74. As lush as this spring day
As their lips parted, a hot, wet breath poured out, though she couldn't tell whose it was.
Even at that moment, Bjorn gazed calmly at his wife, Erna, panting in her half-naked state. Her wet breasts, heaving rapidly, glistened obscenely.
“I don’t like it here. Oh, let’s go inside. Yes?”
Erna, blushing, pleaded with tears in her eyes.
Swallowing the annoying words, Bjorn pulled down his pants. When he reached beneath her, already down to her underwear, Erna gasped in surprise and began to struggle. But her resistance didn't last long. As he lifted her wide-spread legs, Erna lost her balance and clung to the nape of his neck. Her lower body, already wet from the foreign sensation, twitched. Bjorn, enjoying the sensation, slowly moved his hips without inserting himself.
“Look at this.”
Bjorn lifted the hand that had been groping her wet bottom and stroked Erna's lips.
“It’s good.”
With a slippery finger, Bjorn traced Erna's lips as if applying lipstick. Then, slowly, he pushed his finger between Erna's lips, which were parted by her gasping breath.
“Try it. It tastes like you.”
A long finger began to leisurely swirl around her mouth. Erna endured the obscene act helplessly.
“Isn’t it delicious?”
Bjorn's voice, seeping through her hot breath, remained low and muffled. As he slowly withdrew his fingers, Erna let out the gasp she had been holding, sobbing.
“Don’t do that. Things like that, words like that, I, ah...!”
He plunged into Erna, who was in a state of confusion. He thrust deeper and deeper, as if crushing her, and she trembled and hugged him tightly. He knew she was too weak to be manipulated greedily, but there was no room left for such rational judgment.
Bjorn, who wrapped her slender legs around his waist, thrust his hips up with all his might. Erna, who had stubbornly kept her lips shut, collapsed shortly after. Red marks remained clearly visible on her pale, drooping neck. Her trembling chest was no different.
Looking at the woman covered in his marks, Bjorn began to move more ferociously. When pushed to his limit, the woman's moans, mixed with a slight metallic sound, truly drove him mad.
The flowering tree swayed with the force of the force pushing it forward.
Erna, clinging to Bjorn and sobbing, raised her wet eyes and gazed at the white petals falling like snow. The scenery reflected in her unfocused vision was unrealistically beautiful.
So it was good, and a little sad.
No, she doesn't know.
The man before her erased all thoughts. The moisture flowing down the joint had already soaked her stockings. Even as she writhes in shame, her body feels hot, and an indescribable sensation makes her toes tingle.
Bjorn, who had been recklessly pushing her, soon filled her with a burning passion. Erna, exhausted, clung to him, her only source of support, and gazed at the distant sky. Even after the end, her clouded vision wavered as the slow, repetitive movements of her waist continued.
In the peace that had returned, Bjorn let out a long sigh and lifted his face from where it had been buried in Erna's neck. A wind-blown flower fell upon Erna, who stared blankly at him. Bjorn stared at her face with a feeling of emptiness.
What, you're not some horny little beast.
Even as he laughed at himself for being so obsessed with a woman's body, Bjorn's gaze remained fixed on Erna.
The woman, as beautiful as this spring day, was flowing.
It was a slightly funny spring day, when everything was forgotten in that one moment.
“Look. It’s right here.”
Erna turned, holding the box she'd found in the bottom drawer. Bjorn leaned against the armrest of the sofa, watching his wife approach him.
“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Fitz to provide you with a safe?”
Bjorn's eyes narrowed as he looked at the box Erna had brought. But Erna smiled nonchalantly and sat down beside him. She held in her arms an old cookie tin, so old it could easily be considered a relic from the past.
“I like this. I’ve been using it for a long time, so I’m familiar with it.”
Opening the tin lid, he revealed a barrel filled with junk. Bjorn's gaze, scanning the useless items—a few notebooks, some crude jewelry, a faded lace collar—sat down before resting on a bundle of tightly rolled papers.
No way.
While he frowned in disbelief, Erna began to take out the bundles one by one. They were bills, sorted by type and tied with ribbon. Then, a few coins, tucked away in a cloth pouch, appeared.
“I’ve collected this much.”
Erna proudly showed off the money she'd saved in her cookie jar. She stabbed her banker husband, who had been so diligent about securing liquidity based on his ample deposits, deep into his pride.
As expected, this deer is no ordinary one.
To think such a formidable foe was hiding under one roof. The distant past, when Freyr Bank was supposed to be a place where people from all walks of life could deposit their money, flashed through his mind.
“Why are you like that?”
Erna stared at him with wide eyes. It felt like he was facing the Duchess Arsene, who loathed the superficiality of a rapidly changing world. No. Even the Duchess Arsene had a bank account, so perhaps this comparison was an insult to his grandmother.
Bjorn, who had been staring blankly at his young wife, who seemed to be living in a bygone century with both fashion and money sense, let out a defeated laugh. Erna, tilting her head as if she didn't understand, put the rolled-up bills back in their place.
The Grand Duchess's cookie jar bank, which had humiliated Bjorn Dneister, was soon shut down. A faded snowman painted on its dented lid was grinning mockingly at him.
What is this? Does it mean something like the old pieces of blankets children carry around? While he was admiring this obsession, which seemed impossible to explain otherwise, a sharp, measured knock rang out. It was Mrs. Fitz.
“Are you back, Your Highness? Your Highness.”
Mrs. Fitz bowed politely and approached with wider strides.
“I must give a definitive answer to the Director of the Royal Academy of Arts by the end of the day.”
As usual, she reported on a few key matters concerning the Grand Duchess's household, and Bjorn's eyebrows furrowed slightly at her addition.
“To the art director? What?”
"I'm talking about painting portraits of two people. You must decide whether to proceed with the artist recommended by the Art Director."
“Ah. That.”
Only then did Bjorn nod.
By royal custom, the portrait of the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess should have long ago been hung among the countless faces of the Dniesters adorning the palace walls. But, citing the inconvenience as a reason, they kept putting it off, and before they knew it, two seasons had passed.
“Do as the art director recommends.”
Bjorn nodded coolly. He had no interest in art anyway, so he didn't care who painted his portrait. The art academy would have foolishly recommended the best, so he'd just follow them.
"Yes, Your Highness. Then I will confirm your name as Mr. Lore at the Art Academy."
“...Lore?”
The voice asking back dropped to a low tone.
"Yes. Pavel Lore. That's the name of the painter recommended by the Academy of Arts."
"Ah," Erna's small sigh followed Mrs. Fitz's explanation. Bjorn looked down at his fidgeting wife.
“Would you like to discuss this further?”
Mrs. Fitz, observing the two expressions, asked a calm question. After a moment of thought, Bjorn nodded, and she quietly withdrew.
“Bjorn, I wish I were a different painter.”
As the door closed, Erna spoke urgently, the words she had been holding back.
“Please do so. Yes?”
"Why."
“Pavel..."
Erna's eyes wavered slightly as she remembered the autumn night when she had said goodbye to Pavel.
Painting royal portraits would undoubtedly be a boon to the promising painter's future. However, Erna knew full well Pavel's true intentions when he asked her not to even send him a letter. No matter how great the honor, he wouldn't want this kind of encounter. Pavel Lore was that kind of person. Erna, too, didn't want to be reunited with her friend, with their relationship clearly defined.
“I don’t want to meet my friend Pavel like that.”
Erna mustered up her courage and continued speaking.
Friend.
There was no emotion on Bjorn's face as she whispered those words.
“Please, Bjorn. I beg you.”
Erna pleaded again. Her restless demeanor suddenly irritated Bjorn. Erna's voice was quieter than when she'd been chatting excitedly.
Bjorn leaned back against the cushion and gazed out the window. The spring garden was as beautiful as a painting. Bjorn's face, bathed in soft sunlight, was as serene as the scenery.
There was no reason to insist on Pavel Lore. If Erna was so uncomfortable, perhaps it would be better to look for another artist.
But, well.
Bjorn slowly turned his head to face Erna.
What would have happened that summer night when the rain was falling? If he hadn't impulsively gone to the station.
A meaningless question suddenly flashed across Erna's pale face. Finding the answer wasn't difficult. She must have waited for the painter, trembling with longing. She would have gladly followed him, even if it was late. She only narrowly missed the opportunity. If Pavel Lore had arrived at the station first, this woman would have become Mrs. Lore by now.
Friend.
A slight smile appeared on Bjorn's lips as he repeated the ridiculous words. Only then, while Erna, relieved, caught her breath, Bjorn calmly rang the bell.
“Have you decided?”
Mrs. Fitz returned shortly after and confronted the two men.
“Let’s proceed as planned.”
Bjorn nodded and gave a calm command.
There was no reason to insist on Pavel Lore, but there was no reason to avoid him either. That was Bjorn's conclusion.
As Mrs. Fitz, who had accepted his wishes, withdrew, a profound silence fell once again in the drawing room. Erna looked at him, perplexed, but offered no rebuttal. The snowman in the cookie jar on her lap still smiled innocently.
Bjorn smiled, too, as he gazed at his wife, whom the artist would soon paint. Affectionately, as if under a flower's shade. Like lovers.
As their lips parted, a hot, wet breath poured out, though she couldn't tell whose it was.
Even at that moment, Bjorn gazed calmly at his wife, Erna, panting in her half-naked state. Her wet breasts, heaving rapidly, glistened obscenely.
“I don’t like it here. Oh, let’s go inside. Yes?”
Erna, blushing, pleaded with tears in her eyes.
Swallowing the annoying words, Bjorn pulled down his pants. When he reached beneath her, already down to her underwear, Erna gasped in surprise and began to struggle. But her resistance didn't last long. As he lifted her wide-spread legs, Erna lost her balance and clung to the nape of his neck. Her lower body, already wet from the foreign sensation, twitched. Bjorn, enjoying the sensation, slowly moved his hips without inserting himself.
“Look at this.”
Bjorn lifted the hand that had been groping her wet bottom and stroked Erna's lips.
“It’s good.”
With a slippery finger, Bjorn traced Erna's lips as if applying lipstick. Then, slowly, he pushed his finger between Erna's lips, which were parted by her gasping breath.
“Try it. It tastes like you.”
A long finger began to leisurely swirl around her mouth. Erna endured the obscene act helplessly.
“Isn’t it delicious?”
Bjorn's voice, seeping through her hot breath, remained low and muffled. As he slowly withdrew his fingers, Erna let out the gasp she had been holding, sobbing.
“Don’t do that. Things like that, words like that, I, ah...!”
He plunged into Erna, who was in a state of confusion. He thrust deeper and deeper, as if crushing her, and she trembled and hugged him tightly. He knew she was too weak to be manipulated greedily, but there was no room left for such rational judgment.
Bjorn, who wrapped her slender legs around his waist, thrust his hips up with all his might. Erna, who had stubbornly kept her lips shut, collapsed shortly after. Red marks remained clearly visible on her pale, drooping neck. Her trembling chest was no different.
Looking at the woman covered in his marks, Bjorn began to move more ferociously. When pushed to his limit, the woman's moans, mixed with a slight metallic sound, truly drove him mad.
The flowering tree swayed with the force of the force pushing it forward.
Erna, clinging to Bjorn and sobbing, raised her wet eyes and gazed at the white petals falling like snow. The scenery reflected in her unfocused vision was unrealistically beautiful.
So it was good, and a little sad.
No, she doesn't know.
The man before her erased all thoughts. The moisture flowing down the joint had already soaked her stockings. Even as she writhes in shame, her body feels hot, and an indescribable sensation makes her toes tingle.
Bjorn, who had been recklessly pushing her, soon filled her with a burning passion. Erna, exhausted, clung to him, her only source of support, and gazed at the distant sky. Even after the end, her clouded vision wavered as the slow, repetitive movements of her waist continued.
In the peace that had returned, Bjorn let out a long sigh and lifted his face from where it had been buried in Erna's neck. A wind-blown flower fell upon Erna, who stared blankly at him. Bjorn stared at her face with a feeling of emptiness.
What, you're not some horny little beast.
Even as he laughed at himself for being so obsessed with a woman's body, Bjorn's gaze remained fixed on Erna.
The woman, as beautiful as this spring day, was flowing.
It was a slightly funny spring day, when everything was forgotten in that one moment.
***
“Look. It’s right here.”
Erna turned, holding the box she'd found in the bottom drawer. Bjorn leaned against the armrest of the sofa, watching his wife approach him.
“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Fitz to provide you with a safe?”
Bjorn's eyes narrowed as he looked at the box Erna had brought. But Erna smiled nonchalantly and sat down beside him. She held in her arms an old cookie tin, so old it could easily be considered a relic from the past.
“I like this. I’ve been using it for a long time, so I’m familiar with it.”
Opening the tin lid, he revealed a barrel filled with junk. Bjorn's gaze, scanning the useless items—a few notebooks, some crude jewelry, a faded lace collar—sat down before resting on a bundle of tightly rolled papers.
No way.
While he frowned in disbelief, Erna began to take out the bundles one by one. They were bills, sorted by type and tied with ribbon. Then, a few coins, tucked away in a cloth pouch, appeared.
“I’ve collected this much.”
Erna proudly showed off the money she'd saved in her cookie jar. She stabbed her banker husband, who had been so diligent about securing liquidity based on his ample deposits, deep into his pride.
As expected, this deer is no ordinary one.
To think such a formidable foe was hiding under one roof. The distant past, when Freyr Bank was supposed to be a place where people from all walks of life could deposit their money, flashed through his mind.
“Why are you like that?”
Erna stared at him with wide eyes. It felt like he was facing the Duchess Arsene, who loathed the superficiality of a rapidly changing world. No. Even the Duchess Arsene had a bank account, so perhaps this comparison was an insult to his grandmother.
Bjorn, who had been staring blankly at his young wife, who seemed to be living in a bygone century with both fashion and money sense, let out a defeated laugh. Erna, tilting her head as if she didn't understand, put the rolled-up bills back in their place.
The Grand Duchess's cookie jar bank, which had humiliated Bjorn Dneister, was soon shut down. A faded snowman painted on its dented lid was grinning mockingly at him.
What is this? Does it mean something like the old pieces of blankets children carry around? While he was admiring this obsession, which seemed impossible to explain otherwise, a sharp, measured knock rang out. It was Mrs. Fitz.
“Are you back, Your Highness? Your Highness.”
Mrs. Fitz bowed politely and approached with wider strides.
“I must give a definitive answer to the Director of the Royal Academy of Arts by the end of the day.”
As usual, she reported on a few key matters concerning the Grand Duchess's household, and Bjorn's eyebrows furrowed slightly at her addition.
“To the art director? What?”
"I'm talking about painting portraits of two people. You must decide whether to proceed with the artist recommended by the Art Director."
“Ah. That.”
Only then did Bjorn nod.
By royal custom, the portrait of the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess should have long ago been hung among the countless faces of the Dniesters adorning the palace walls. But, citing the inconvenience as a reason, they kept putting it off, and before they knew it, two seasons had passed.
“Do as the art director recommends.”
Bjorn nodded coolly. He had no interest in art anyway, so he didn't care who painted his portrait. The art academy would have foolishly recommended the best, so he'd just follow them.
"Yes, Your Highness. Then I will confirm your name as Mr. Lore at the Art Academy."
“...Lore?”
The voice asking back dropped to a low tone.
"Yes. Pavel Lore. That's the name of the painter recommended by the Academy of Arts."
"Ah," Erna's small sigh followed Mrs. Fitz's explanation. Bjorn looked down at his fidgeting wife.
“Would you like to discuss this further?”
Mrs. Fitz, observing the two expressions, asked a calm question. After a moment of thought, Bjorn nodded, and she quietly withdrew.
“Bjorn, I wish I were a different painter.”
As the door closed, Erna spoke urgently, the words she had been holding back.
“Please do so. Yes?”
"Why."
“Pavel..."
Erna's eyes wavered slightly as she remembered the autumn night when she had said goodbye to Pavel.
Painting royal portraits would undoubtedly be a boon to the promising painter's future. However, Erna knew full well Pavel's true intentions when he asked her not to even send him a letter. No matter how great the honor, he wouldn't want this kind of encounter. Pavel Lore was that kind of person. Erna, too, didn't want to be reunited with her friend, with their relationship clearly defined.
“I don’t want to meet my friend Pavel like that.”
Erna mustered up her courage and continued speaking.
Friend.
There was no emotion on Bjorn's face as she whispered those words.
“Please, Bjorn. I beg you.”
Erna pleaded again. Her restless demeanor suddenly irritated Bjorn. Erna's voice was quieter than when she'd been chatting excitedly.
Bjorn leaned back against the cushion and gazed out the window. The spring garden was as beautiful as a painting. Bjorn's face, bathed in soft sunlight, was as serene as the scenery.
There was no reason to insist on Pavel Lore. If Erna was so uncomfortable, perhaps it would be better to look for another artist.
But, well.
Bjorn slowly turned his head to face Erna.
What would have happened that summer night when the rain was falling? If he hadn't impulsively gone to the station.
A meaningless question suddenly flashed across Erna's pale face. Finding the answer wasn't difficult. She must have waited for the painter, trembling with longing. She would have gladly followed him, even if it was late. She only narrowly missed the opportunity. If Pavel Lore had arrived at the station first, this woman would have become Mrs. Lore by now.
Friend.
A slight smile appeared on Bjorn's lips as he repeated the ridiculous words. Only then, while Erna, relieved, caught her breath, Bjorn calmly rang the bell.
“Have you decided?”
Mrs. Fitz returned shortly after and confronted the two men.
“Let’s proceed as planned.”
Bjorn nodded and gave a calm command.
There was no reason to insist on Pavel Lore, but there was no reason to avoid him either. That was Bjorn's conclusion.
As Mrs. Fitz, who had accepted his wishes, withdrew, a profound silence fell once again in the drawing room. Erna looked at him, perplexed, but offered no rebuttal. The snowman in the cookie jar on her lap still smiled innocently.
Bjorn smiled, too, as he gazed at his wife, whom the artist would soon paint. Affectionately, as if under a flower's shade. Like lovers.
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