by Radclyffe
“I’m sure the desk has seen worse.” She arches a little, her bum lifting as she goes up on her toes. “Raleigh was imprisoned here for years.”
Opposite us, above the fireplace, is an oil portrait of the Bloody Tower’s former occupant. I feel a twinge of sympathy toward old Walter as I flex my fingers in readiness. No doubt the ladies drove him mad too.
I shove her skirt up to her waist, the heat rising off her body tempting me to crowd closer. Her purple stockings have eyelets through which I can see little scallops of white skin. When I touch, she shivers obligingly, and I begin to work the elastic down over her thighs.
My first slap catches her flush across both cheeks, startling a cry from her that is mostly triumph, which won’t do at all. I’m gentle because her skin won’t be warm yet, and because we don’t want to be too noisy, but soon she’s turning rosy down below and breathless up above. I snare my naughty Silke around the middle, splaying my free hand across her belly. All I’ve got is a handful of warm winter jumper until she guides my fingers up to cup her tit.
When I slap her again, this time I let myself linger on her ass, rubbing circles over the marks I’ve made. The raven skitters on her perch but I don’t spare her a thought because Silke’s moving underneath my hands, canting herself into the edge of the table as she seeks pressure for her pubis. Letting her rock, I drape down over the invisible line of her spine, covering her with my body.
Going on tiptoe makes it easier for me to fit my hips to her ass and move with her, and I need it, because I’ve been wet for what seems like hours now. The graphic friction between cloth and cunt isn’t quite enough; it drives me to seek more pressure. There’s none to be found on the lush curves of her body, so I hitch her further across the desk, angling my hips against her ass and thigh until I find just the right spot to gratify.
Her body is beginning to shake with the effort of holding the position. I lean to stroke her throat, everything I can reach; she ducks down her chin to take my fingertips in her mouth. Warm tongue, feather-soft. I can’t hold back my little groan of appreciation. She opens wider for me, her neck craning at an awkward angle made more difficult by the way I’m now pumping my fingers into her mouth.
Get them nice and wet, I don’t need to say; she’s a naughty girl, but she’s good when she wants to be. I feel her spit coat my fingers, and that’s enough—as hot as her mouth is, she’ll be even better inside.
I know that I should be worrying that the Warder will return, that the raven’s sounding increasingly unhappy at our backs, that this probably is treason. But her ass tilts up to me, and I can slide my fingers all the way along her crease from the beautiful clutch of her hole down through her honey to her stiff little clit, and honestly, I don’t care. All I want to know about are those breathy noises she makes when I forget to tease her open because I’m so desperate to just plunge straight in.
Oh, oh, those noises. Sounds of pleasure that are so sweet against my panting breaths and the scrape of the raven’s claws on iron. Silke’s utterly pliant underneath me, all her curves flattened against the unforgiving table, but neither of us notices. The important thing is how her folds part against one-two-three of my fingers, how her juice burns effervescent around them, how delicious she is when I pull them out for a quick taste.
While I’m knuckle-deep in her body, her vibrancy singing through into mine, it’s hard to imagine this place as a prison. Silke’s the storyteller, though. She takes hold of the idea for me, like she took charge of my fantasy; gilds it into a filthy tale of serving wenches coaxed across this very desk. Cock and cunt, flung-up skirts, gasping need and traded favors—it coils with the danger to bring us to fever pitch.
From across the room, Bronwen beats her wings in agitation across the air. But Silke’s groaning now, with every thrust of my fingers. My other hand has found its way underneath her jumper, to where perspiration pools at the base of her spine. I dig my thumb into damp skin just to hear her hiss. When she does, I give her what she wants, that curl and press of blunt nails against the rough patch inside her. Her keen rings out like the raven’s caw, loud to my ears, loud enough that I quiet her into silent sobs as I do it again.
The raven takes flight, battering against the leaded glass with her wings. I crane around to see, trying to keep my rhythm while I investigate the problem.
“Oops.” Laughter trembles across Silke’s fucked-out vowels. Then, “Don’t stop.”
“Shhh,” I beg, and keep my hand moving, unable to stop touching her.
There’s a legend about the ravens of the Tower of London, a portent of disaster. Should they ever leave the confines of this place, the White Tower will fall and the empire will crumble.
“Don’t worry,” she tells me, urging me faster with open, gasping mouth. “Can’t go far. Wings…clipped.”
I push in hard. With a final twist of my fingers she’s coming around me with yipping cries and velvet ripples. Her legs twitch and judder, and I hold still in her, deep as I can, letting her take away all my worries and make them good.
If there are restless ghosts here, I hope we’ve given them a good show.
Silke’s body is limp now, all the tension drained out of her. Her cheek slides along the surface of the desk as she lets her head hang over the edge.
We pant together for a long moment until she says, “Becky… there’s gum down here.”
She sounds outraged. It’s hilarious, as there’s a trace of her cum too on the dark wood. I lick my thumb and smudge it away. “Young vandals.”
Skating my fingers along the outer folds of her cunt, I find that while she was wet when I was inside her, she’s now sopping. I dip into her again, tempted for another go despite the insanity of the idea.
Then she rolls over, propping herself up on her elbow and smiling up at me muzzily. She looks well-fucked.
“Come here,” she slurs as she hauls herself up with my scarf. I should back away, should get myself together, but right now Silke is using her booted ankles to squeeze my hips and pull me nearer. I crowd into the space between her splayed legs, letting her rub wet denim over my cunt until the friction catches fire and I come with a sharp cry and sparks against my eyelids.
Dizzy with her, it’s all I can do to fumble along as her skirt pulls down and stockings go up. I’m shakily cleaning my sticky fingers on the ends of my scarf and closing my coat when I hear Silke curse. Spinning around, I expect the worst, but there’s no angry Warder waiting in the doorway. There’s nothing in the room but us.
“Where the fuck is the bird?” she demands, hands on hips.
Clipped wings, maybe, but I picture the bloody great thing hopping down the hallway, frightened off by our sex noises. I start laughing, can’t stop.
It draws her back to me as she begins to laugh too. “Well, it can’t have gone far. The Tower’s still standing, the kingdom seems intact.”
I shake my head, still breathless. “I knew you’d be trouble when I fell for you. But I never thought the British Empire would fall for you too.”
Silke nibbles at my earlobe with sharp teeth. Her kiss is actually cooler than my flaming skin. “Don’t worry, Becks, next time we’ll just steal the Crown Jewels instead.”
I grin at her. Her hat’s been knocked off-kilter and the high ridges of her cheekbones are smudged with pink. I think, Everything will be fine, as long as we’ve got this love.
And I know that when we leave this fortress, we’ll see the HMS Belfast glowing in the early evening, we’ll get mesmerized by Tower Bridge like we always do. She’ll tug me away from fiddling with my night settings. We’ll cross down from the Hill and wander fruitlessly for an open pub until we give up and jump the Tube at Bank.
She’ll jump me as soon as we’re home. I’ll try to tease her properly this time, make her wait in squirming suspense until morning, but we both know I won’t be able to resist. I’ll crawl down between her thighs to lick her out and she’ll return the favor. We’ll tangle together until I kick her ov
er to her side of the bed. Another night we’ll share another fantasy and I can only hope for my aching back that she’s never had a kink for the Stone of Scone.
When we do walk out, Silke tucks her mittened hand into my pocket as we turn instinctively toward the river. Between my legs is the contrast of the cold night on my still-hot flesh. I like knowing that she’ll be feeling it too.
Sod the ravens in the Tower. In the rattle and hum of this eternal city, together we are legend.
“So. Raleigh,” I say, knotting my scarf against the wind. “Cheeky bugger by the looks of it. Laying down his cloak for saucy Liz Tudor to step on? Wonder what else he laid.”
My lady grins and reaches underneath my coat to pinch my bum. “That’s the spirit.”
THE WAY TO A WOMAN’S HEART
Catherine Paulssen
As Matilda chopped the basil and parsley, excitement rushed to her stomach, little butterflies that ignored the chaos around her, looking forward only to sharing the night alone with Olivia. She stirred the blubbering apricot pulp that simmered in a pot next to her before continuing to hack the herbs, and her mind wandered back to the time the fluttering had started, so many years ago. They had been cramming art history for their midterm exam—no time, money or inclination to prepare something fancy—and when the rumbling in their bellies reminded them that they couldn’t be wise on empty stomachs, she had made them some pasta.
The Price Chopper spaghetti, ready in less than ten minutes; a jar of Newman’s Own organic tomato basil sauce her mother had left her—“So you’ll at least eat something wholesome once in a while”—heated in the microwave; a chunk of Parmesan she had borrowed from her roommate, now unusable and covered in mold. The meal she had presented Olivia that day could hardly be called awe-inspiring.
For some quiet minutes, while nothing was heard but the clanging of forks against pottery bowls, she had taken her mind off Renaissance construction designs and instead studied Olivia, who had been kind enough to pretend that the slightly sticky pasta and ready-made sauce was the best food she had ever had. Her shiny dark strands had fallen onto an exquisite face, oval and dominated by a pointed chin that moved from side to side when she concentrated hard and ground her teeth. Her slender hands had moved quickly while coiling the spaghetti on her fork. She had looked up, and the probing stare of her dark eyes had struck Matilda deep inside. For longer and longer moments, she had been unable to look away—or to ignore that unfamiliar humming deep in her belly whenever their eyes met. The expression with which Olivia contemplated her had been impossible to read until her face had eased up into a boyish grin and the sobriety in her eyes had been replaced by an impish sparkle.
“Let me,” she had said, reaching out and wiping away a drop of pasta sauce that had spilled on Matilda’s chin, mocking her gently for her inability to eat like a grown-up.
Matilda hadn’t moved as Olivia’s fingers touched her skin, and for a fleeting moment, her friend was no longer the kind, funny fellow student from Professor McNeill’s class. An instant later, Olivia’s eyes had become unreadable again, but Matilda knew she had sensed the sensual tension too. That night, at the door of her apartment, they had said good-bye with a kiss.
Now she reached for a little bowl of grated pine nuts to mix with the herbs.
They’d been together for more than ten years, and though money was no longer something to worry about, time had again become a precious commodity. So tonight, she would once again evoke that newly-wed feeling that had gotten a little lost amidst the children’s birthday parties, family gatherings, 1040 forms and overtime hours—that spark she had felt when Olivia first looked at her with that certain expression in her eyes. Matilda couldn’t help the smile that curled her lips whenever she pictured the moment Olivia would return from her trip to the architects’ convention and discover the luscious dinner for two that had been prepared for her, all perfect with lilies, Nina Simone and special-occasion china.
Over the years, Matilda’s cooking abilities had improved, as long as the recipe wasn’t too demanding. But even being a wife and mother of two with a part-time job at the Smithsonian had done nothing for her organizing skills. She figured that a selection of antipasti followed by a few simple Italian dishes would smooth over the fact that she’d never become a talent in the kitchen.
So far, she had a plate of coarse farmer salami imported from Tuscany, neatly arranged with thick slices of fresh figs, and an apricot sauce to go with the dessert.
And about four hours to go.
She sprinkled olive oil over the herbs. In those four hours, she needed to get the four-course dinner ready, set the table, decorate the bedroom and transform herself from a messy woman with a kitchen smell in her hair into a seductive beauty who would evoke memories of younger days.
Cleaning up the kitchen was so unrealistic it wasn’t even an option. She could take care of it tomorrow. And what did a messy kitchen matter anyway, as long as the bedroom was glowing in candles and fairy lights?
The phone rang, and Matilda cursed under her breath. “Hey, Mom!”
“Darling! The kids just wanted to say hello. Here you go.” She heard her mother pass the phone to her son.
“Hi, Mommy.”
“Hey, Bennybear!”
“Mom! I’m almost seven!”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, big boy. Are you having a good time?”
“Grandpa took us on a boat tour! And we saw a real Indian village.”
While listening to her oldest recount the day with his grandparents, Matilda cast a glance at a pot that held six pear halves simmering in a stock of Chardonnay and spices. “That sounds fantastic!” she said, putting as much enthusiasm into her voice as possible while keeping the phone tucked between her chin and her shoulder and chopping up some anchovy fillets to blend with the herbs and pine paste.
“And guess what?” her son continued excitedly. “They have big trees. So big you can’t see them end, and Grandpa says they’re a thousand years old!”
“So you’re having fun?” Matilda asked, distracted by a spluttering sound from another pot.
“Uh-huh. What are you going to do tonight? Will Mama be back soon?”
She turned down the burner and for a moment, indulged in the delicious smell of cream, cinnamon, lemon zest and sugar, the base for what was supposed to become panna cotta. “Yes, in a few hours. I’m making dinner for us.”
“What are you having?”
Matilda sighed. “Um...pasta.” If she ever got to it.
“Grandma’s making us potato wedges.”
That’s what she should have gone for. “That’s very nice, Ben. Put Lilly on the phone, okay? And have fun.”
“You too!” he said happily. After some rustling at the other end of the line, her daughter’s sanguine voice piped through the speaker. Her first words were lost on Matilda, who tried hard to suppress a little shriek as a squirt of hot apricot sauce burnt her finger.
“Are you lonely without us, Mommy?”
She smiled. “No, angel. I’m good. And Mama will be home soon.” The butterflies fluttered excitedly as she said the words. “But I miss you.”
“Grandma wants to talk to you,” Lilly said.
“All right, sweetie. Have a fun weekend. And listen to Grandma and Grandpa. I love you.”
“Love you too. Bye!” There was a moment’s silence as Lilly handed the phone off.
“So Olivia will come back tonight?” her mother inquired.
“Uh-huh. Listen—”
“If you need some more time to yourself, we can keep the children for a few more days. They’ve been really good.”
“No, that’s fine. Actually, I’m just—”
“But you complained that you never get to do anything just the two of you!”
A pungent smell alarmed her. “Mom, I’m making dinner for us and—”
“A dinner?” Even through the phone, Matilda could see her mother’s sneer. “What—cooked solely by you?”
&nb
sp; “Yes, solely by me!” she replied defensively. “And Liv likes what I—Mom, I gotta go. Say hi to Dad.”
She tossed the phone away and rushed to the oven. The pears were ruined. Sighing, she threw the burnt reminders into the trash. One thing always has to go wrong, she told herself. She shrugged it off, turned the music up and got out another chopping board. As she began to cut the tomatoes, she kept careful watch over the boiling cream; she couldn’t lose that as well.
Her efforts paid off, and when she eventually set aside the small panna cotta–filled ramekins to cool, Matilda smiled proudly, confident the cooked cream would harden in time. Dessert and starters: check.
Next up was the pasta sauce. She was lilting along to Billie Holiday and pulling a package of mascarpone out of the fridge when a soft voice at the door made her squeal. She spun around with wide eyes. “Oh no! What are you doing here?”
Olivia leaned against the door frame, grinning widely. “I’m happy to be back too.”
Matilda rolled her eyes. “Ha ha. Look around.”
“Figs, baguette, some dessert sauce...and I smell cinnamon…” Olivia crossed her arms and took the kitchen in with one glance. “Are you expecting a secret lover?”
Matilda made a resigned face and shrugged. “You got me. I’m sorry you had to find out this way. She’s this amazing, sexy woman, and she is supposed to come back from a convention in three hours.”
Olivia laughed. “Come here,” she whispered, and Matilda fell into her open arms.
“I missed you,” she mumbled, her lips close to Olivia’s. She could taste the airplane-grade tomato juice on her mouth, and the butterflies burst into applause when they kissed.
Olivia made a purring sound that Matilda took as reciprocation.
“Where are the kids? Still at Yosemite?” Olivia asked when their kiss ended.
“Uh-huh. They say hi.” Matilda wrapped her arms around her wife. “Are you hungry?”
“Seeing all this? How could I not be!”
Matilda broke away from their embrace. “I’m only done with the appetizers.”
