His thumb found my clit, which was still sensitive from the attention of his mouth. I shuddered and shifted away from the almost painful sensation. There, languor gone. I twisted onto my side, disentangling from him, and pulled the towel down from the shower rod.
“I’m sure it’s a fascinating story, Seb,” I said, getting to my feet, “but I doubt I’ll have time to take on more work. I only have these next twelve days to do my own research. If you need help, why don’t you hire a researcher?”
Towel wrapped around me, I stepped out of the shower. Then I picked up the pile of my clothing.
He was standing outside now, too, naked still, and so comfortable in his nakedness despite the water dripping down his skin. I could stare at him all day, explore his body, run my tongue down his stomach, his legs, down every indent of muscle. I thrust one of the extra towels at him.
“I thought about it,” he admitted as he followed me into his bedroom. “But some of my family history is . . . sensitive. I’d rather not entrust it to a stranger.”
He’d opened the window shades and, in the much brighter light of day, I could see my errant underwear on the floor at the foot of the bed.
He didn’t consider me to be a stranger.
Once, I wouldn’t have considered him one either. But that night had made me rethink everything I thought I knew. Made me realize I was crushing on a figment of my own imagination.
I dropped my clothes and the towel on the bed and reached for my underwear. I supposed that after the night we had, we at least knew each other’s bodies better.
He put clothes on as well, but these, a button-down shirt and jeans, were much more casual than those of the day before, more the way he would have dressed back at school.
“Maybe I can give you a few pointers,” I found myself saying, despite everything, despite how bad an idea it was to do anything but leave. After all, to help, I’d need to know more about the club, about what he knew so far and what steps he’d taken. I could envision a half-hour conversation devolving into a several-hour one, the same way my quick shower had resulted in oral sex before breakfast.
“No need.” He brushed it off with a devastating smile. “I’ll muddle through. Come, I’ll drive you back to your flat.”
Chapter Four
WE ENDED UP grabbing surprisingly good coffees downstairs at the coffee shop on the corner for the drive across town. It should have been awkward—we’d had a one-night stand, and I’d rejected his request for help—but it wasn’t. Instead, we talked about the city. He acted like the consummate tour guide, telling me about the streets we passed and the neighborhoods. Pointing out any historical sites. Which was nice because I hadn’t spent much time sightseeing, though I had promised myself a few days of fun activities at the end of the trip if I met my goals.
It was almost as if that night in New Jersey had never happened. Like we were simply two people who had gravitated toward each other in the hallways, sat together on benches. And I wanted him again. Wanted to go back to his apartment and stay there indefinitely, as if the rest of the world and time didn’t exist. Except, I wasn’t that same overly romantic Anglophile, swept away by an appealing accent, a charming smile, and a few common interests.
So instead, in the narrow private room that I’d rented in a three-bedroom flat of graduate students and postdocs, I placed my backpack on the floor and lay down on the bed, unzipped my jeans, and slid my hand down. After the previous night I should have been satisfied, but it was like I’d reawakened my appetite for sex. I knew I had work to do, but I wouldn’t be able to concentrate unless I burned off this extra tension. I ran my other hand over my body, then pushed up my shirt and moved my bra aside so that I could cup my bare breast the way he had. As my fingers stroked fast, in a rhythm I knew well, I thought of him filling my mouth, filling me, almost as if he could do both at once.
I came fast and hard, bucking against the bed and moaning out loud, every bit of my body down to my toes tingling with the force of the orgasm. I pulled my hand from my crotch, yanked my shirt down, and flipped onto my side, staring at the wall.
All right, then. Itch satisfied. Work time.
AFTER CHANGING INTO fresh, comfortable clothing, opening my computer and the document copies I’d gathered the previous day and spreading everything out on the bed, I reached for my cell phone instead. I’d used it sparingly over the last four months as, even with an international plan and a local sim card, I couldn’t afford the pay-by-the-minute rates. Instead, my interactions with family and friends were primarily via e-mail, Internet calls, and IMs.
But I needed to talk to someone.
I dialed Sophie’s number, only realizing when she answered with a sleep-roughened voice, that I’d called her at 5 A.M. on Sunday morning, New York time.
“Oh God. I’m sorry, Sophie. I’ll call back later.”
“Mina? Is that you? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just forgot about the time difference for a moment. I’ll call back later.” I hung up and tossed the phone on the bed. Wiped the back of my hand across my eyes.
All right, time to focus.
Someone knocked on my door. Taking a deep breath, I stood up, turned the lock, and opened it.
Jens, the chemistry postdoc from Germany, stood out there, grinning at me. He was a nice enough guy who often invited me out drinking with his friends.
“Out all night?”
“Bumped into an old friend,” I said tightly, knowing I had to say something if I didn’t want to deal with winks and teasing. Especially considering Jens had hit on me several times already. Even though he was attractive and funny and I likely would have slept with him last year, I’d been determined to focus on my research.
Until Sebastian.
Thinking about Sebastian made me want to strip my clothes off and masturbate again. Almost made me want to have sex with Jens just to be having sex.
“Ah, well, I’m going out to Leeds with friends. Want to come?”
I did want to. It sounded like a fun diversion, and the last thing I really wanted to do, despite my protestations to Sebastian, was work. I was tired and facing down these last twelve days with a growing sense of dread that I might actually not be able to find the proof I needed. And the more I thought that, the more I wanted to stick my head in the sand.
But I had an appointment on Monday afternoon with one of the staff at the Saint Bride Printing Library, and in the morning I had several calls to make to descendants of Anne Gracechurch, the ones I hadn’t been able to reach previously or whose connection was slightly more obscure, who very likely didn’t even know that their ancestor had been a fairly well-known author in her time.
He shrugged and left. I spent the day organizing myself for the week, and then working on the historical/cultural-context chapters of my dissertation. By seven in the evening, my creativity was sapped and my eyes were strained from staring at the computer. And I was hungry. The nuts, fruit, and cheese I’d snacked on throughout the day weren’t going to cut it.
I stepped out into the living room. Neil, my other flatmate, was sitting on the futon sofa watching a rugby match, which was a regular occurrence. Both he and Jens had lived in the apartment months before I arrived, and apparently my room had belonged to a “chap” named Paul, who’d moved in with his girlfriend between terms.
The apartment looked like a bachelor pad and, aside from clearing a space in the fridge and cleaning off the kitchen counters whenever I cooked, I hadn’t made any effort to make it any less so.
I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. As I remembered, there was nearly nothing inside other than cheese, Neil’s beer and a cardboard pizza box. I should have gone to the grocery store earlier since the one in the neighborhood closed at 5 P.M. on Sundays.
I was bored and hungry and had a stupid urge to call Sebastian. After all, if I wasn’t going to work, why shouldn’t I have some fun? Except, it was one night. Any more than that (even the fact that I wanted more tha
n that) was a death wish. Dark Ages were officially over. I just had to stick to that.
I opened the freezer and magically found a frozen burrito I’d bought a few weeks earlier. There. Dinner found; problem solved. I could eat and push myself through a few more hours of work.
MONDAY STARTED GREAT. I made fabulous progress. If crossing people off of a list could be considered progress. But there was a lovely, middle-aged woman, Roberta Small, who was fascinated to learn about her ancestor, Anne Gracechurch, and who then assured me the only heirloom item she had was some silver plate from her paternal grandmother (who was from Spain). But she offered to call all of her relatives on her mother’s side and see if anyone knew anything or had any old family records.
Then there was another branch of descendants, of whom Mrs. Small had never heard. Bruce Mallard, the eighty-eight-year-old (which I knew from his birth records) who I managed to get on the phone, turned out to be the “patriarch,” so to speak, of his particular branch. He scanned through the family Bible to confirm that he was indeed related to an Anne Gracechurch, and then he revealed that he did in fact have a whole room filled with boxes and trunks and antiques that had been passed down through the family for generations. I was welcome to come sift through them all, and I made an appointment to come out to his house an hour outside of London by train the next day. The thought of a possible treasure trove buoyed me throughout the rest of the day, even when the “find” the archivist at the printing library had called me about turned out to be a rather underwhelming list of the books and pamphlets Anne’s printer had published in the years 1809–1829. Underwhelming because, while Mead’s name was mentioned there in ’29, the list included no identifiers of any of the authors other than their names.
At seven thirty, I’d just flopped down on my bed to map out the best route to Luton when my phone rang. I recognized the number even though I’d only ever seen it before once, the day I’d programmed it into my phone at the National Archives’ cafe. Despite myself, I was grinning, pleased.
“Sebastian,” I said into the speaker. “You may have just gotten off work, but I have not.”
“That’s too bad. You must not be using your time efficiently during the day.” His voice dripped over me, the way it had when I’d recognized it at the archives. The way it had during all the conversations we’d ever had.
“Because you want to sleep with me again.”
“Sleep has nothing to do with it.”
“Hah.” If he was really calling me for help with his genealogy project, I’d be seriously annoyed. “I’m sure you can sift through the public records as well as I can. Isn’t sifting through data your job?”
“Hah, and no, I didn’t call for that either.”
A shiver went through me at the import of his words. Good. He wanted what I wanted. The only difference was, I had a reason to say no.
“I didn’t really have a chance to take you to dinner on Saturday. I doubt you’ve seen the best of London.”
I thought of Sebastian in his expensive, tailored suit, which he could afford because he had an excellent job while I was still living the life of an impoverished student. I didn’t know all that much about his background, but I knew that his family was well-off, and, even if he lived a fairly low-key life, he knew half the people whose faces littered the tabloids. Likely he did know the best restaurants and the best of everything. Very different from my frozen burrito of the night before. Which, thanks to my dwindling bank account and lack of credit, would be similar to what I would eat for the next two weeks.
I looked down at my computer. I’d made progress and Tuesday could easily be the day I’d been waiting for. Why not celebrate a bit?
Because that wasn’t part of the plan. Speaking to him again wasn’t part of the plan. And . . . because it might be dangerous, might upset the delicate balance of my life.
“All right.” I heard my voice like it was some other person’s and the sound of it scared me. Was I sabotaging myself?
“I’ll pick you up in thirty. Dress up.”
He was off the phone before I’d even gathered my thoughts and registered his last words. Then I laughed, pushing the fear aside. That he felt he had to tell me to dress up made it clear he only knew the studious me, not the party girl who had been unleashed in his absence.
Not that I had brought much of my party attire with me to London, but I did have a few things, and as I changed into a slinky dress that showed off my legs, I was very glad I had.
I’d never been particularly overweight, but I’d slimmed down in the last two years. Right then, I was quite pleased with how I looked.
For the first time in four months, I broke out the makeup bag and set to work.
NEITHER OF MY flatmates was in the living room when I walked through, for which I was grateful. I didn’t want to have to answer any questions about this particular booty call.
As he had said when he called three minutes earlier, Sebastian hadn’t been able to find a parking spot and was waiting in his car downstairs. I opened the passenger-side door and slipped in.
His eyes slid over me appreciatively, and I felt that look in every part of my body. He had this way of being that was infinitely sexy, and he’d dressed up, too, in slacks and a jacket that could very well have been tailored to his body.
He leaned toward me, snaked one arm up until his hand curved around my neck. He drew me close, his mouth closing over mine. I twisted my body to lean into the drugging kiss.
“Good evening, Mina Cavallari.”
“Good evening,” I whispered. “Skipping your evening workout for me?” I imagined his body beneath those clothes—long, lean . . .
He gave me a look and I flushed, the subtext ridiculously clear.
“Good point,” I said with a shaky laugh. “So, where are we heading?”
“Vaden Pierce’s new place.” The name meant nothing to me but I was thinking famous chef or restaurateur. At my blank expression, Sebastian elaborated. “He’s Michelin starred. I haven’t been to Ziva, but I have been to his other restaurants.”
That sounded fine by me. I wasn’t particularly experimental in my eating habits, but most of that was due to income and convenience, not an unwillingness to try new things.
“Now,” he said, “tell me about why you look so radiant, unless it’s all due to knowing you’ll be properly fucked tonight.”
I laughed. He was this very odd mix of elegant, perceptive, and crude. Oddly, the crude didn’t bother me the way it would have with other men. There was something about the way Sebastian wore his lasciviousness that spoke straight to my erogenous zones. Which was why I was sitting in his car, for what was essentially an extended one-night stand.
As we drove through Brixton and Lambeth and back over the bridge past King’s College, I told him about the progress I’d made, about my hopes for the Mallard collection.
He asked all the right questions, said all the right things, and I was starting to wonder what his family and school life had been like as a child because no one was this well trained to listen attentively. He was almost impossibly perfect. Except, considering the night he propositioned me to join him and Tanya, clearly he wasn’t. No one was.
The restaurant was in the heart of Mayfair, and we parked at a car park before walking the short distance from there to Ziva. We descended to a windowless basement, and with the opulent decor, it was easy to forget that our table for two existed in any real world. Instead, as seemed to be usual for the time I was with Sebastian, we were on an island, focused solely on each other. Or at least, I focused solely on him.
“So what do you do when you aren’t at work, or working out, or having sex?”
His lips curved up at the end of my question. I’d thrown that last in there to be as casually crude as he, but even saying it had felt a bit daring.
“My obsessions change,” he said. I thought the answer, the choice of words, interesting. “Right now, it’s you.”
His gaze was searingly i
ntense and I practically melted into my chair. He was good. What would have happened if I’d seen this side of him before? If he’d turned this focused attention on me earlier that year and the whole fiasco with Tanya had never happened? I had a slight suspicion that I might have been overwhelmed and unequal to it.
I was certainly still a bit overwhelmed but definitely not unequal. For good or for bad.
All the food at Ziva seemed designed to act as aphrodisiacs, and between the intensity of the flavors, the potency of the wine, and every glance Sebastian sent my way, I was more than ready to go back to his place.
Clearly, Sebastian felt the same way because the instant we entered his flat, before the door even fully shut closed, he was on me.
Dinner and the car ride home, all of that, was foreplay. There, against the wall of the entry hall, he pushed up my dress, pulled off my thong, slid a condom on, and then was inside me. With my legs wrapped around his hips, I met his open mouth with my own, loving the way each thrust slammed me back, the way his desire overpowered me completely.
There was something about this, about being taken so uninhibitedly, that turned me on more than anything else. I came in a shuddering, mewling rush, squeezing him with my thighs and my hands.
“That’s it,” he muttered, and then groaned, pushing up into me hard and relentlessly with his own orgasm. We stood there for a moment, intertwined and gasping, sticky with exertion where we were joined.
Taking deep breaths, he pulled out, let me slide down to stand on my feet. His hair was messy and his face flushed, but he grinned down at me, and I grinned back with an answering sense of mischievous pleasure. “There, we took the edge off,” he said. “Now let’s get into the bedroom and do it properly.”
MORNING CAME ALL too soon. Between the alarm he had set for work and the one I had set on my phone, the bedroom was a ringing mess of irritation. His bed was warm and comfortable. Even better, he was in it, and his naked body, which had brought me pleasure until the wee hours of the morning, was wrapped around mine.
Private Research: An Erotic Novella Page 4
