“Ah, darling,” he muttered against her lips.
“No!” Miranda gasped and backed away. She’d almost let herself go, carried away with her desire. Lord, I must be mad! She pressed her fingers to her lips. “I must go.”
“Mandy, please.”
“You’re reborn. They will take your heart if they suspect you’ve resumed our relationship! I won’t have your death on my conscience twice.”
“Mandy—”
“I shouldn’t have come here. I—I wanted to reassure you about the plan, n-n-not…this. I shouldn’t have come.”
She jerked her hand free of his and managed three steps toward the door before his arm hooked her around her waist. Frederick lifted her off the floor, his grasp sure and unrelenting as she beat her fists on his arm.
“Let me go!”
“Not until you listen to me.”
“No!”
Frederick pressed her into the pilot’s chair, trapping her between the high control-laden armrests and the periscopic captain’s viewer. He filled up every bit of free space, giving no quarter as she struggled to push past him. Before his body had been fitted with metal gears and fittings, Miranda would have been hard pressed to win a fight. Now, it was impossible.
He did nothing to stop her struggles. She kicked and punched, tears turning to outraged cries. When Miranda bashed her knuckles against the metal plate of his chest, pain bloomed, quelling her rage.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered between hiccupped sobs. Frederick slid his hands up the length of her arms and along her shoulders until he cupped her cheeks.
The kiss was chaste, but the thrill was not lessened by that fact. Miranda didn’t remember when her eyes had closed or when she’d stopped struggling. Her world shrank to the slide of his rough lips against her soft ones. After a moment, she parted hers to lick at the seam of his mouth. Growling, Frederick plunged his fingers into her hair and pulled her closer still.
The warmth building low in her belly spread out, making her clit press against her undergarments. Her corset constricted her breathing, as the boning rubbed against her hardened nipples. It wasn’t enough. She needed his hands on her, touching and teasing her skin until she was begging for him to fuck her. The king’s rules be damned. They’d both given so much for this war, to save their people, for once Miranda wanted to take for herself.
Pulling back with a jerk, she ignored his groan of protest, tearing at his pearl buttons, needing to see. “Off. Take this off now.”
Frederick straightened out of her reach, taking on the task himself. When she began to pull at the ties of her corset, he gave his head a hard shake. “Don’t.”
He pulled the air goggles from his forehead and tossed them to her. Instead of dropping them to the floor, Miranda slid them on. The smell of his soap and sweat clung to the leather, marking them as his. It was odd seeing him through such a narrow view, making him seem more human than he had to her in years.
Frederick paused when he reached the end of the row. “Mandy, are you certain about this? I’m…this is not pleasant to see. There are nights when I can barely look at myself.”
She leaned forward, the goggles sliding down her nose, and placed her hands on top of his. “Please.”
Together they opened his shirt, revealing the smooth steel plate the doctors had shaped into a replica of his chest wall. They’d gone so far as to add a nipple, a match to its twin of flesh. Moving to the edge of her seat, she leaned in and circled the metal nub with her tongue. The cool taste of steel exploded on her tongue, sending a spike of arousal through her body. Frederick’s breathing grew labored, but he didn’t move or pull away, nothing to dissuade her exploration.
“I would lie awake at nights wondering what they’d done to you. What you looked like now.” Her words echoed back to her from against the unrelenting steel. She shifted over so her nose brushed the seam of metal and flesh. Darting her tongue out to lick it she was surprised to note it tasted like sweat. “I wondered how they could possibly meld flesh and steel? How you must have hurt as you healed?”
“The pain meant nothing.” He pulled several of her hairpins free and let the weight of her hair pull the mass to her shoulders. “As long as you were safe.”
Miranda let Frederick move her back in the chair as he dropped to his knees. His fingers were steady as he popped the buttons of her jacket free of their cloth confines. Together they worked it off, along with her overskirt, leaving Miranda clad only in her corset and petticoat. Her heart pounded as he lifted the heavy material to her knees, exposing her calves.
His heart continued its steady beat. “I never got to do this before.”
Leaning in, he hooked an arm beneath each of her knees and lifted her legs to rest on his shoulders. Miranda had to look away. She’d never been this exposed before, so open she knew there was nowhere she could hide. He spread the opening of the fabric, exposing the folds of her labia to him. With a soft growl, Frederick lowered his mouth and sucked her clit.
Intense pleasure arched through her, sending her hips bucking to chase the sensations. Frederick pulled her legs wider, as he suckled and licked her, teasing her opening with his tongue. Miranda panted, reaching out to cup her breasts and squeeze her nipples as he fell into a rhythm that matched the beating of his heart.
“Frederick.” She moaned and canted her hips. “More.”
The press of his finger into her pussy had her crying out. She’d played with herself many nights, imagining it was him, but the reality was much more. The pleasure rose and she knew she would reach her peak if he didn’t relent. Pulling at his hair to stop him, she was lost when he swatted her hand away and increased the pressure with his mouth. When a second finger joined the first, Miranda conceded defeat.
Her cry of pleasure filled the room, overpowering every other noise. Frederick didn’t stop, thrusting his fingers in and out of her at a pace so rapid, another wave of release rolled through her. Mercifully, he pulled away then.
“Look at me, Mandy.” With effort, she forced herself to watch as he licked her come off his fingers. “You’re amazing.”
Then he pressed those same glistening fingers to her lips. The idea of tasting her release should have been repulsive, but the look of ecstasy on his face as she darted her tongue up the digits quashed any hesitation she had.
Biting the tip of his finger, Miranda smiled. “I want you.”
His hands shook as he fumbled with the heavy belt, button and ties of his pants, only pushing them down far enough to free his hard cock. The tip glistened in the dim light, tempting her. She circled the head with her thumb, relishing the open-mouthed moan that fell from him.
“I won’t last long, Mandy.”
“I don’t care.”
They still fit together. Miranda hooked her legs on each of the chair’s control arms, forcing her skirts to bunch at her thighs and giving him room to move closer. The press of his cockhead at her opening was at first only a tease. He didn’t enter her immediately, instead taking the time to work the laces of her corset free. Her breasts pulled free of their confines, her nipples bared to the cold air.
Lifting her breast, Frederick suckled her nipple, much as he had her clit. The flick of his tongue over the tip matched the little pulses he gave with his hips. One moment, he teased her breast, the next he thrust his cock into her with a single push.
He swallowed her moan with another long kiss. Miranda fought to pull him closer—scratched and clawed at his back and neck as she drove her tongue into his mouth. Only once she needed air did she pull back. Their lips still touching, the words she’d wanted to say for two years fell from her.
“I miss you every day. I hate seeing you and knowing I can’t touch you. You can’t be mine. I hate them and love them for saving you. You for saving me. Don’t leave me again.”
Miranda pressed her hand to his steel chest, arched her back and cried out as she came a final earth-shattering time. Frederick increased the strength of his thrusts until
the chair moved. His arms wrapped beneath her shoulders, crushing her body to his. Thrusting twice more, he let loose a powerful roar as his come filled her body.
Finally he collapsed against her. The goggles she’d worn had slipped from her eyes and lay dangling around her neck. Her heart pounded so violently, the rhythm jostled the eyepieces against her chest.
“I love you,” he said softly against her neck, pressing a kiss to the skin.
“I love you as well, Captain.”
Frederick pulled back, cupped her cheek in his hand and pressed a kiss to her nose. “This is no place for a lady.”
She chuckled. “Thankfully, I’m not much of a lady.”
Regret filled her as he slowly got back to his feet. They righted their clothing without speaking, but Miranda caught his small smile as he watched her. When they were once more presentable, she moved to take the goggles from her neck. He stopped her with a hand to hers.
“Keep them. Give them back once I’ve returned.”
She nodded. “See that you do return, Captain. All of you.”
Miranda would never know what he was to say next. The shouts of men from the hallway drew both their attention. When the door exploded inward, Miranda reacted on instinct. She was told later the assassin looked to be little more than a boy, a French spy who’d discovered their plans and reacted the only way he knew how. He needed to kill the captain of the enemy fleet to stop them from launching their attack.
All Miranda could see in that moment was the pistol pointing at Frederick. It was an easy matter to step in the path of the bullet. She could understand why Frederick had done the same thing all those months ago. Her life for his—a simple exchange, happily made.
The cries and screams could have been hers, or the assassin’s as the pursuing shipman tackled him to the floor. Miranda didn’t even try to fight the darkness as it overtook her. The last thing she was aware of was a soft voice by her ear.
“Oh Mandy, what have you done?”
Pain.
The weight of her eyelids was too much for her to attempt to lift them, so Miranda didn’t bother. The throbbing of her head was matched only by the burning in her chest. She tried to shift and scratch at the discomfort, but something held her down. A strap? Hands?
“Don’t move.”
The name of the voice’s owner escaped her, but she sought comfort in it all the same.
“You’re going to make it worse, Mandy.”
Frederick? She forced her eyes open and was met by the sight of her lover’s smile. “Hello.”
Swallowing, she tried to sit up once more. “What…?”
“You were shot. Stupid girl, you stepped in front of a bullet.”
Screams and tears, hot blood and cold steel. “I died?”
Frederick pressed his hand to her newly formed metal breast, not yet covered by her corset. “Yes.”
She shivered at the feeling of pressure, his hand where her heart used to be.
“We’re a set now, love.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Miranda closed her eyes and listened as their hearts beat in perfect sync.
MR. HARTLEY’S INFERNAL DEVICE
Charlotte Stein
It’s quite a queer thing that he’s created. I must confess, I’ve never seen the like of it—and judging by the faces of the small crowd he’s gathered here in his front parlor, I’m quite certain they’ve never seen its kind either.
It is similar to Mr. Tortoff’s traveling apparatus—the one so often seen galloping about the streets these days—and yet it has many differences. It is operated by steam valves, true, and a great turning maze of brass pipes and so forth, but it does not appear to have any movement about it.
There are no wheels, no giant legs that creak and shiver and make their way through alleyways and between houses. And though it has a prettiness about it—stained glass panels, glittering like eyes and such—there is an ugliness, too. A sadness, much like the sadness that hangs over Mr. Hartley.
Even now on the eve of this presentation—the final culmination of his work on this marvelous contraption—he looks mournful. Miserly, Kitty calls it, and a good deal of me agrees. He lives by himself in this grand old townhouse and has never given so much as a lick of thought to marriage or anything like it.
Though in all honesty, I can hardly say why I associate marriage with a state of unselfish giving. Perhaps it is not that at all—perhaps it is simply that Mr. Hartley is possessed of a rather long face and a meanish mouth of the kind you often see on cruel, rakish men. And his mouth is always down-turned, too, as though he has a great deal to think of and none of it is pleasant.
However, I will not go with Kitty on all assessments of his character and appearance. It is my belief that his eyes save him from true condemnation, because although they are cold, there is also something compelling in them that draws a person in. His eyes tell the tale of a man who would invent a machine like this, for no other reason than the fact that he could, and wanted to.
I can’t help wondering what it will do. It takes up one entire half of his parlor, but it remains impossible to tell what its purpose is. There is a box on one side of it, upon which are several gears and buttons and other gizmos, but none of them are labeled. I try not to peer the way the others are doing, as I feel certain he would never allow anyone to easily discern what the machine is about.
Only then I catch him looking at me as though I am doing the worst of the staring, and I feel quite out of sorts. I think an unkind thing: I wish I’d never thought well of you, Mr. Hartley. But then almost immediately I want to take it back. It’s as though those cold eyes see everything, and for all I know they do. Perhaps that is what the device is for—to steal the thoughts right out of a person’s mind, then use those thoughts against them.
For some unaccountable reason it makes me flush red, to think of all the thoughts Mr. Hartley could use against me. Why, I’ve never imagined a single indecent or strange thing in all my days! My mind is a veritable banquet of nothing, an empty space between my ears—and even more so in the presence of someone like Mr. Hartley. Everyone always tells me, “Elspeth, you rarely have an interesting thing to say,” and it is true.
I’m sure Mr. Hartley would say the same, if he were to catch a glimpse of the pumping, churning swirl of emptiness inside my head.
And yet he continues to aim his gaze on me, as we sit on the little circle of chairs he has laid out. Of course I think of séances and other such wonders of the modern world, though to me they seem a lot less like wonders and a lot more like terrors.
If he calls forth a ghost, I don’t know what I shall do. Kitty said that when she went to the House of Scientific Endeavors they did that very thing, right there in the viewing room with everyone crowding in, and that the ghost had no mouth but tried to speak anyway. Frankly, I can hardly think of anything worse. Trying to speak with no mouth!
How awful, how dreadful, oh, lord how I long to leave. Kitty is far braver than I. She is red faced and excited, and whispering to Mrs. Hollingdale about mechanical wings that make people fly, whereas I am quite lost about such things. I do not wish to fly. I do not want to see ghosts.
I do not want Mr. Hartley to stare at me, or use his infernal device on my personage.
And yet I sit quite still when it comes to my turn to have the apparatus attached to me. I watch him go around the circle with his handful of wires and the little thing on the end of each that looks as horrible as a spider does, and my heart beats wild and high in my chest. I’m sure at any moment I’m going to faint, but it is somewhat easier when I do not look at him directly.
That way, I don’t have to think of his cold eyes or the miniature spider thing, and as it appears that one must have it attached to the nape of one’s neck, there’s actually very little to fret over. I barely even feel his fingers against my skin, as he attaches it. There’s no sense of something biting or anything like it.
There’s just a coolness and then
a low strange feeling of regret. I wonder how he was able to do it so successfully, without actually touching me? He’s very deft, I suppose. Very deft and very tight lipped. When Mrs. Hollingdale says, “Why Mr. Hartley, you must now tell us what it does!” he barely acknowledges her. And he has such a way about him that she goes immediately closemouthed, as though sensible of a great faux pas that she has made.
It occurs to me, then, that he could turn his device on and kill us all. I’ve heard of currents being passed through bodies and things of that nature. I am not completely oblivious to the wonders of the age.
So why, then, do I not stand? Why does no one stand? Do they all look in those great eyes like cold, blue moons, and feel they brook no refusal? Perhaps they all wish, as I do, that he had laid a hand on the nape of their necks. Just one comforting hand, just one hint of humanity beneath that gleaming exterior.
I remember once attending a ball that he was present at, and when Father and I had gone about the room to offer our goodbyes, he had taken my hand. I hadn’t asked it of him, or even offered, but he had taken it anyway. Sometimes, I am certain I imagined it happening. Sometimes I hardly wish to think of it at all, because it feels strange that I so often do.
“Now,” he says. “If everyone might close their eyes.”
It is funny how you can believe that you’ll be reluctant to do something, and then when the time comes you do it faster than anyone else. My eyes are closed before he has finished speaking. I can see his parlor still painted across the backs of my eyelids, all heavy mahogany and straight lines and darkness—the device aside.
No, the device is rounded, golden, messy. Now that he has started it I can smell the rich scent it gives off—of gaslight and smoke and perfumes too complex to name. Strange, really, that such thoughts and sensations conspire to remove my fear, though it’s true. They do. After a moment of listening to it creak and huussshh, I feel quite at ease.
Relaxed, almost—then more than that. A syrupiness infuses my limbs, though I’m sure the machine hasn’t begun whatever it is meant to begin. I have not felt the spider do a single thing, and there is no current running into me.
Steamlust Page 7
