Chapter 8

I just don't comprehend it. What is this guy—surpassingly and extraordinarily and truly nice-looking—looking for in a worthless and valueless and rubbish girl like me. Well, if you opinion and think that because I see myself as this chicken-shit and pitiful and rubbishy and wretched, I can be simply and undeniably taken advantage of, then you are far and away and beyond question off target and erroneous and untrue about me. In truth!

He is long-legged and towering high above my steep and lofty stature and highness itself. I mean it ... I am positive and confident and free from doubt about it. Other than this, he seems much convinced and self-assured and bold of himself than I can note practicable and realizable. Hmmmnnnnn! No wonder he is the cracking and super awesome Don Juan or lady seducer that girls and misses everywhere chitchat and blether and buzz about. Story and hearsay is it that one noteworthy woman professor and don was come across inside her office by her aider and assistant while self-abusing and touching and masturbating herself with the exploit and utility of Stian's dazzling and gee-whizz photos, which, the gossipers carried on to tot or sum up, she was eyeing and staring at that randy, erotic, and lewd way while yelling and whooping his name out. I don't know how bona fide and factual and true this is ... but it sure has made buzz and scandal and dirt news everywhere, even on social media, where it even got conferred about on some well-liked and sought-after radio show with hundreds and hundreds more thousands of listeners and freaks.

The man I am talking about here is Stian Elberd. I am not an aficionada or fan club subscriber of him, though my best friend and china, Brogan Dunn, is—and she would do in and blow away someone's life just to have Stian lust and itch after her, she blurted it all out clean to me. I mean, can you even think that up? It is dumb-ass and meaningless.

Stian is straightened up and on his feet before me, all smirking and beaming and smiling. Hmmnnnn ... what is there to be smitten and bewitched and swept off one's feet about here? Perhaps he should cut it clean and share it out with me so that I can in the very end bust a gut and cackle and yell out. Womanizer ... lady-killer!

"How can I help you?" I ask gently and mildly nice while I peep and check a glimpse out at him. He is well-proportioned and very nice-looking. This is the generously truth and it hits and batters me up in the face like I have been slapped hard and severely. Damn him for his lady-hypnotizing winsomeness and handsomeness. I do not have to be bewitched and cast under a prevailing, all-supreme spell like the others have. No, I don't have to as well end up this way. No!

"I imagine that I am the one who can lend you a helping hand," he pitches back at me. I aim and strive to be cold-blooded and remorseless and unfeeling with my facial mien and countenance, but he ploughs on being gentle and lenient and unselfish with me, up till I have no any other alternative than to succumb and give way to him. Oh darn yeah!

That was two years rearwards or backwards in reverse. Now I am wedded and hitched to this very selfsame flirt of a man that I quailed and shied away from just at his approach and advancement towards me. He is taking a nap. Soundlessly and sweetly mild in my very own arms and watch care. I look at his hair. It is terribly and for the most part pitch-black and little, if not hardly any maroon and roseate. Yes. It is scantly kinked and coiled and curlicue. I love its stylishness; I adore and savor its dressiness and fashionableness. This is Stian Elberd stunning and elegant; this is my very own Stian Elberd personable and fanciable and comely-looking. I kiss and snog him on the forehead smoothly and rhythmically before I get on to set down my head on his chest and doze there silently and in hushed tones.

These are the hours of heavy and non-stop sunlight outside. Albeit there be sunlight and sunshine, it is somewhat a bit gray and foggy and overcast out there, with liquefying and unfreezing snow evanescing and dispersing slowly and gradually. The trees are alive and kicking, jigging vigorously and actively this side and that other, and furthermore swinging here and there. I am not telling pork pie untruths here. Come see this for yourself if you mistrust and have doubts about it.

Stian and I are butted and stalled down on our vast, snug, and cozy settee, grasping and clasping each other well and lovingly. He is the one who is taking me in his muscular, virile, and well-built safeguarding arms and I am sloping and tilting and heeling myself against his chest leisurely and at my own relaxation and breathing space. He is carrying in his hands pictures of us when we were first falling in love and I am eyeing and scouring through at them in a laid-back and lazy comfortable fashion.

"Do you guess how far it is that we have come from, Ragnhild?" He queries me coolly and unperturbedly. Of course! How can I ever fail to remember and let slip from the memory all that? I cannot. I mean ... we have traveled and tripped and toured a cheerful and joyless excursion and errand all in all. Yes. We have made a move and staggered our footing that deep and long mile away distance indeed. It is true...

Without resolving or answering anything back to him, I go on to kiss and jar and clash and collision my lips against his. At first I do it steadily and by degrees and at my very own leisure and snail's pace. It feels good and wonderful; it is sensational and super and fantastic indeed!

Arghhhhh! Stian is super and mega hot and enjoyable. This man is the awesome and cracking top and smashing great example and specimen and representative case of what it means to be sexy and come-hither and beddable. His blooming and robust and in-fine-fettle muscles are powerful and vigorous and hard-wearing than ever before. I can picture and conjure up them sweating and drudging and laboring intensely hard to cheer and satisfy and gratify and give uttermost pleasure to me. Oh yes! They assuredly and certainly will be doing that. Without a doubt indeed!

"I cannot presume and maintain that you are finally mine," he counters and ripostes selflessly and lovingly. I can heed and make it out in his eyes; I just hardly can blab and take it off its toll. What Stian is putting to words is but the sheer and dyed-in-the-wool fact and no any ilk of make-believe. I can cross my heart and take an oath on this!

Nimbly; seemingly brusquely; and incisively; Stian's lips skim and graze against mine, igniting and making my blood boil and foment with lewdness and libido. Deep down all this, I wish and yearn and long to gasp and gulp both inside and outwardly. I ache and itch to do all this and so much more. Yet I am not fitted and proficiently endowed to transact and pull off it. Why methodically, you may ponder and be curious? I have no any slight dealings or knowledge or awareness of that. Maybe it is because I have given way and knuckled myself over to Stian's slurping and siphoning and supping like kisses. Perchance yes; peradventure not!