Radley von Wright: Group Romance! Erotica Bundle: FFM, Lesbian, Menage and Taboo Groups

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 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 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 5.5”.

Before I can catch my breath and say anything to Rad or Farmer Sven, she’s tugging my arm and ushering me up through the big farm door into a cozy kitchen, talking a mille a minute. In the distance I hear the clunky old pickup truck drive away and thuds from Rad 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 Eva,” 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, Eva!” 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 Rad 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 — 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 gave 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 woodburning stove.

“Eva, meet Papa. Papa, meet Eva,” she introduces me proudly. “Oh, meet Mr. Radley von Wright,” she adds as an afterthought. I giggled at the formality of using a title for my laid back hubby.

Rad 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 looking 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 Rad steps up to my side and shakes Bjorn’s hand.

“Let me show you to your room,” Bjorn offers, seeing the exhaustion on Rad’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, Eva,” 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 intervene.

“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.

Rad must’ve sensed my attraction and wants 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 Rad into a full-on tour of the house.