Science Fiction Romance: Biomechanical Hearts (Space Sci-Fi Love Triangle) (New Adult Paranormal Fantasy)

by Olivia Myers

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  Much later, Jane found herself in a posh, harshly lit studio apartment, along with two-dozen other drunk and drunker literature professors. She was miserable, but if she had any consolation, it was that all of these people were just as miserable as she was. They shuffled around in thick, heavy coats and knitted ties despite the fact that it was a warm spring night. They bowed their heads and drank glass after glass of burgundy, and occasionally, one professor asked another about his or her recent book, or periodical, or article and then, satisfied with a single-sentence answer, returned to the sideboard to refill his or her glass. On and on it went.

  Marcus’s ‘surprise guest’ still hadn’t shown up. His flight had apparently been delayed in Denver and his new time was set to be around midnight. It was nearly midnight now and there had been no new word. Jane decided to give it fifteen minutes before leaving, but then, her head dizzy from the wine and from forced conversation—and her ears ringing with the high-pitched, inane conversation that Marcus Hobbs was attempting to make with his colleagues—she decided fuck it, no use making a ruined night go on longer.

  Jane locked herself in the bathroom and opened the window above the toilet. In an apartment filled with bored professors looking for a distraction, going out the front door was not exactly subtle. Jane, who was only 42, nimble and slim as a twig, found no problem squeezing through the window and out into the parking lot. She’d even managed to keep her wine glass from spilling as she went through. It was a fine wineglass and good burgundy, and the fact that she was stealing from Marcus Hobbs made it even better.

  Walking through the parking lot, Jane regretted her choice of dress for the evening. She’d known it was a mistake trying to look cute when her audience was 80 percent male—either misogynistic or queer or both—and 20 percent old, obese women who resented Jane’s intelligence and youth and natural beauty.

  She was wearing a short, pleated leather skirt and a thin, white sweater with long sleeves and a low neckline that showed a peek of her rather small but perfect breasts. She was wearing black tights and her favorite pair of high-heeled shoes: black, platform, patent-leather, with small, white bows that enclosed her feet like two perfect presents. It was so rare that Jane was able to dress up in the Literature department that she’d decided to splurge tonight.

  Not that it’d gotten her anywhere.

  In fact, it was decidedly getting her nowhere as she swayed across the dark parking lot, wineglass firmly in hand, her head swimming. She was much drunker than she thought, and although she lived only a short distance from Marcus—in the same neighborhood, in fact—she was becoming fast unsure whether she could make the walk back by herself.

  She bumped into a car that she hadn’t seen in the darkness. The wine sloshed and splashed against her sweater. “Shit shit, shitty shit shit!” she said. Without thinking, she put the fabric in her mouth and attempted to suck the wine out.

  “Well,” said a voice behind her, a voice Jane knew. “Well. It wasn’t like this I’d expected to find you again.”

  Jane turned, sweater still in mouth. Stephen Thomas stood before her. Stephen Thomas—Marcus’s surprise guest. Marcus was such an arrogant prick! He’d invited her to a party to celebrate the return of Stephen Thomas—the former Mr. Darcy of the English department; a Most Influential Person in Time Magazine not once but twice; the author of one of the most important books of literary criticism to appear in the last fifty years; a tri-lingual hunk with a charming British accent and handsomely greying hair; an absolute gentleman; and, ten years ago, Jane’s lover.

  “Hello, Jane.”

  “Stephen,” she said, letting the sweater slip out as her mouth dropped open. The red stain appeared like a cut over Jane’s body.

  “Oh, my,” said Stephen. “Have you been fighting with your pupils, Miss Jane Eyre?”

  “Oh, no sir,” Jane managed, trying to ignore his incredibly handsome face, the long, impeccably managed hair, the dry, British chuckle that greeted her shy response.

  Stephen’s gaze wandered over to the wineglass in her hand. “Oh yes,” he grinned, “of course. Burning the midnight oil. But I hope Marcus didn’t mind the theft?”

  “He’s too busy trying to salvage his party. His guests are falling asleep on him.”

  “Is it that bad?” Stephen frowned. “Well, I can’t say I was expecting the very best turnout from Marcus. But you understand, he practically forced the invitation down my throat when he heard I was returning to West Rourke.”

  “And look what you found,” said Jane, swaying, drunk. More wine sloshed out of the glass. “Why are you back, anyway?”

  “Too long a story for the parking lot. I’m cleaning up business,” he said vaguely. “But Jane, I must ask—will I be terribly missed if I decide not to attend this little soiree? I’m awfully tired you see and, well, having to deal with Marcus is not exactly an enticing proposition now, if you understand.”

  As Stephen was speaking, Jane attempted to brush some of the wine out of her sweater, forgetting that she was wearing high heels. The action caused the heel to slide across the ground and her foot to buckle under her. Stephen caught her just in time, but not in time to keep the wine from splashing onto his patched coat.

  Jane couldn’t help herself. She broke into giggles. It was too ridiculous—sneaking out through a bathroom window, stumbling across a parking lot absolutely drunk, and now meeting not just a former lover but one of the most eminent intellectuals on the planet, and what were they doing? Holding each other, drenched in fine burgundy. Jane buried her face in Stephen’s coat and laughed until Stephen was laughing along with her.

  “Now, now,” Stephen said after a time had passed. “We really must do something about this situation, Miss Jane Eyre. It certainly doesn’t do to have us both in a parking lot covered in the remnants of the night.”

  “‘You do not do, you do not do’,” Jane recited. Then, without thinking, without checking his ring finger, without really having talked with him, Jane pulled the lapels of Stephen’s coat closer to her breasts and kissed him hard on the lips. She kissed him as she hadn’t kissed anyone in years—hard, passionate, burying her mouth in his mouth’s returning kiss. She scrubbed a hand through his gorgeous, thick hair and cupped him by the back of the neck, securing him to her.

  The kiss might have lasted ten minutes, but Jane lost track of time. When Stephen finally broke away from her she was out of breath, and she tasted blood. Hers or his, she didn’t know.

  “I need to get out of here, Stephen,” Jane moaned, burying her face in his coat. A firm, warm hand ran over her long, auburn hair, comforting her. “You can’t believe how hard this day has been. For God’s sake, take me away from here.”

  -- -- -- -- -- -- --

  Moonlight poured in through the open window. Everything was cast in a pale glow: the bookshelves, the wicker chair in the corner of the room next to the old radio—a relic of childhood.

  Jane, lit by the moon, stretched herself out on her bed. She was wearing nothing but a black lace bra and a matching pair of panties. She didn’t know why she’d put on the panties when she decided to go out that night. Until now.

  Stephen stood at the foot of the bed, completely naked. The moon cast a gleam on him and Jane’s heart raced to see him gazing at her. What a man he looked, how noble, how powerful.

  “Stephen,” she whispered.

  “Don’t you say a word,” his sharp voice commanded. Jane’s mouth closed instantly. His voice was sinister, cruel. “Don’t look at me. Shut your eyes.”

  Obediently, she obeyed.

  “Touch yourself.”

  Lifted by some power beyond her own will, Jane’s thin, delicate arm was raised from its side and placed on her breast. She began to rub. Her skin was cool from having been long exposed to the bare air, and she wanted to warm the area, to restore some life.

  “Harder,” Stephen’s voice bit into the silence.

  Jane rubbed harder. She covered
the satin cup of her bra with her hand and squeezed and rubbed the breast. She felt her nipple through her bra, erect from the cold.

  “Rub with both hands.”

  The second hand rose from Jane’s side and fell on the other breast, where it commenced rubbing and squeezing and pinching. Her flesh was tender but it only made her rub harder, and harder yet, until the skin was scorching, hot. Yet she continued to rub. Her mouth opened to let out a cry of pain.

  “None of that,” Stephen’s voice warned. Jane’s eyes were closed but she could feel his presence, closer than before.

  “I am going to take off your panties,” he said steadily. “You are to continue touching yourself. If you stop, you will be punished. Do you understand?”

  Jane nodded and let out a slight whimper. She felt his muscular, cold hands on her thighs, felt them as they slipped the lace panties off like a ring from a finger. She was exposed. The chill of the room on her vagina made her tremble. Instinctively her knees began to close.

  A sharp, stinging slap on her cheek made Jane whimper. “None of that,” Stephen commanded, level but stern. “Open your knees, or you will be punished.”

  Obediently, Jane’s knees opened. She whimpered, softer than the first time, when she felt the cool air on her. Then, her right hand was lifted delicately from her breast. It went limp. “Spread your fingers.”

  She moaned as Stephen placed the fingers in his mouth, forcing them down his throat until they were generously wet.

  “You are to touch yourself,” he whispered. “Is that clear?”

  Jane nodded silently. Her hand, moist and warm from Stephen’s mouth, crept down to her vagina and touched the delicate, wet folds. They were like a woman’s lips, soft and plush, and they parted easily as Jane inserted a finger into herself. Her whole body seemed to lighten as she pressed her finger deeper inside her vagina. A whisper of a moan escaped her lips.

  “Stephen,” she said, voice trembling. “Stephen, please.”

  “Do not speak,” he said. “Keep your mouth closed.”

  “Please, please, Stephen.” She inserted her finger as far inside her vagina as it would go, until it was rubbing inside her, sending through her a spasm of pleasure. “I can’t go any further.”

  She felt her hand lifted away from her vagina, only to be replaced by Stephen’s fully erect penis. It was a geyser inside her, a moving stream of warmth and power. She felt herself filled and lifted. She bit her tongue until there was blood, trying to keep from crying out as Stephen worked himself deeper and deeper inside her. Then he slid out, letting the tip of his penis nuzzle against the wet, hot folds of her vagina, and he buried her mouth in his kiss, working his greedy, harsh tongue down into her throat. Jane welcomed the kiss like butter melting in her mouth. She opened her mouth and cried out loud and wrapped her legs around Stephen’s thighs as he pumped himself into her, working his manhood deeper and deeper inside her, filling her with a warm, incredible lightness of being.

  -- -- -- -- -- -- --

  For the first time in too many years to count, Jane woke up in the morning feeling happy. Not just happy. Fresh, renewed, full of energy. It couldn’t have been later than six in the morning—the sun was nothing more than a pale, delicate gleam outside—but Jane did not want to miss a moment of its beauty.

  A nightingale sounded its plaintive song from the willow outside Jane’s window. Jane closed her eyes, letting herself bask. No, it had been years since she’d experienced anything like this.

  Stephen was fast asleep next to her, gently snoring. It was a beautiful sight, Jane thought. Everything was beautiful, and she didn’t want to disturb any of it. She felt as though she were living in the world of John Keats, the deathless world of poetry, where all of life is just one extended heartbeat, and there is no measurement; there is only feeling.

  These thoughts in mind, she lifted herself out of bed and tidied her hair. She put on the skirt and the tights she’d worn the night before—why not look her best?—and clipped on her black bra. It’d be nice to take a walk, she thought. Or get some coffee from the diner. It was less than a block away, and she didn’t want to drink the watery coffee that she usually made in the mornings.

  Stephen’s wallet sat on the bedside table. It was a thick, leather bag of a wallet—big enough for storing incriminating evidence. Well, she thought, if she was hosting the award-winning literary doctor, the least he could do was buy them both coffee.

  Jane unbuckled the sizeable wallet and flipped through the currency. Mostly Euros and Swiss Francs, but she managed to extract a few dollars. She absentmindedly flipped through the sheaths of business cards and contact numbers. The people a man like this would know! She couldn’t even begin to imagine—the most famous doctors, the most famous writers, who wouldn’t he know?

  Suddenly, her mouth went dry. She nearly dropped the wallet. She held a picture pinched between her fingers, of a beautiful girl with hair not unlike Jane’s, with a wide, warm smile and a keen, intelligent face. A lot like Jane. Or, as a matter of fact, nearly identical to Jane, except for the first name, signed in cursive on the bottom of the photograph: “With love, Christine.”

  Jane zipped the wallet closed, and set it gently back on the table. She turned and looked at the man sleeping gently in the large bed. Could this man, her former lover—her current lover—really be her daughter’s fiancée?

  “Stephen,” said Jane firmly. The man stirred. “Stephen,” she said again as he awoke, “Stephen, I need to ask you something important.”

  The older man sat up in bed and blinked at her with his large, beautiful eyes.

  “Miss Jane Eyre,” he said sleepily, “you are a miracle for tired eyes.”

  “Stephen,” she approached him. “Stephen, my dear. Would you like me to get us some coffee?”

  THE END

  Bound to be Desired

  The afternoon sunlight blazed through the huge windows looking out on the Parisian skyline. As she moved about someone else’s apartment, Christine O’Darragh thought the view was like something in a snow globe. No one could deny how beautiful it was. And the loft houses around it had to be centuries old, older than the revolution. The plaster was so chipped that it bore the red brick of the building underneath like an indecent burn mark on an otherwise perfectly sculpted body.

  Most people found the area around Rue de la Sainte-Ursule pretty. Christine thought about her mother, a poetry professor back in America. Without a doubt her mother would see the ugly loft houses as romantic. She would probably look at them and imagine the starving writers who lived inside and tapped away on their old typewriters, hoping against hope for the fabulous luck that would lift them out of their poverty. It was romantic, thought Christine. Romantic for everyone else but her.

  To Christine it was indeed a snow globe world. It was fake, warped, and cheap, and useless when it came right down to it. She thought about the loft houses, their romantic image. Christine knew the truth. No starving artists lived there, no writers. This was one of the most fashionable districts in all of Paris, and one of the most expensive. The chipped paint was decoration. The only people who lived there were the fabulously, monstrously wealthy. They were the people who had twenty houses around the world, but couldn’t call any one of them a home.

  Christine knew all about these kinds of people. They were her clients. And, besides that, Stephen Thomas, her fiancé or, rather, ex-fiancé, had been one of them.

  Christine was a studio designer, and if her credentials and her clients were to be believed, she was one of the youngest and most successful in Paris. La Nouvelle Monde—the company Christine worked for—worshipped her as a protégé of French interior fashion. She was paid a fortune, given a fabulous apartment within walking distance of where she worked, and had been guaranteed a partnership within the next three years.

  Christine passed across the hardwood floors of the spacious living room and into a quiet corner of the apartment, bathed in sunlight. There was a visible skyline but it was no
t the postcard, snow-globe stuff that she detested. This view was more like it—the alleys of Paris, the forgotten segments. Ugly and congested, but authentic.

  Alexander trailed behind Christine, his hands crossed politely behind his back. He had been Christine’s client for a little over a month now, and during that time he’d watched over her like a hawk as she renovated his spacious apartment. Christine hadn’t the slightest idea what he did for a living, nor did she particularly care. With his stellar body and his inhumanly good looks, he could have been anything in the world.

  I might be renovating the apartment of a famous French actor, Christine thought to herself, and I wouldn’t have any idea.

  Not too long ago, Christine would have tried to find out more about the man she was working with. She used to love mysteries, loved solving the unknown and learning something new.

  Ever since she had learned about her fiancé’s infidelity, Christine had changed. She now detested the word mystery. Solving mysteries had been monopolized by the image of a condom in a back pocket; of stuttered, half-assed excuses; of hands thrown into the air with the words Do as you like. Yes, Christine was done with mysteries, as she was done with romance, as she was done with the postcard perfect world in which she had been living. All that was left for her now was reality, gritty and bitter reality, and because it left nothing hidden in the darkness, she had learned maybe not to love it, but to trust in it.

  “The reading room is fine,” Alexander said to her in French.

  This room had been one of the points in designing the apartment renovations that had given Christine the most trouble. She wanted the light to come in gently through the spacious windows, but she didn’t want the room to be overwhelmed. She wanted to keep a bit of shadow. She’d solved this problem by putting up drapes and covering the upper half of the windows. This way, the morning sun was blocked and only the evening light could shine through.

  But the drapes had also posed a problem. She didn’t want anything frou-frou: that certainly wasn’t Alexander’s style. And only after weeks of searching did she manage to find a drape that she liked. A thick, rough, maroon-colored fabric: dark and textured like spilled blood. It matched Alexander perfectly.