by Zoë Archer
She broke the kiss with a gasp. “Catullus, look.” She directed his gaze toward the hearth, where the banked fire blazed again. “We did that.”
“And that.” He nodded at the bathing tub, filled now with steaming water.
“Seems we have our own magic.”
Catullus stepped back. Before she could protest, he began carefully, methodically undressing her. Each garment, piece by piece. Revealing silky flesh. Her bare arms. Lush, gorgeous breasts tipped in coral. The soft curvature of her belly. Red-gold at the juncture of her slender legs. Down to her bare feet, which were not a lady’s dainty, pampered feet, but revealed that she carried herself and moved and had her own momentum propelling her forward.
By the time Gemma was fully nude, Catullus could not control his shaking.
“Frightened?” she asked him.
He shook his head, but he felt awkward and tight in his movements. “I want you so damned much.”
“Have me.” When he stepped forward to touch her, she held him back with an outstretched hand. “First, there’s something I need.”
“Anything,” he rumbled.
She smiled, wicked. Walked her fingers up the buttons of his waistcoat and then began with agonizing slowness, to undo them. “I get the same privilege.”
He submitted himself to the torture, willingly. In a distant corner of his mind, growing more distant by the second, he wondered if all women had an instinct for sensual torment, because Gemma seemed to delight in bedeviling him. Each layer of his garments came off, slowly peeled away by her caressing hands. When she’d bared his torso, she stood behind him, pressing her breasts into his back, running her hands down his twitching thighs.
Button after button, she unfastened his trousers. Reached into them once they were open to take his cock in her hand. He hissed with pleasure as she trilled her approval. “Can’t wait to have this inside of me,” she murmured.
“God, Gemma.” His hips bucked, pushing into her hand.
Maddeningly, she took her hand away. “Not yet. Take off your boots.”
He doubted boots had ever been removed faster. As soon as he was free of his boots, he shoved down his trousers and kicked them away.
Both of them stood naked before each other. Without his spectacles, the edges around her softened, yet only slightly. He could still see her, every dip and curve, could see her hair fanned over her shoulders, and the desire etched in her face.
“You’re magnificent, Catullus,” she breathed.
Reflexively, he glanced down at himself. He’d seen his own body before—with its archive of scars revealing a history spent in battle—in all states, all conditions. Even aroused. But, under her gaze, his excitement built to dizzying heights. He’s never seen his cock so upright, so thick and demanding.
He looked back up at her. The tips of her breasts were tight points, and a flush covered her skin.
“Get in the tub,” he growled.
She hurried to comply. As she slid into the water, she sighed. “The temperature’s perfect.” Once she settled herself, she leaned back against the side of the tub, flicking her fingertips through the water. She smiled invitingly. “Now you.”
God, how he wanted to. But … “Don’t think there’s room.”
“I’ll make room.” She scooted forward, bringing her knees up closer to her chest. With a temptress’s voice, she said, “Not going to ask twice.”
And he didn’t need to be asked again. Telling himself that logistics could go hang, he eased into the tub, fitting his long body behind hers. Once more, he found himself astonished when he should have been inured to the whys and wherefores of Otherworld. Both he and Gemma fit effortlessly in the bathing tub despite its appearance. There was room enough for him to stretch his legs, and for her to lie back against him, resting her head on his shoulder.
They twined their arms and fingers, sliding together, adjusting, until they were perfectly situated.
He closed his eyes to allow himself to feel the brilliance of her sleek, wet body against his own. The curves of her buttocks nestled against his upright cock.
A growl rumbled deep in his throat.
His eyes opened. He needed to see. Positioned as he was, he had a faultless view of Gemma’s body, its secrets and pleasures. The water made her shimmer—or perhaps she shimmered with her own light. This would not surprise him.
“Time for the mermaid’s bath,” he whispered. He scooped up a handful of water and poured it between her breasts. She purred and arched up. The curve of her back thrust her generous breasts upward, like an offering.
His heart pounded as he filled his hands with her breasts. They were silken, full, flawless. Each caress turned her liquid and supple, and when he circled and rubbed her nipples, her sighs lowered to moans. She turned her head so that he felt her quickening breath against his throat.
“I love your … hands,” she gasped. “I love to see them on me.”
As he continued to worship her breasts with his hands, their mouths came together in a long, thorough kiss. He loved the taste of her—could live on this alone.
One of his hands moved from her breast to glide down her abdomen. He traced circles on her flesh just below her navel before dipping lower. When he slid his fingers between her folds, discovering them to be flushed and full, he swallowed her moan. Even in the water, she was slick for him, and he stroked her intimately, committing her flesh to memory through touch. He learned more of her secrets.
This is how she liked to be touched. Here, in this way, he found what she needed, where to be gentle, where to be commanding and firm. He stroked the bud of her clit. She writhed atop him, her arms draped over the edges of the tub, her legs wide. Entirely open.
“Oh, that’s … that’s … yes,” she rasped, tearing her mouth from him. “Catullus.”
He lightly pinched her nipple as he continued to stroke between her legs. Her movements grew more frenzied, and the sensation of his cock rubbing against her buttocks pushed him to the very edge. He held tight to his release like a man clinging to salvation, for he refused to give in.
On a keening cry, she came. She bowed upward and water churned around them, spilling onto the floor. The sight of her glistening nude body was too much. He squeezed his eyes shut, for if he looked at her, at the firelight over her wet skin, he was done for.
Gradually, in waves, she relaxed. She sank against him as his hands gentled to touch her soothingly. He ached all over with the force of suppressing his own release.
Eyes languid, she turned to partially face him. “Such a talented man.” She trailed her fingers along his neck, down his chest, and lower.
His hand on her wrist stopped her before she could reach his cock.
“Why not?” She made a playful pout.
“I’m not like other men, sweetheart.” He chuckled, rueful. “Once I achieve my climax, my mind focuses elsewhere. On a new invention. Or a hypothesis that’s been proposed in the latest technological publication. Not very romantic, but it’s the way I am fashioned.”
“You’re a man of science,” she murmured. “You like experiments. We could try an experiment, see how many times we can get you to come and keep your focus.”
Her words alone would push him past his endurance. Knowing he could not last much longer, he stood, pulling her up with him. Water sloshed from the sudden movement.
“I’ve a better idea,” he said. “Let’s see how many times I can make you come before I fuck you.”
The bright color in her cheeks revealed how much she liked his crude words. He stepped from the tub and helped her out.
“I like the sound of that experiment,” she said.
“Thought you might.” What he did not say to her was that he needed to give her as much pleasure as she could bear—more, if possible. Everything around them had fallen apart. They were trapped in this cottage whilst somewhere in the mortal world, devastation and disaster moved inexorably forward. All he could provide for Gemma was pleasure, and he
vowed in this he would succeed.
He led her toward the bed, but instead of throwing back the covers and getting in, he lay her atop the blanket, her bottom just at the edge of the bed.
Her breath came in quick swells as he knelt on the ground, between her legs. She propped herself up on her elbows to watch him.
He ran his hands up and down her thighs, feeling the knot and release of muscles beneath his palms. Catullus took a moment to look at her, ready like a feast, the glisten of her pussy an irresistible lure.
“I’ve been theorizing what you would taste like,” he rasped. “And the surest way to prove a theory is to test it.” Caressing her thighs, he lowered his mouth to her.
At the first touch of his tongue to her, she arced up with a soft scream. He licked and stroked, discovering anew the flesh he’d learned with his fingers.
“You taste of honey and spice.” His voice was a low rumble. “Delicious.”
This was an act he enjoyed for its very intimacy, and now, with Gemma, he could at last allow it to be the adulation for which it was meant. To have his lips and tongue worship her most secret, responsive self, to consume her, take her into him—he knew bliss.
She splayed back onto the bed and her hands came up to cup his head. His name rose and fell from her in moans, sighs, pleas, and demands.
A climax burst from her, full-throated. She dug her heels into his back. And he did not pause or grant her any mercy. He tasted and stroked, insatiable. Orgasm after orgasm wracked her, but he would not yield, not until she stretched limp across the bed, her hands falling away from him.
Finally, allowing her leniency, he lifted his head. She stared up at the leafy canopy over the bed with glazed, dreamy eyes.
“How many was that, do you think?” he asked. “Two?
Three? More?”
“Lost count.” Her voice was gratifyingly slurred.
“But we’re not done,” he said. “There’s a methodology to scientific inquiry. Must explore all variables.” Rising to his feet, he gently drew her also up to standing. He led her as they moved to the foot of the bed, next to one of the trees that formed a post for the canopy.
Positioning her so that she faced the post, he brought her hands up to wrap around it. “Hold tight,” he whispered in her ear.
“What, why—?”
He stood behind her, planting his feet wide. “Shh. There will be a time for questions after the experiment concludes.”
“No such thing as too many questions,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“Sometimes,” he said, taking hold of her hips, “it’s better to” —he arranged himself so that the head of his cock was positioned at her opening— “experience something”— he thrust forward, sheathing himself fully within her—” to … Good God… truly understand it.”
“I see what you … yes … mean. Ah.” She moaned as he slowly, slowly withdrew and then plunged forward.
Her hands clutched the post with each thrust, and she pushed her hips back to take him. The neat compartments of his brain and structure of the world as he knew it all burst apart, because this—the slide and cling of her all around him, hot and soft and tight—decimated everything. All he knew, all he wanted to know, was her, taking him into her innermost self.
Before his own demands took over, he slid one hand from her hip, around her middle, then lower, until he touched her swollen clit. He knew it now, this small bit of sensitive flesh, and with exhilarating knowledge he stroked her, understanding through instinct and experience what was needed.
He stroked as he thrust, and her grip upon the post became tighter, the movement of her hips more frenzied. Sometimes he teased, sometimes he demanded. And when she came, the force of her climax made her scream and shudder.
His own control broke. Clutching her hips hard, his rhythm quickened. He lost himself to the fierce demands of his body, to the pleasure that obliterated identity. Catullus drove into her until he could no longer withstand his release. It pounded through him with such strength he thought surely this was how gods came to be, created in the fire and forge of sensual communion.
Not merely two bodies coupling, for that was simple biology. This was so much more than that.
Once he felt confident that his own legs would not buckle beneath him, Catullus swept Gemma up in his arms and tucked her into the bed. She mumbled a sleepy demand, which he obeyed without complaint, sliding between cool sheets and gathering her damp body against his own.
Gemma wrapped her arms around him, nuzzling against his steaming flesh. He stroked her hair and felt a peace settle over him he knew, given the circumstances, he had no right to feel. It had him, just the same, and he gratefully yielded to oblivion.
Catullus awoke from a doze to find Gemma kneeling between his legs, his astonishingly hard cock in her hands. He couldn’t believe it at first—he thought perhaps he dreamt—but no, the feel of her wrapped around him, stroking his thick erection and drawing desire in widening waves, this was real. She was real. And when he made a strangled sound of pleasure, she looked up at him with siren’s eyes.
“Now it’s my experiment,” she murmured. “Let’s test your focus.” Her breath feathered across the glistening head of his cock. She leaned forward, presenting the most incredible view of her breasts pressed against each other, and then—
“Holy God!”
She took him in her mouth.
In a helpless wonder, he bid good-bye to his sanity. The inside of her mouth was silken, wet paradise. She licked and sucked, sometimes slowly, sometimes with control-decimating speed. To watch her, to see her taste him with pleasure written on her face … he’d never witnessed anything so arousing. And to be the recipient of her attention, her deft tongue and clever mouth, truly he was blessed beyond all men.
As she worked him with her mouth, she also stroked with her hands, pumping him in time. His chest swelled as he dragged in air. Of their own volition, his hips rose up from the mattress. He was utterly in her power and happy to consign himself to a life of servitude, if it meant this overwhelming ecstasy. When he threaded his fingers into her hair, gently guiding her, she glanced up and their gazes locked. Her own arousal gleamed in her eyes, and something more.
Trust, he realized. He trusted her as he did no other. Just as she trusted him, for they were both vulnerable, open, and also unafraid.
His climax gathered, yet he held it off.
“Not yet,” he growled. In half a second, he had her on her back. He held her wrists above her head as he settled himself between her legs.
“Seems I made a monster.” She squirmed beneath him, the satiny press of her breasts pushing him beyond endurance. “A very focused monster.”
“Face the consequences.” Maddened, he drove into her.
She bucked, moaning. “I’m not … sorry.”
“Unrepentant … minx.” Already roused to a fever, he could not be gentle. His thrusts came quick and deep, raking him with pleasure.
Her ankles hooked just above his buttocks, clasping him to her. She was as mad as he, thrashing and writhing, meeting him thrust for thrust. He did not recognize himself. He didn’t know her. They had both transformed completely into creatures ruled by sensation and demand. And it was good. So damned good. This wild woman who made him wild, too.
He had enough rational thought to shift his body so that, with each surge into her, he rubbed her clit. This turned her into a demon, and she broke her wrists from his grasp to score her nails down his back. The hot trails of pain shifted to fiery pleasure.
“The claws come out,” he rumbled.
She was past hearing. “Catullus … yes … please.”
He gave her what she asked for, letting slip all control and thrusting with every ounce of his strength. The bed shook, its branches quaking as if in the middle of a storm.
Her legs locked around him as she came with a cry, her head thrown back, mouth open.
His orgasm hit him with the force of a gale. It rolled on and on, dr
aining him, lifting him. Each time he came inside her, he believed he’d reached the pinnacle of pleasure, and each time he gained still greater heights. Now he soared above mountains. His release was endless, and yet over too soon.
He lowered himself down and then rolled to his side, cradling her against him. For some time, they simply looked at one another, running hands over sweat-dampened skin, languidly kissing, making incoherent murmurs that they still managed to understand.
“Have to follow procedure,” she said, languid. “Postexperiment interview.”
He groaned. “Can’t talk. Lost power to speak.”
She admonished, “Mr. Graves, you have to respect the methodology. How can we learn and advance our understanding without sticking to the rules?”
“Hang the rules.” He nuzzled the base of her throat.
“Subject is being unruly. But he doesn’t seem to be losing focus. Do you feel like inventing something, Mr. Graves? Reading a technological publication?”
“God, no.” His body and mind both felt utterly satiated, incapable of anything but lying in bed with her supple, warm body pressed to his.
“Your initial hypothesis has been disproved,” she continued in a precise, practical tone. “And since the variable has been altered, we can thus conclude that you do not become distracted after orgasm.” Her smile turned self-satisfied. “Not when you’re with the right woman.”
He saw this was so. And it amazed him. He had no desire to get up and busy himself. His mind didn’t whirl with a thousand ideas, all demanding his attention. Peace. She’d given him peace.
“I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.” He pulled her tight against him, wrapping her in his arms. A flame of a woman who blazed without burning.
They were quiet, breathing in and out together. Sharing flesh and heartbeats and stillness.
“I could be like this forever,” she whispered.
An unwelcome edge of reality cut along his contentment. “You may have to.”
