by Julia London
His hands slipped inside her dress, big hands on the smooth skin of her back, a finger tracing the path of her spine. “I think I rather like the Tantra thing,” he said into her hair.
Tantra, witchcraft—whatever it was, Rachel liked it too. She felt impossibly alive; the energy surging through her was not of this earth. She lifted her hand to his silk shirt, deftly unbuttoning it. “If you really want to know about Tantra, you must be completely naked, knickers and all.”
“That can definitely be arranged,” he said as he lazily caressed her bare back. “But what of you? If it is to work properly, mustn’t you be naked, too?”
“As a jaybird,” she assured him.
Flynn groaned, pressed his forehead to hers for a moment. “You’ve no idea how I’ve longed for that,” he said, and quickly shed his shirt.
He was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. His shoulders were broad, his arms thickly muscled, and his abdomen flat and trim.
Rachel closed her eyes; Flynn kissed her deeply as she blindly sought to unbuckle his belt and pull it free, then yanked the top of his trousers free. She unzipped his pants, felt the hard evidence of his lust for her beneath the fabric, and slipped two fingers inside his silk boxers, touching the tip of his penis.
Flynn’s body shuddered at her touch; he was suddenly working feverishly to have the dress off of her, alternately pulling it off and stroking every inch of her flesh, every curve, his mouth following closely, inhaling her skin.
Rachel realized she was working just as feverishly, her hands inside his shirt, feeling the rock-hard body of a strong man, and then clawing the garment off of him, desperate to feel his skin as he felt hers. When she had at last freed him of the shirt, her hands were everywhere, caressing him, gliding over his chest, stroking the soft down of hair trailing to his groin. She reveled in the feel of a man, a grown man, a man with substance to him, hard planes and ridges and softness all at once.
But it was not enough just to feel him; an unworldly energy was pulsing alive and deep within her, demanding more, demanding satisfaction.
Flynn caught an audible breath in his throat when she fumbled with his trousers to free his arousal, caught her shoulders, and tossed her down on the bed and fell on top of her, catching himself on his arms so that he didn’t crush her, and with a dangerous smile, yanked the dress down her legs, leaving her to lie there wearing a bra and her only pair of thong panties.
Quickly and expertly, he sought the fastenings of her bra and released her breasts from it, caressed the flesh of them, groaning with pleasure when they began to swell in his hands. With a kick, he was free of his trousers, and lowered his head, took one breast in his mouth, sucked the hardened peak onto his tongue.
Rachel gasped, then moaned, closing her eyes, letting herself sink deeply into the sensation of it. Every fiber of her was burning with the fire that licked at the deepest part of her; she felt Flynn’s body against her as she had never felt a man before, his hardness pressed against her softness. His hands were in her hair now, grasping at the curls, pulling it free of its ties, then from behind her head, so that it covered her shoulders, draped one breast.
“Fantastic,” he said hoarsely.
Then he dipped to nibble at the string of her panties. She felt them sliding down her thigh, and when she raised up on her elbows, she saw his bare thigh next to hers. She looked smaller and feminine next to him. He glanced up from his devouring of her panties, and the dark, sensual look in his eye made her feel like a sex goddess, very alluring . . . and a little like she was falling off a precipice into a warm pool of vanilla.
“You’re beautiful,” Flynn said softly as his hands traced languid patterns on her skin. His hand slipped between her legs, into the folds of her wet sex. He stroked her, watching her eyes. “I want to touch every inch of you, feel you and taste you, every bit,” he said, and lowered his head to her belly. “Would you like that?”
Rachel moaned her reply, moved against his hand.
Flynn’s breath was hot on her skin. He mouthed a warm, wet line to her leg, to her thigh, nibbling there for a moment. Rachel’s back arched; her body was beginning to quiver with the anticipation of a smashing release, and when his breath glanced the apex of her thighs, and then his tongue, she gasped and unthinkingly grabbed his hair. Flynn thrust his tongue deeper, pushing her legs farther apart, his mouth working around the core of her desire.
Rachel was lost, riding a shimmering wave, up and down and around and to the crest, tumbling off the other side too fast and too hard. “Ohmigod,” she breathed. “That’s wicked, absolutely wicked,” she said breathlessly.
Suddenly, she came up on her elbow, startling him from his ministrations to the valley between her legs, and sat up, tugging him to her. With a laugh, Flynn came up; she pushed him down, onto the bed, and he lay back, a Cheshire cat grin on his face, and stacked his hands behind his head.
“You’re really bloody gorgeous, Rachel,” he said, his gaze freely roaming her nude body. “Very sexy what with the curves and delightful tastes.”
She smiled as she straddled him, slid up his shaft. She put her hands on his shoulders, began to knead his flesh lightly. He settled back, smiling as he watched her, moving lightly beneath her as she traced soft lines down his chest with her fingertips, swirling around his nipples, then leaning forward in a curtain of curly hair to nibble them. She continued down his body, her tongue flicking into the crevice of his navel, her hands on his hips.
When her lips touched the velvet head of his penis, Flynn released his breath and shifted beneath her. His response prompted her to trace the length of him with her tongue.
“Bloody hell,” he groaned above her; his hands clasped the edge of the bed as he tried to restrain himself from writhing against her mouth as she tasted him as thoroughly as he had tasted her. But it was pointless to hold back, for Rachel had lost all self-control, and was gleefully pushing him to the brink of orgasm.
But Flynn wouldn’t have it so easily, and suddenly sat up, grabbed her beneath her shoulders, and pulled her up like she was nothing more than a doll. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, guided Rachel to his lap, and then his cock to her wet folds, teasing her.
“Don’t make me beg,” she said above him.
Flynn grabbed a fistful of her hair and wrapped it around his hand, pulled her face to his. “Tell me what you want, Rachel,” he muttered.
“I want you,” she said hoarsely. “I want you inside me.” Flynn thrust his tongue wildly into her mouth at the same moment he slid deep inside her, and began to move.
It was sensual overload; Rachel was wet and throbbing, aroused like a long-buried dinosaur, ravenous for physical pleasure.
When Flynn slipped his hand between her legs, Rachel’s head fell back; she was precariously close to ecstasy. But Flynn taunted her with his fingers, stroking her mindlessly, bringing her to the point of desperation, then easing off again, until Rachel could stand it no more and cried out for him to fuck her.
He made a guttural sound and thrust hard inside her, again and again, taking her breasts into his mouth, nibbling the hard peaks of them as her body took him in. Over and over again he thrust into her, and she rode each wave with great anticipation, harder and faster than the one before, her fingers digging into his shoulders, reaching for the earth-shattering climax she could feel pressing down on her until it rained in around her, pushing her off the precipice into that warm pool again.
Her body went limp; she fell onto his shoulder. With one last powerful thrust, Flynn gave a strangled sob of release as he pulled out of her, spilling hot on her belly.
They sat that way for a moment, Rachel hanging limply over his shoulder, until Flynn somberly put his arms around her, slowly leaned back until she could stretch out her legs and lay beside him.
The heat at last ebbed from their bodies, and he reached over the bed, pulled a blanket of some sort over them. “I think I should tell you before I announce it to my mum, but I’ve converted, h
ere and now, to Tantra,” he said, and kissed the crown of her hair. “Just tell me where to enlist.”
Rachel laughed into his chest and shifted, propping herself up on her elbows so she could look at him. “I have some bad news,” she said with a smile. “I’m not sure if we did it right. We might need to do further study.”
Flynn laughed low, tapped her nose with his finger. “You’ll never meet a more willing study partner,” he said. “That was brilliant.”
Brilliant. He had no idea how brilliant. And as Rachel was mulling over in her mind how she’d break the news to Dagne that at least one British guy knew what he was doing in the boudoir, Flynn said, “How odd . . . I have the strongest hankering for my mother’s rum cake. Do you smell something like cake?”
Rachel buried her face in his chest, laughing uncontrollably.
Chapter Twenty-Five
They lay in bed laughing at inconsequential things, playing a little game of naming their favorite things and marveling at how much they had in common.
“Favorite city,” Rachel said.
“New York,” Flynn answered instantly.
“Me, too!” she cried.
The favorite country was France. They both preferred alternative rock to rock and roll, and they both loved the circus.
It amazed Flynn that he could have so much in common with a woman so far removed from his little circle of almost-aristocracy friends. As she talked about a dog she’d had as a child (he, too, was a dog lover), he idly wondered how he had ever become so imbued in Iris’s way of life to have believed he loved her. How could he possibly have done so? Iris was nothing like Rachel, not nearly so engaging, or frankly, so pretty.
He was, he realized, accustomed to a whole different breed of animal—the sort of woman who never left her flat unless she was wearing strappy high-heeled shoes and was perfectly made up, the sort who worked to snag a wealthy partner in marriage, then spent the remainder of her days dreaming up the next soiree and sending children off to boarding school.
And while Rachel could seem a bit strange what with all the eastern philosophies and witchcraft and tapestry weaving, she was uncommonly stimulating. She had an immutable and charming personality, was compassionate and free. Frankly, when he’d begun this little journey, he had not been prepared for her charm; he had believed her to be just one part of another job, like dozens of jobs he’d done around the world. Yet Rachel had surprised him from the beginning—she had begun to grow on him in a way that now he could think of little else.
First, there were her all-American looks. Rachel was beyond pretty; she had that fresh look of a woman who actually lived life and did not require cosmetics to give the illusion that she lived. And she was healthy—not so very thin that a man would worry about snapping a bone here or there. There was that gorgeous mane of wavy hair that any man would desire to touch, and she laughed so fully and easily that it was quite obvious it came from somewhere deep inside her, someplace genuine and never contrived.
What was most remarkable was that in spite of coming from a very wealthy background, she was the most down-to-earth person he’d ever had occasion to meet. Her family’s fortune seemed to be the least important thing in her life, as if she could take it or leave it. Looking at her now, measuring their hands against each other, Flynn thought that he’d never meant for things to come to this.
But they had, and he was feeling very peculiar about it all. After that extraordinary romp in the sack, he was terribly curious about her, wanted to know every little thing about her, how her mind worked, what she liked to eat for breakfast, and what the little scar was on her arm and the significance of the tiny little tattoo on her ankle. And he thought, lying there that night, having named his favorite pet to be the penguin, to which she had frowned prettily and informed him in all seriousness that a penguin was not a pet, that he could imagine himself looking into those beautiful blue eyes for a very long time to come.
Therein lied the source of the peculiar feeling, for that was a bit of a problem, wasn’t it? He couldn’t quite sort out how he might possibly be falling in love with a woman he’d end up, in all probability, having arrested.
But at the moment, she was playing a little footsy game with him, and he could feel his wanker nudging him again, and thought he’d have a bit of a think about it tomorrow.
Subject: R U mad or what??
From:
To: Rach
CC:
I’m sorry if I offended you but I wasn’t implying anything about bridesmaids or otherwise. I know you probably date, at least I think I do, but you never really talk about it so I am assuming. Never mind, what I thought. I am trying to say I am sorry, so if you are mad, quit being mad and e-mail me back. This is like the fifteenth e-mail I’ve sent you. Don’t make me call the cops up there, because I will, I swear I will. P.S. Dad said he’s been calling you and you’re never home but he wants to talk to you. I think he is planning to come see you Thanksgiving, so you better call him back.
Subject: Thanksgiving Plans
From: Lillian Stanton
To: Rachel Ellen Lear
Rachel honey, I just want you to know that you are invited to our house for Thanksgiving. Your sister Robin and Jake and Cole and baby Madeline are coming and I think so are Rebecca and Matt and Gray and that sweet pea baby Jeff. They are not going to the ranch this year because your dad is not leaving New York altho I hope Bonnie will come because I haven’t seen my girl in awhile. I sure hope you can come too and you can bring your friend whatever his name is. I’m sorry honey I forgot it. But you just write me back and tell me when your getting in and I’ll make sure El comes to pick you up at the airport. X0X0X Grandma P.S. What did you think of the grapefruit diet—they are on sale here five for a dollar.
Subject: Re: R U mad or what?
From: Rebecca Parrish
To: Rach
CC: Robbie
[email protected] wrote:
This is like the fifteenth e-mail I’ve sent you. Don’t make me call the cops up there, because I will, I swear I will. Rachel, seriously, I tried to call the other day and your friend Dagne answered the phone and said you hadn’t been around in a while, and she kind of laughed when she said it, and frankly, I think she’s pretty weird and I am worried for your safety. I would not put it past a real witch to have done something like boil you in soup or something horrible like that. Matt is laughing as I write this because he says you are the smartest of all of us (please) and that you wouldn’t be stupid enough to get yourself boiled in soup and to quit worrying about it, but I can’t. It’s not like you to be off e-mail for days on end and not answer your phone. I know you better than Matt does, and I can remember all the bone-headed things you’ve done, and getting yourself into some weird situation you can’t get yourself out of is not outside the realm of possibility. I also know how sensitive you are about the boyfriend situation, so if you are just being mad at least write us and tell us you are not dead! If you’re not being mad and you ARE dead, we will know when we don’t get an e-mail from you or the cops arrive on your door and find your body sacrificed on some altar. So call me!
Subject: RE: RE: R U mad or what?
From:
To:
CC:
I am not dead. But I am very busy. Will write soon love Rachel.
P.S. Grandma, thanks, but I cannot come for Thanksgiving.
Flynn and Rachel were spending every day together, working around his consulting schedule and her thankfully short-lived job of packing fish. At present, she was answering phones for a paint company and working up an outline for her dissertation. In the mornings, she’d pop off to the gym to ride a few miles while Flynn went off and did whatever he did with his computer job, a
nd then in the evenings, they’d go out for dinner, or bundle up and walk down to the water to watch the boats go by, or wander around and look at the old and stately historic homes.
But mostly, they talked. About everything. Flynn asked lots of questions about her, which Rachel liked, because he seemed genuinely interested in her. That was definitely a new experience and she discovered, as she answered his questions, that there was more to her life than she’d given herself credit for.
He asked about her school, her travels. And about Dagne and witchcraft.
“I’m not really very good at it,” she had said with a laugh.
“Perhaps you could cast a spell to make yourself better at it,” he had quipped.
He asked about Myron, too, about his dual professions of professor and assistant curator, which Rachel thought was a little weird, but then again, she figured he wasn’t entirely convinced that there was nothing between her and Myron. The fact that Myron still had her phone and occasionally left messages advising her “they” were out of salami or sodas did not help that impression.
Rachel was wondering more and more why she hadn’t cut ties to Myron a long time ago. All right, he’d morphed into a security blanket, she could admit it. She hadn’t believed another guy would be interested—so why not hang on to Myron? At least he was someone to hang out with.
