I knew you will not mind Sadie," she says in heavily-accented, broken English, flashing me a gorgeous smile. I'm surprised by Freja's unease with the English language. Most Swedes are very fluent.

I suppose when you're raised on a working farm, being concerned about fluency in other languages is pretty impractical, I chastise myself. I realize it's very privileged, and somewhat naive, to assume others will always effortlessly speak my language.

"We have no guests here for AGES. I so very glad you here!" Freja's thoughts continue tumbling out before I can get a word in edgewise.

I smile at her warmly and she continues her rapid monologue.

"You were from Jamaica!" She exclaims with giggly excitement, "We went on cruise to Caribbean Islands when I am nine. People there…so beautiful!" she continues chirping happily, gesticulating wildly to help me understand whenever I look confused.

"…I used have doll. She looks like you, Sadie!" She realizes with delight, grabbing a handful of my thick curls in her small palm. "Once I saw sheep, has hair like YOURS!" she squeals loudly into my ear, making me jump.

I smile at her, feeling overwhelmed by our trip and her manic energy, but also feeling intrigued. Very intrigued. I look over at Guy who has caught up with us by this point. He has a weird look on his face I can't quite read, but he is watching my exchange with this Swedish beauty very closely.

"Oh, I so sorry. Where my - ehm- how you say - polite manners?" she says while shaking her head as if in a trance after staring a little too deeply into my brown eyes.

"My name is Freja. Over there is papa, Bjorn," she says, extending an eager hand out to give me a firm handshake, trying to be professional.

I hadn't even noticed the old, silvery-blonde haired man in overalls standing in the corner attending to the teapot on a wood burning stove.

"Sadie, meet Papa. Papa, meet Sadie," she introduces me proudly. "Oh, meet Mister Guy too," she adds as an afterthought. I giggled at the formality of using a title (but not a last name) for my laid back hubby.

Guy sets down our bags near the kitchen doorway and we both walk over to Bjorn to shake his hand.

It's so nice to meet you, Mr….? I reply as our host takes both hands in mine.

"Bjorn, you can call me Bjorn," he answers fluently in a thick Scandinavian accent. He obviously has been speaking English for years. I liked him, good vibes. A friendly smile that crinkles his eyes up at the corners in deeply weathered crows feet. Farmer's eyes. The kind of eyes that have endured lots of harsh Swedish winters and hours of Nordic wind gusts. But the color is unmistakable, the same enchanting blue as his daughter's.

"It's so nice to meet you, Bjorn," I say warmly with a welcoming smile. "Thank you so much for your hospitality and letting us stay here."

He nods in approval. "It's nice to have guests. Sometimes Freja goes a little stir-crazy when it's just she, all the animals and I living on the farm," he explains with a chuckle. "It's a breath of fresh air in this old house."

"This house is beautiful, I observe, spinning to look at our surroundings. "When was it built? " I ask, allowing my history-nerdism to peek through.

Clearly I have touched on one of Bjorn's passions. "It was built by my great-great grandfather, Freja's great-great-great-grandfather in 1896," Bjorn beams, the pride evident on his weathered features.

"Well it's truly lovely," I reply as Guy steps up to my side and shakes Bjorn's hand.

"Let me show you to your room," Bjorn offers, seeing the exhaustion on my husband's face. "You can freshen up and then I have coffee and cinnamon buns waiting for you. Vegan ones that Freja insisted upon baking herself. Especially for you, Sadie," Bjorn looks at me and gives me an amused wink.

"PAPA!” Freja says, her beautiful porcelain white features flushed a deep red with embarrassment.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Freja. They don't mind."

Sensing her discomfort, I quickly intervened.

"I'm flattered. Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness, Freja, I remark as I grab her hand and stare into those captivating blue eyes.

"It's impossible to find vegan food on the road. I really appreciate the gesture." I give her hand a reassuring squeeze and she stares at me with something new between us that causes her eyes to brighten into an even clearer color, like the most refreshing springtime sky ever.

There's a shift in the energy we share as our gaze meets: my slightly slanted, dark brown almond eyes locked in with her crystal blue ones. An intensity is growing by the minute with something unspoken, something I suspect will get lost in translation if we try to communicate solely through spoken words. An overwhelming attraction, much more than I can articulate.

Guy must've sensed my attraction and wanted to give us space. With a knowing look between us, he interrupts with a loud cough and excuses himself, grabbing our bags as Bjorn guides him to our guest room.

"And these very beams I'm touching here are original to the structure, 19th century pine…" I can hear the farmer stop in the middle of the living room, proudly launching Guy into a full-on tour of the old farmhouse.

I can always count on my husband to take one for the team. Bless him. I think, relieved to have a moment alone with my new crush.

"You is very beautiful, Sadie." Freja confesses to me, her voice trailing off into a near whisper. "I very glad you here," she says with wide-eyed solemnity. "I listened your music online, I read your texts on website before you here in Sweden," she continues in a low voice.

I bet she's referring to my bio on our website. How sweet of her.

"Thank you, Freja. It means a lot," I reply in a husky tone.

"I never meet any person famous before," she says, awestruck.

I start to laugh but abruptly stop when I see the confused look on her adorable face.

"I don't mean to laugh, Freja, but I'm not really famous," I explained.

"Never pretend, silly!" she scrunches her face up in a serious, scolding tone, admonishing me with her pointer finger like a schoolteacher. Then, in an instant, she laughs gleefully, back to her bouncy self.

She's bizarre. But fascinating, I think to myself, strangely drawn to this odd girl.

"I show you something?" she asks abruptly, grabbing both of my hands in hers. Freja's perky demeanor of a second ago now changes into something much more personal and private, almost as if she is confessing her deepest darkest secrets to a best friend.

"Of course," I reply, transfixed by her captivating beauty. She is easily the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen and I don't think she is even aware of it.

"Follow with me," she invites with a shy laugh.