"Long enough," was all he said, all he had to say as he tossed the pear into the fruit bowl and rose. Something ominous and frightening radiated from him. She tried to swallow and look away but she couldn't; for some reason his gaze held her still. "Tell me, love," he asked in a rich whisper as he moved to her, "why would a young woman who just saved the world from incalculable doom now look guilty?"
Guilty? She tried to shake her head, to deny it, but she stopped. He could not read her thoughts, she told herself for the hundredth time.
The question made her look even more guilty and he released his breath in a soft chuckle. He held her image—her slender form draped in blue silk, the rosy hue of her bathed skin and the silken stream of her impossibly long hair falling over her back to coil on the floor behind her, and the fear in her wide eyes—a fear she didnt even understand yet ...
Garrett's eyes did not waver as he lay down in front of her, stretching his long legs and leaning casually on his side. She had seen him naked a hundred times or more— he being totally impervious to his body—and she did not know why she was so unnerved now, seeing the wide breadth of his chest and shoulders, the well-exercised muscles of his arms, but she was. Those remarkable dark eyes laughed at her, though the handsome face remained impassive to the calamitous effect he was creating.
"Were you indulging in disloyal thoughts or was it dishonest ideas, love?"
She studied his gaze for but a moment. The question made no sense unless he had read her thoughts. She could hardy breathe with him so close, staring at her so, yet alone begin to weigh the consequences of answering that question. She could not explain her nervousness, a nervousness that escalated as she suddenly saw how she must look to him, kneeling and frightened, the thin silk draped over her, and beneath the heat of his gaze she felt herself flushing, as if drawn ever closer to a raging fire. If he but touched her once—
She clutched the cloth tighter, lowering her eyes with shame, as if she had betrayed Tomas in her thoughts already—and she hadn't, she hadn't. Why should Tomas ever be paired with guilt? Confused, flushed, she didn't know what he was doing to her and she tried to think of Tomas instead—
"Dont."
She looked up with a slight gasp. With an indefinable tension, mounting, growing, he finally reached a hand to her face. She raised her eyes with a question, perhaps a plea, and grabbed his hand. His hand felt large, strong, almost hot to the touch. "Garrett, you're scaring me—"
"I know, love."
She started to shake her head but he abruptly rose. He stepped to the water, shrugged out of his breeches, and lowered himself. The water circled his chest and for one strange moment he seemed to disappear completely in the rising steam. "Come here, love."
She started to shake her head again but stopped. A montage of ideas stopped her, or so she tried to reason: the consequences of disobeying or the idea that no one, least of all herself, was in a position to disobey him, that her experience taught her it was always far easier to comply with him. Yet the compelling force, what made her obey, was something else, something many worlds removed from thought. Thinking he wanted her to bathe with him, and knowing she couldn't, wouldn't, she draped the gown over her head before she rose.
The sheer loose folds slid over her skin to the floor. Acutely conscious of the transparency, she modestly crossed her arms over herself as she came to stand at the pool's edge. He said nothing for what seemed an eternity as he studied her standing there, firelight silhouetting her slender form. She felt confused, as if she existed only for him and his pleasure as the object of his desire. She desperately struggled to rally her defenses against this, an effort that shattered as he reached for her hand, drawing her down to her knees before him.
He brought her small hand to his lips. He closed his eyes and drank the sweet scent, revelling in her softness as he lightly brought each fingertip to his mouth. Her senses heightened and she closed her eyes as shivers, a thousand shivers, raced up her arm. She shook her head but his lips stopped on her ring finger and it tightened and tightened until—
She cried with sudden pain. She pulled her hand back and looked at him, her eyes shimmering with unleashed tears. "Garrett, Garrett," she cried in a frightened whisper as she tried to remove the ring from her finger, but the harder she tried, the tighter it felt. "What are you doing to me? I feel so strange, like a dream—"
The cruel light of his amusement reached her soul. She started trembling. She wanted to run away, irrationally, she knew she had to run or—
"All of life's a dream," he said simply. "Where the dreamer chooses the dream. You are tired, love." He took her hand and as he stared into her eyes, he kissed her finger. All pain dissipated as he did. "Go to sleep. I will wake you when it's time."
She stared at him with incomprehension. How strange! The only thing she didnt feel was tired, yet the moment he said it she thought it must be true. She was imagining the inexplicable tension, the reason she was afraid. . . . Yes, her fear and confusion owed itself to how tired she felt. The excitement had depleted her resources. . . .
She nodded, slowly at first then vigorously, rising and almost running to the bed as if it might somehow provide sanctuary. She stood staring at it, though, seeing it for the first time. She looked back at him. "Will . . . Garrett, will you sleep here too?"
She turned at the sound of his laughter. "No, love," he said softly as if making a promise. "I will not sleep there."
Those words brought little relief. She looked back at the bed, trying to reassure herself. He wasn't sleeping there and no matter what else, hadn't he taught her to trust him? She had slept with him for two fortnights and nothing had ever happened in her sleep with the exception of ... dreams.
"All of life is a dream where the dreamer chooses . . ." The thought echoed in her mind, warning her as she laid down. Yet almost instantly she was asleep.
"Wake up, Juliet. I want you."
The rich timbre of his voice echoed in her dreams. She felt afraid, and even in the dreamy haze she tried to deny him. A thing not possible tonight. She heard his low chuckle, before a sudden heat bathed her. The hot warmth spread through her limbs and pulsated with the escalating beat of her heart and pulse, her blood rushing with fire. The fire of his desire.
She opened her eyes, dazedly trying to adjust to the darkened light, and slowly sat up, bringing the thick quilt with her as she did so. She felt afraid even before she saw him. He sat at the head of the bed, leaning against satin cushions. The flames of the torchlight danced behind him, casting him in darkness, his shadow falling over her eyes. Thick tears gathered in her eyes and throat. She swallowed the salty, hot moisture and shook her head, a futile attempt to deny his power.
His soft chuckle was a comment on the idea of her resistance. "Come here, love. I have waited long enough."
She tried to shake her head but found she could not. The effort to resist caused a shudder that made her gasp7 As soon as the effort died, she felt an overwhelming compulsion to obey. As if to reward her, the compulsion brought another voluptuous burst of warmth tingling through her. She could not resist, she tried but—
This was only a dream, she told herself, only a dream. It could not really be happening! A dream, she knew as she felt herself moving slowly to him. For he could not do this to her, he could not—
The outline of his form remained dark in the shadow of firelight. She could not look at him as she knelt before him. Hot tears gathered beneath lowered lashes. She kept her arms crossed protectively over herself. The heat of his gaze made her forget to breathe as he reached a hand to her hair, brushing it off her shoulders.
She felt his finger slowly trace a line over her mouth. She trembled beneath his touch as his other hand caressed the delicate line of her neck and shoulders, toying briefly with the thin gold strings of her gown above her crossed arms.
"An offering fit for the gods. I feel as though I've waited a lifetime for you, Juliet," he whispered, banishing the tenderness her pose solicited, w
anting none of that tonight. The callused tips of his fingers brushed the petal satin of her skin above her breast, over and over until a hot congestion gathered there and each breath came with conscious effort. She kept her arms crossed over herself, but the heat beneath the steady stroke of his fingers grew and grew until she felt herself swaying.
She opened her eyes as she instinctively braced her hands against the wide width of his shoulders, "Garrett . . . Garrett, I don't know—" She stopped as her gaze dropped to the magnificent boldness of his body, which then made him chuckle, a cruel, ominous sound. She closed her eyes, confused and scared, just scared. Dear God, what was happening? How was he doing this to her? She started to pull away—
"Don't, love."
Don't . . . don't echoed in her mind and she held perfectly still. His large hands spanned her sides just under her arms. She felt the heat of his gaze brush her breasts beneath the sheer blue silk of her gown. With the innocence of flowers absorbing sunlight, her breast swelled against the thin fabric of the gown with each breath, straining for his touch. Her heart pounded violently and her breaths came in small quick gasps, escalating as with a touch like fire that reached to her foot. Taking the silk cloth with him, his caress moved slowly up her leg. Chills erupted in a hot tingling pleasure. With pain and surprise, she arched toward him as his hands cupped the curve of her buttocks. The caress was light, taunting, purposeful. A gush of warmth rushed between her thighs, followed by something awful and frightening. "No . . . no," she whispered in a plea, "I don't know what's happening. ... I can't let you do this to me."
As if he hadn't expected her words, she first felt his surprise but then he only laughed at her. "A fallacy, love, a lie. It's not just that you can't stop me but you don't want to." The words were said in a whisper as his hands caressed the curves of her waist and back and she gasped with shivers and warmth. "Shall I show you, love?"
She tried to shake her head and when she couldn't, his amusement mixed potently with his desire as he withdrew from her. Leaning back against the satin cushions of the head board, he let her fear build until he said what she simply could not believe. "Straddle me, love."
She stared aghast, meeting the dark light of his gaze until she felt mesmerized by it, by him, drawn by an inexplicable force she could neither name nor understand. The more she tried to focus on fighting it, the more elusive the idea became until . . . the thought of refusing disappeared altogether, replaced by strange desires, primitive and powerful, rising through her, growing like an intoxication. The desire to comply became an irresistible need.
With dreamy awareness, she slipped her leg over him,' lowering her weight until she felt the course hairs of his thighs on her bottom and he owned her weight. Consciousness fixed on his hard, hot shaft but inches from the soft swell of her sex. His hands rested on her hips. The heat built beneath the suggestive tease of his fingertips there. He watched her with impassive features but his eyes were laughing.
"Take off the straps, love," he said in a whisper. "Slowly."
She met his gaze again but briefly as he seemed to absorb the very last effort to resist. She closed her eyes as she crossed her arms over herself. Her thumbs slipped beneath the straps. She slowly lowered the thin strings over her arms. The brush of silk sliding over her breasts sent shuddering little shocks through her. She held still, perfectly, painfully still, as the gown fell to gather at her waist, the unveiling complete.
"A lifetime, indeed. My God, you are beautiful," he said as his hands slid under her hair and up her back, then under her arms to cup the fullness of her breasts, lightly stroking the pearly pink tips with his thumbs. Like licks of fire. She surrendered to the more primal sense and with a small gasp of pleasure she arched her back and leaned full into his hands. He rewarded the movement with deepening strokes, gently kneading the flesh until she was breathless, panting, flushed with helpless need, like the need to comply and obey, she felt it growing, blossoming in colors of dark reds deep inside herself—
"Kiss me, love. I want to taste those lips."
There could be no resistance now; she existed only for him and his pleasure, an existence she had no power now to change. She slid her arms around his neck, and turning her head slightly she timidly sought his mouth. She touched her lips to his, but pulled back just an inch, gasping before strong hands cupped the back of her head, gently guiding her back until he took her mouth in a hard, slow mating.
He tasted deliciously of pears and warmth. Like wine sliding over thirst, the sensuous press of his mouth lit and quenched fires. Shyly she returned the caress of his tongue, discovering the textures of his mouth as he savored her, deepening the kiss as his own hot desire began to claim her.
Garrett groaned, threading his fingers through her hair as the kiss became playful. A maddening tease as he broke away, only to return and break again, letting her feel the warm caress of his lips elsewhere: over her closed lids, across her forehead and cheeks, along the sensitive lines of her ears. Shivers rushed to greet each touch of his lips, running in chills down her spine. "Garrett . . . Garrett," she started to speak, but words were lost in the drowning sweetness of his kiss. Trembling, she arched toward him, easing the ache in her breasts against the hard muscles of his chest, giving herself to the slow penetrating drive of his mouth.
Taking a handful of hair, he forced her neck up at an arch, where he started a trail of fire down her neck to her breasts. His tongue slipped around a ruby peak and his mouth drew softly until, as if she was a possessed creature, a thick pleasure filled her and his name came with each breath.
A flushed sheen of perfumed moisture lined her skin like a fine silken cloth. The brilliance of her scent and taste were maddening as he sought the beckoning heat and swell of her sex. She twisted with mindless anticipation as he eased his caresses ever closer until she melted beneath the dual pleasures of a long hard kiss and the skilled strokes of his fingers.
With whispered commands and gently compelling kisses he brought her to the very edge, where no inhibitions or shyness or thoughts could intrude. She cried, trembling with a thick pulsating pleasure until at last he turned her on her back, finally releasing his own raging desire, feeling it sweep through the whole of his body.
Bracing his arms on either side of her head, he carefully kept his body from touching her. She felt flushed and feverish with a need—desperate now—to draw him into her. As she needed to draw air, she needed to feel him everywhere and all at once. The heat of his hard staff poised above her, threatening yet not; she wanted him to fill her. She opened her eyes, revealing her pained confusion, the very vulnerability of her inexperience.
"The play is mine, Juliet." He kissed her mouth once, slow and tantalizing, withdrawing to tell her. "Open yourself, love. ... I want to touch your womb."
The words scared her senselessly. Frightened and confused, she struggled to deny him this last. She tried to shake her head but the very fear pounded, throbbed with the consuming passion and hunger and need until she opened herself to him. And then she might have swooned, unaware of her nails sinking into his flesh where she clung to his neck and back as she felt the smooth, hot pressure of him slide back and forth over her sex. Waves of warm voluptuous heat washed over her, carrying her to the heightened ecstasy of a promise. "Higher love . . . higher . . ."
The moment he felt the first crest of pleasure washing over her he thrust himself deep inside, forcing her tightness to accommodate his size, causing the briefest pain before he touched her womb. The sensation triggered hot spasms of pleasure bursting deep inside. She clung to him desperately as she felt herself falling into a blackness, emerging to feel waves of ecstasy over and over as his seed washed over her womb and he too, collapsed with a shocking pleasure that catapulted him from any earthly sphere. There seemed to be no end to it as he brought her back to consciousness with a warm demanding kiss that stopped his name on her lips. His desire never died, never would die with her, he knew, as he began to move inside her again, the dance of an
endless passion that would carry them through the long night.
Through the night until just before dawn's gray light crept into the spacious room and he finally released his claim on her. Entwined in his arms, she felt a dark exhaustion that waited only for her heartbeat to spiral down, an exhaustion that allowed no thoughts to trespass into her consciousness as she tried to bury herself closer to the warmth of his body. From far far away he told her: "You will remember this only as a dream, Juliet. A dream spun with magic ..."
The early morning air felt still and already warm as Garrett climbed into the waiting carriage, Juliet wrapped in a velvet cloak and sound asleep in his arms. Leif sat across from him, silent until the carriage lurched forward, heading the two miles to the docks where The Raven waited to sail. The grin on Leifs face spoke well of their triumph.
"The chalking?" Garrett asked.
"A dozen or so men remain to finish the task. What's left can be taken under sail. But Garrett, the admiral will be suspicious—"
"Nay," Garrett chuckled, shaking his head incredulously. "He assumed we'd be under sail before he woke and he bid me farewell and safe winds before I quit. That was," he smiled, "if I promised to introduce Juliet to Paris this spring."
Leifs laughter joined Garrett's. As long as he lived, he vowed for the hundredth time since he joined his life to Garrett's, he would believe fate was a thing of magic. His gaze came to rest on Juliet. "And God bless the lady named Juliet." "Indeed," Garrett grinned, "forever more."
David Bartlet opened his eyes to the soft stream of morning light seeping through the draped curtains strung across the windows of the second-story resident room at London's university. The advent of consciousness began with a cursory review of the preceding day, moving on to the waiting day: breakfast, a lecture on Classical Roman architecture during the Octavian period, followed by another equally tedious lecture on the spiritual lessons of the Psalms, then an exam on the Ptolemaic design on the universe, and oh God, to just get through another day of it ...
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