Unwrapped in Røros

By Hanna Park

I survived the Big C. And now, every day is a candy cane kiss. I’m making up for lost time—living large and rocking around the Christmas tree at my best friend’s wedding. Destination—Røros, aka Christmas Town, sparkling lights, and real-life reindeer. And then, what to my wandering eyes should appear—Rurik Andersen, this giant from a mystical place, wraps me in his balsam scent, stuffing my stocking with naughty and nice.

The skies dance, ribbons of light touching the heavens—the ghosts of Christmas past hide within the twinkling stars. The centuries leave me. How many winters must I survive without her? So long I have awaited her return to the mortal realm. The Norns of Fate answer my wish, returning my heart, my soul. She doesn’t know who we are to each other—only our union will make it so. Cristabel Johnston makes my eternal life worth living.

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Nov 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781509250363

Hanna Park

Biography I began my writing career in the pre-dawn of a winter morning while my husband snored like a train. We could call my husband the catalyst. If it weren't for him, I would never have gone to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, feed the cat, and sit on the loveseat in front of the fire. It was there, in those moments of wondrous quiet, that I did something I had never thought possible. I opened my laptop, and while the coffee went cold, I wrote a story. My husband had no idea that these sojourns to the loveseat in front of the fire would become a daily occurrence, that writing would become an obsession, but the cat knew. She knows everything. I write stories that make you laugh, make you cry, and make you love. Thank you, friends, for reading! In the beginning, there was an empty page. I am a writer who lives in Muskoka, Canada, with a husband who snores, a hungry cat, and an almost perfect canine––he's an adorable little shit.

Book preview

Shall we live in the frozen north or the sunny south? He twines his fingers with mine, sending me a lifeline back to him. I stare too long at the intricate designs depicted in ink on his upper body. The Helm of Awe, eight tridents circling the center point—the runes protecting a warrior in battle. Over his heart, the Web of Wyrd—the nine staves representing past, present, and future lives.

Excuse me? I follow the blond hairs arrowing downward. What if he finds my body revolting? So many what-ifs fill my mind.

A poem—an ancient Norse myth. He cocks his head. He teases me, resting the tip of his tongue on his full bottom lip.

You read poetry? I feast my eyes on his cock— nestled in a forest of gold curls, buffered by thick, powerful thighs. Good God. Sex-starved too long—I crave what I’ve missed.

Sagas, myths, legends. He says each word with the most delicious lilt. His moist lips curve up.

You mean fairy tales? I clutch the towel with my free hand, my bare feet glued to the plank floor. Sex means an end to loneliness. Repeat that.

I don’t read fiction. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. And what of last night and all those promises made? He had me at kveldsmat. I am, and always will be, a sucker for a good diner.

Praise for

Hanna Park

It takes talent to write love scenes and Hanna Park’s writing will seduce you.

~NN Light Book Heaven

~*~

Poetic world building! Decadent sex scenes! I need me some more from this author. Five Sexy Stars!!!

~Reader Renee

~*~

Hanna Park does this reader a solid in the way she draws out the attraction and consummation of lust and love between the protagonists. There wasn’t a venue that lacked painstakingly glorious details; I had no problems imagining the beauty of place or the accouterments the author used for a convincing characterization of people and places.

~Stella Grae

Unwrapped in Røros

by

Hanna Park

Passport to Pleasure Series

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Unwrapped in Røros

COPYRIGHT © 2023 by Hanna Park

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Diana Carlile

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2023

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-5036-3

Passport to Pleasure Series

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For my friend, Daria, who made me kiss the troll.

Acknowledgments

2022 Stiletto Contest - Winner - Published Erotica

2022 Stiletto Contest - Winner - Reader’s Choice Award 

2022 NN Light Book Award -Winner - Best Erotic Romance

2022 Paranormal Romance Writers Guild - Second Place - Holiday

Previous Releases:

Sorrento Seduction- 2022

Finding Tiegan - 2021

Chapter One

Your name is my favorite word. - Unknown

Cristabel

Anything to declare? The customs officer flips my passport from one page to the other. He lifts his head, his jowly face reminding me of my next-door neighbor’s hound dog—a droopy-eyed beast sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong.

Me? No. But you look like you could use a break. How many times have I stared down a security agent on this trip to Norway? Is it my face they don’t like? Or my hair? If I had to bet money, I’d throw it down on my hair—the white waterfall rushing over my shoulders and the zigzag of black framing one side of my face.

Excuse me? His shoulders stiffen, as he drops his chin. His bloodshot eyes weary yet piercing. I hold my ground. I dare not falter.

Tired, huh? Long day? Time to go home? I flash my brightest smile, tossing this man some sugar. Option one, be contrite. Option two, be contrite. Instead, I rest my forearm on the counter and lean in.

Ms. Johnson? His words are spoken with a heavy sigh. Do you have anything to declare? Answer the question, please.

I did. Nothing to declare. Nada. Just little old me, living my best life. I lift my eyelashes, adding an exaggerated exhale for good measure.

And what brings you to Norway? Business? Pleasure? The customs officer blinks once and then twice as if waking from a bad dream.

My friend is getting married. On Christmas Eve! Can you believe it? I fucking love that girl. I twirl my finger around my black highlight—my lifeline back to the world of the living.

Have a nice holiday, Ms. Johnson. He flips to page sixteen of my passport, slams the stamp down, and sends me on my merry way.

Thanks, and you have yourself a happy Christmas. Without a backward glance, I roll my wheeled carry-on, trailing behind the man in front of me—the behemoth wearing a sturdy red parka and a yellow-striped beanie. His scent wraps me in the feathered boughs of a Scots pine, waking my senses and warming my soul. My skin tingles, and for a moment, I am lost in the vale, bathed in his balsam scent. Heavy hands work my tired muscles—his fingers press, each one exacting pain and pleasure. I want more, so much more. When I blink, the daydream is gone.

Bright pendant lighting—downlights fashioned after airplane engines guide weary travelers past alternating yellow and blue pillars. My gaze lingers on one of those comfy, contoured lounge chairs. If I could, I would sleep for the next twenty-four hours. Sleep is what I need—sleep and gum. I ran out of gum on the last layover. Instead, I hum to the jinglejangle of holiday tunes wafting through the airport sound system.

God Jul! Velkommen! A young woman, her hair braided, welcomes arriving passengers to Trondheim. She wears traditional garb. Buttoned with silver, a tight-fitting red vest, her white blouse clasped with a sparkling broach. Embroidered snowflakes pop against the rich blue of her double-woven skirts. She offers a silver tray holding disposable shot glasses filled to the brim with clear liquor.

This is nice. Aren’t you cute? I love your outfit. So festive. Slugging back the offered shot, I swallow the wrong way, choking on one hot exhale, coughing caraway flavors, and tasting black licorice all over again. Woohoo. That’s some bad medicine. Black dots float past my eyes as the burn sears my throat shut.

It’s better with a beer chaser. His throaty chuckle shakes the ground I walk on. My ears thunder, and the world spins. I turn, drawn to his voice, a soothing bass note, and find myself gazing into mountain man’s open jacket and the third-button snap of a red flannel shirt. Tilting my head, I crane my chin upward. A sigh runs over my lips, and stars fall from the sky.

Odd-colored eyes stare unblinking—one shining baby blue and one chocolate kiss. I bowl him over with all the charm of a dancing elephant. Oh my God, your eyes are fucking amazing. I had a Siberian husky once with eyes like that. My inner demon pokes his chest with my forefinger, and the words blurt out of my mouth, one after the other. Jesus, what vaginal canal birthed you?

I won’t tell my mother you said that. Chiseled face. Full lips. Sparkling teeth. Gold scruff shadows a square chin—unshaven, how many days? He reminds me of someone I once knew. My heart thuds as I realize who he is—the shade who visits my dreams—the dream lover I wish I had. I smile into those mismatched eyes, baring my fangs like a crazed Cheshire cat.

I said that, didn’t I? Out loud for the world to hear? My cheeks burn, heat rising from the open neck of my favorite Ed Hardy crop top—the dragon circling the smocked bodice—smoking hot. My ears ring, a high-pitched shriek fills my mind, and then the fireball explodes, burning down the house.

It’s not a problem. What’s your name? His voice hitches, and he blinks—this gentle giant taken aback by me.

Cristabel. Cristabel Johnson. Have we met before? No, of course not. I’d remember. You’re kind of unforgettable. I drag my tongue across my bottom lip, realizing too late that I may have sent the wrong signal to the man. Oh, dear.

Like a scene from a Hollywood movie, he dips his head and stuffs his beanie inside his coat pocket, letting loose waves of nut-brown locks. Textured strands crown his head—a stylish fade—shaved close on the sides. His facial muscles relax, and he smiles.

I love your hair. So Viking. What do they call you? Ragnar Lothbrok? King Olaf? My dream lover, a figment of my raging hormones, came when needed—daytime, nighttime—any time the right time. My pussy clenches, and my mouth waters.