“I know.” He kissed the top of her head. “I pay attention, you know.”
“Yes, you do.” She put the earrings on and shook her head, delighting in their weight and the way they brushed her neck. “They’re perfect.”
“So are you. Shall we go to dinner?”
“Thomas helped my father design the Scot-Western Cruise Line,” William explained, remembering after quite some time that Nora wasn’t knowledgeable about railroads or ships. The guests at the Captain’s table on this night were mostly dignitaries of the White Star Line or deeply involved in the creation of the Titanic itself—or guests and wives of those men—and the conversation had been far from the usual prattle of an elegant dinner. Nora had been simultaneously lost and fascinated by the technical talk.
She knew what the Cruise Line was—William’s father’s pet project, an elite transcontinental train designed to bring all the luxury of an ocean cruise to railroad travel. Now she understood exactly what that meant. “Oh! Well, that’s wonderful.”
“I enjoyed working with your father very much. Henry Frazier is one of the greats.”
As Mr. Andrews continued, extolling the virtues of William’s father, Nora felt a light pat on her arm. An elegant woman, old enough to be her mother, was seated beside her. Nora hadn’t quite remembered her name. The wife of one of the White Star men, she thought.
Masking her irritation at being distracted from interesting conversation, Nora turned a proper smile on the woman. “Yes?”
“Your hair, dear. It’s quite … unusual. Is the style from Paris?”
All she had to do was smile and say yes. Simply tell a small fib and start a harmless conversation about Paris trendsetting. But Nora had been in Society enough to understand the code underneath people’s words in this world, and she heard the insult the woman intended.
So instead of preserving the social niceties, she grinned darkly and patted her curls. More loudly than the question had been asked, she said, “No, not Paris. But it’s all the rage in Bedlam. Do you like it?”
The table went quiet, and Nora regretted her mouth at once. She cast an anxious sidelong glance to William. If he reacted by apologising for her, her heart would crack apart.
All he did was set his hand on her thigh. Just comfort, support.
“Lady Nora,” a British woman across the table mused. “Are you Lady Nora Tate?”
Nora kept her back straight and her eyes and voice steady. “I am Lady Nora Frazier. But yes, that was my maiden name. My father is the Earl of Tarrin.”
The Americans at the table, save William, seemed confused. But every British face paled.
“For those of you wondering why so many at the table seem scandalised, it’s this: I was arrested last year in a protest for women’s suffrage. I spent time in Holloway Prison, and then more time at Bethlehem Hospital—what you all, I’m sure, know as Bedlam. I am a suffragette.”
For the first time, she believed that claim. Saying the words aloud, avowing them, made them true.
Mr. Thomas Andrews, designer of the RMS Titanic, raised his glass. “I know your story, Lady Nora. And I am all the more honoured to have made your acquaintance.”
She smiled and gave him a grateful nod. Only William raised his glass with him, but it was enough.
“You take my breath away.” William’s arms tightened around Nora’s nude body as he lifted her and put her on their bed. “My God, what a wonder you are.”
He lay beside her, and she rolled to her side at once to face him, pressing her chest to his. Oh, the feel of his chest against her breasts, the soft kiss of hair brushing over her nipples, the hardness of him, the breadth—she hooked her leg over his hip and melded herself to him everywhere she could, took his heat in, felt his strength.
His hand grasped the back of her head, and he covered her mouth with his, plunging his tongue to find hers. His beard scrubbed over her lips, her cheeks. She dug her fingernails into his back and swallowed his grunt.
His hand caught her nipple and plucked, and Nora threw her head back with a cry as his touch strummed all through her, deep inside.
“God damn. I need to feel you,” he groaned.
When he rolled, taking her to her back, and settled between her thighs, she pushed her hands between them and held him off. “William, wait!”
He grinned slyly. “You want to try something new?”
In the days they’d been married, he’d shown her many different things she’d never known about. He’d taken her from behind, while she was on her hands and knees before him, and while they lay on their sides with her back to his chest. He’d brought her to orgasm with his mouth and his hands. They’d had sex in the bath. And standing up, with her legs around his waist, her back against a wall. And, of course, in the usual way, with him above her, his eyes locked with hers, his body sheltering hers. It was her favourite way, because she sank into his beautiful eyes and felt she was inside him as much as he was inside her.
He’d given her so many kinds of pleasure in such a short space of time, but she wanted to do the same for him. She knew he felt pleasure, obviously he had. Another of her favourite things was his tender, sensual care of her as he cleaned the evidence of his pleasure from her skin. But she wanted to give him pleasure, to turn the focus on him. She wanted to touch him and watch what her touch did. She wanted more than that.
“Yes,” she answered, smiling. “Is it … do men …” She was shy to ask, now that the question loomed ahead. She huffed her hesitation away and started again. “I would like to touch you. And … taste you. Do you like that?”
He frowned, and she regretted her question. Clearly, he didn’t like it. “Nora, what do you mean?”
“Never mind.” Caught beneath him and unable to make distance for her burgeoning shame, she turned her head.
He slid his hand over her cheek and pushed her head back to face him. “Darling, tell me. What would you like?”
“I was … what you do to me. With your mouth? Can I do something like that to you? I mean, I know it would be different, but is it something that’s done?”
His frown shifted to a mask of utter shock. “Jesus.”
She’d crossed a line. Was she a deviant? “I’m sorry.”
“Nora, don’t apologise for saying what you want. I’m just … I didn’t expect you to ask.” He smiled, and she was somewhat eased. “My love, yes. Dear God, yes, it’s something that’s done, and it’s something I like. Very much. Would you like to do that?”
Breaths came freely again, and she sighed. “Yes. I want to give you pleasure like that. It makes me … wiggly to think about it.”
He laughed and rolled to his back. “I like you wiggly. Use me as you like, Mrs. Frazier.”
The frantic rush of blood that had been embarrassment became power instead. Nora sat up at his hip and crossed her legs. He lay before her, stretched out, spread like a banquet, and she didn’t know where to start. His beautiful chest? The appealing contours of his belly? His carved arms? His strong legs? Or the proud erection standing tall at the centre of him? She’d touched it all, but never like this, just her touching him, just her in control.
She started with his hand, because that was where he was touching her, his hand on her knee. Lifting it, she massaged his palm, his fingers, then set it on the mattress and worked her way up from his wrist, caressing, feeling the tickle of his hair on her fingertips, her palms.
“Fuck,” he muttered, and she flashed her eyes to his in surprise at the splintered edges of that coarse word. It was alluring, in some strange way, to hear talk like that, gruff and vulgar, at a moment like this. He rarely used coarse language around her, and she didn’t think she’d ever heard him use that word before.
At his shoulder, she fanned out her hands and ran them over his chest, moaning at the feel of him. His belly quivered under her touch, and she lingered there, letting her fingertips dip into the thicker, coarser hair around his erection.
Thinking of that venal thrill
she’d felt to hear him curse, she tried something like it herself. “You have a beautiful cock,” she whispered. The few times she’d used that word before, she’d shocked her audience—including William.
He grunted, and his hips rocked, as if the word had been a touch. She swept her hands over his hips, down his legs—hard as stone, chiseled like marble. Back up to his hips, to his centre.
She stopped, resting her hands in her lap.
“Nora?”
“I don’t know what to do.” She’d taken hold of him before, but nothing more. When he pulled out of her, if he didn’t come right then, he circled himself with his hand and pumped it up and down a few times. Should she do that?
“As long as you’re gentle, any way you touch me will be good.”
She began to reach for him but hesitated again.
“Do you want me to show you?”
“Please.” She felt silly and stupid. Ignorant.
“Give me your hand, darling.
She did as he’d asked, and he cupped his around hers and circled them both around his shaft. Holding her lightly, so that her hand held his shaft closely but not too tightly, he eased up, over the soft tip of him, and down, into the hair at his base. Again, and again, and again, until she had a steady rhythm, and his hips rocked and flexed. His hand dropped away from hers, and she kept the tempo going alone.
“Yes,” he groaned. “Like that. God.”
After a minute or two, or more, his breathing chugged through the room, carried on groaning exhales, and his hands clenched into the covers. Sensing that he sought something he couldn’t quite reach, Nora tightened her grip and tried to speed up, but her hand didn’t slide as she expected and instead sort of caught and skidded roughly over his shaft.
“Ah! Ow!” he gasped as his body tensed and his shoulders came up. “Easy, darling.”
Oh, she’d hurt him. “I’m sorry!”
“No, no, I’m all right. Just surprised me. The friction can be a bit much when it’s dry like this.”
She knew a way she could make him wet. If she could do it. She took him in her hand again and folded forward until she could kiss his tip. He was hot, and tasted a bit salty. She licked away a tiny tear of liquid hovering on the hole in the centre, and William sucked in a noisy, erotic breath.
“That’s good?”
“Yes, love. God, yes.”
Pleasure and need swirled around his words and made her bold. She sucked his tip in, past its ridge, and his hips went taut and lifted off the bed.
Elation surged through her, and she wrapped both hands around him and sucked deeper. Unsure, but following an instinct that had awakened in her, she began to move up and down on him, simulating the rhythm of his thrusts, and how he’d shown her to use her hands.
“Like that, yes. Just like that!”
Each gasp and groan from William emboldened her, and Nora shifted a little so she could cast her eyes up and see his face while she sucked him and licked him. He was watching her, his eyes hooded under his furrowed brow. She flicked her tongue over the ridge of his tip, and his back arched high. What a sight—her man lost in the throes of pleasure she made for him.
Sailing on that wave of power, she sucked him as deep as she could, until she thought she’d gag if she went further. His hands slammed onto her head, both at once, with such force she flinched.
“AH!” he shouted and pushed her away.
She’d bit him. She could even see the mark of it on him.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Never had she been so ashamed in her life. All that he’d shown her, and she’d repaid him by hurting him. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry!” She let go and clenched her arms around her waist. “I hurt you! Again!”
Panting, still obviously reeling from her assault, William turned to his side, propped on his elbow. “Nora. Stop. I’m fine. Up to that very last second, which was my fault, I liked that very much. Very much.” He pulled her arms loose. “So much that I’m in a state here. Don’t close up on me. Can we try something else?”
“I don’t want to hurt you again.”
“I don’t want to be hurt. But I like you in charge.” He lay back again, and tugged on her hand. “Nora, come. Straddle me.”
“What?”
“Sit on me. Ride me.”
“Like a horse?”
The question made him laugh. “Exactly. But the way you like to ride. Astride.”
She shifted to her knees and came to him. He helped her into position so that she knelt above him. His hand skimmed over her hip, around her thigh, and pushed between her legs, brushing through her folds. She shivered at the sparks around that light, sweet touch.
“Ah, there’s the wet I need. Hold me steady, and sit down on me, Nora.”
Not feeling at all in control, Nora did as he asked. The slide of him into her forced a long, sighing moan from her throat, and her head fell back. At the same time, William groaned so deeply she felt the rumble of it against her thighs.
When she settled her weight on his thighs, he was so deep inside her she felt impaled. He’d reached a new place, a place so new and sensitive that each touch, each shift stunned her. She opened her eyes and looked down at him. He stared up at her, blazing need from his beautiful hazel eyes, eyes that were like she imagined California to be—wild and unfathomable, full of sun and life and sea.
Now she understood the power she had in this position, the control. Setting her hands on his magnificent chest, she rocked her hips, gasping at the shock of deep bliss, and making William’s eyes flame bright, and his brow furrow with desperate concentration.
Each time she rocked her hips, she thought she’d die from the intensity of it, and William groaned like she was killing him. This was different to anything they’d ever done. This was … it was earthy. It seemed almost dirty, and gloriously so. Maybe she was a deviant after all, because this pleasure so deep it ached, it hurt, was the best thing she’d ever felt.
She rocked harder, seeking an even deeper blast of ache, and she found it and cried out. William shouted and sat up, grabbing hold of her bottom with both hands, crashing his head to her chest and finding a nipple, sucking it hard, strafing it against his teeth. Wrapping her arms around his head, she rode into the ache, the pain that was pleasure. She rode him as hard as she could until she bounced on his thighs and cried out each time she landed on him, until ecstasy cut through her like blades and she screamed.
As soon as she did, William roared and flipped them over, pulling out of her so quickly she screamed again, and he came at once, over her breasts and belly, gripping her thighs with such force she could feel each ridge of his finger joints impressing in her skin.
When he was done, he collapsed onto the bed, his face buried in the pillow beside her head. It seemed far too long before he turned his head to take a breath.
“What did we just do?” Nora asked, knowing it was different.
He chuckled and rolled to his side. “That, my darling, was fucking. We just, as they say, fucked each other silly.”
“Oh. I like that.”
“So do I. So do I.”
As usual, as soon as he could, he got up and went to the bathroom, coming back with a warm, wet cloth. Nora watched him as he cleaned her, wiping gently, letting the cloth excite her sensitive flesh. Sometimes, this ritual of washing leg to another round, and another need to be cleaned, but tonight, they were spent. When he rinsed out the cloth and came back to bed, Nora cuddled close, nestling her head on his chest.
“Am I a deviant?” she asked as they’d begun to quiet for sleep.
“Hmm?” His voice was drowsy. He asked again, more clearly. “What?”
“Liking the things I do. In sex. Is it normal?”
He lifted her head and stared into her eyes. “First, why do you care?”
“I don’t know. I don’t seem to like what other people like, or do what they do. It’s like tonight—I shouldn’t have said what I said at dinner. I knew I shouldn’t say it, but I said
it anyway. It wouldn’t occur to most people to say such a thing.”
“Nora, it occurs to everybody to say such things. Most people just restrain themselves.”
“Then I am deviant. I’m not normal. Because I don’t restrain myself.”
“If normal is women like Mrs. Barker, then no, darling, you’re not normal. And thank God for it. Speak your mind. Think what you endured to gain the right to do so. Be true to yourself. Nothing that you like in bed has been anything but wonderful to me, and I can’t imagine anything you’ll like that I won’t like, too.”
“Is there more?”
“There’s a wide world of more, but there are things I won’t show you, because I don’t like them myself. But trust me when I say, in the scheme of sexual interests, you are nowhere near deviant.”
She lifted onto her elbow and met his eyes. “Like what?”
His smile had just enough condescension to cement her interest. “No, love. You don’t need to know.”
“Don’t decide for me what I need to know.”
“You’re deciding for me what I need to say.”
Without a rebuttal, but wanting an answer anyway, she simply stared him down.
He sighed grumpily. “Okay. Here’s one. Some people like to be whipped and beaten for sexual pleasure.”
Shock dropped Nora’s jaw. “What? You must be joking. That’s terrible.”
He shrugged. “It’s not my party, and I’m glad it’s not yours. But some need pain to feel pleasure. I don’t judge.”
It was hard not to judge something so extreme, but Nora tried. She remembered the pain inside the pleasure she’d felt tonight. But that had been an ache, like a deep, sore itch. Not like the crack of a whip. Not like the pain she’d caused him. “How do you even know that?”
Again, he shrugged. “I live in San Francisco, and I’ve spent a lot of time with roughnecks. Also, I was a single man for a long time. I’ve seen the inside of a whorehouse or two.”
“Just stopped in for a spot of tea, I expect?”
He gave her a very broad caricature of an innocent face. “Of course. On my way to church.”
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