by Dee Brice
His expression oddly tender, he trailed his fingers over her eyebrows then down her temple to her ear. “Are you very sad now?”
Since he sounded so serious, she considered her mood with caution. “N-no.”
“Are you happy?”
“No. N-not exactly happy, but…” She sighed as she pressed his warm hand to her cheek. “Not sad exactly, either.”
His smile bloomed in his eyes and on his lips at almost the same instant. Thumping his chest, she struggled to stand, but found herself sprawled over him, her forearms braced on his shoulders, her thighs held captive between his. His erection hardened against her mons, making it almost impossible for her to breathe. But not so impossible she missed the scent of chocolate coming closer and closer until the bonbon came to rest halfway between her nostrils and her mouth. Tantalizingly out of reach unless Walker moved it near enough for her to take it from his fingers.
“Would this help to make you happier?” Again he sounded somber, but his eyes brimmed with merriment and his lips… His lips now curled halfway around her bonbon. The only way for her to get it was to lunge and bite.
Chocolate, cherry and Walker’s unique flavor exploded over her tongue.
Sometime later—how much later she couldn’t begin to say—they eased apart. He toyed with a lock of her hair, his elegant fingers rubbing as if he’d never felt anything quite like it. And all the while, his gaze never left her face.
Unable to figure out what he was thinking, uncomfortable with the sensual energy that crackled between them, she said, “I’m not going—”
“To bed me,” he provided with a wicked smile that must have tempted ingénues and sophisticates all over London, at every coaching inn between the city and his estates, and over half the continent. He glanced down, a rather obvious invitation for her to notice where they lay. “I do not consider this a bed.”
“While I do,” she countered, propping her arms on his chest, resting her chin on her laced fingers. “I think I’m ready to talk about last night and Lord Leveson—Jason’s—rather remarkable…accent.”
“While I am not.”
That end-of-discussion tone rankled. Since anger never worked on him, she had to take a different path to her goal. “When might we discuss the situation?”
Her hair still between his fingers, he rubbed it over his chin. She heard and felt him inhale as if drawing in her scent. His stubble rasped, making her touch her own cheeks and chin. Had Walker’s stubble marked her?
Silly. Even if it had, the beard-burn would fade—if it hadn’t already. An odd sadness had her pulling away. A deeper sadness followed when he made no attempt to hold her.
“When?” she whispered. She had no breath for more.
“Sunday.”
She pursed her lips and incredulity flared in her widening eyes before her long, thick lashes swept down like a feathery yet impenetrable curtain. Not the reaction Walker wanted, but not unexpected. She had reason to resent all the men in her life and yet… He’d learned enough about her to know she used acquiescence as a ploy to getting payback. Until now he and Adrian had kept her off balance by shifting subjects. But this time and place were not of his or Adrian’s choosing. Nor had they anticipated Jason Leveson’s intrusion into the game.
Walker disliked surprises of any kind and had remained awake most of last night, solely to prevent Jason’s persuading Diane into an act of reckless folly.
She had paced to her dressing table and now turned toward him, a wicked-sharp nail file with a sterling silver handle in her hand. A secretive smile curved her lips as her gaze met his. He suspected she imagined using the file to geld him. He wanted to laugh, but his testicles shrank, drawing upward for protection. Willing his expression bland, he held her gaze.
After a long moment, her smile widened and, with a shrug, she returned the file to its place. A shoehorn and matching buttonhook along with a sterling silver topped crystal bowl completed the set. All engraved with D de B. Branded just as the embroidery on her handkerchiefs left no doubt as to whom they belonged. Even her night rails and chemises bore her initials, albeit unobtrusively intertwined with the lace ruffles adorning those garments. He considered locating those hidden letters a challenge—one he feared would go untested until she agreed to bed him again.
Did she know her gown hid nothing of her body? True, the material covered her, but without corset or chemise underneath, he could see the outline of her rosy nipples, the dark shadow of her pubic curls.
Why was it that knowing a woman wore little or nothing beneath her clothing was almost as arousing as seeing her naked? In some ways, ‘twas even more arousing—at least until he had her naked, panting and willing in his arms. With a mental shake, he brought his lustful thoughts to a more manageable level. First, he had to lure her back to his side. He’d worry about getting her out of her clothes later.
Retrieving his book from the floor, he employed a trick his tutor had used to gain the attention of several rowdy boys. He muttered. “‘Sir Walter Elliot of Kellynch Hall…’”
“Just when— What year is this?” she demanded when he firmed his grip, preventing her from taking the book from his hands.
Goal one—bringing Diane to his side—achieved. Next, get her to sit on the chaise. “Why is the year important?”
Slanting him a quelling look, she said in a toplofty voice, “Because what you read is the opening of Jane Austen’s Persuasion.” His quirked brow invited her to continue. “Published posthumously in 1817.”
“This is important, because?”
Growling, she plopped down on the chaise and wrenched the leather bound volume from his loosened fingers. “Because from the first time we met—sometime in the Middle Ages—I have never known exactly when we were. I have a right to know and this book—unlike certain people who shall remain nameless—will give me that information.” With a so there! nod, she opened to the first page, turned several more with increasing panic in her eyes and on her trembling fingers.
“There’s no copyright date!” she accused, her eyes blazing as she slammed the book into his chest. “Why is there no copyright date?”
He risked a shrug. “How should I know? Perhaps there weren’t copyrights in Miss Austen’s day.”
“Then how do we know when her books were published?”
“Would you care about copyrights if you knew the year? When we are now?”
“I might feel…somewhat relieved.” She nibbled her lower lip. His body warmed and his shaft grew. “I would be exceedingly grateful if I knew more about why we’ve been time traveling and how we can get home. If, in fact, my time is yours.”
Ah, another change of tactics on her part. Even though he had yet to tell her the date, her gratitude included stretching out at his side and snuggling against him. Her delicate fingers inched between the ties on his shirt and swirled his chest hairs. This time, however, she also tweaked his nipples. Before she could cause him pain, he flattened his hand over hers.
“I thought kissing was as far as I could go,” he reminded her, his voice deeper than normal and not all that steady.
“I…” The tip of her tongue swept her lips from corner to corner. He stifled a groan. “I have no idea why this happens, but…when I touch you I want so much more than just kisses. Without having intercourse, I mean.”
“We both know we can satisfy those needs in other ways.” He suspected she was attempting to seduce him. Attempting? More like succeeding—not that he would complain. Unless, of course, she blamed him for trying to seduce her. Which he was, of course, by using her own desire against her.
Her soft sigh pressed her breasts more firmly to his chest. Her breath hitched. The hint of her arousal wafted to his nostrils, enticing his shaft to rise. Looking down, he saw her eyes begin to glaze as she relinquished a little more control. He brushed a kiss across her lips. When she mated her tongue with his, he tasted a blend of Diane and chocolate.
“…fantasies?”
He returned to the moment wit
h a start. She leaned back, mischief lurking in her eyes and smile.
“You didn’t hear the question, did you?”
“Only the last word. And yes, I have fantasies about you. Ones that involve more than driving my shaft into your pulsing cunt over and over until I explode and you scream my name.”
She fanned her reddening face with the hand she’d had on his chest. Capturing it, he guided it to his rigid erection and watched her eyes widen and her breathing turn shallow.
“Did you have something particular in mind?” he said, his tone serious.
Her blush deepened, leading him to believe she’d given the matter a great deal of thought. Had, in fact, begun thinking about it before they’d arrived in this era. Her take-charge behavior also made him think her attitude had brought them here, to this time and place. Although women of this era were severely constrained by fathers and husbands or other male relatives, they had a little more freedom than in Diane’s previous lives. In this era, however, a rich widow had even more freedom. Did she intend to take advantage of that? Could he convince her not to misbehave? How? By threatening to have Parliament rescind her title? And what would that do, except make her hate him?
“I…” As if needing to hide, she laid her head on his shoulder, then drew a deep breath and blurted, “I have imagined you bringing yourself pleasure.”
He wanted to laugh—not because what she’d said was funny, but because she’d surprised him. And while their previous experiences had had a certain wildness to them, her suggesting… “Me? Masturbating?”
“Well…yes.”
He thought for a long moment, aware of her growing discomfort as seconds ticked by. She sat up. Her skin blanched, then flushed rose pink. She tried to hold his gaze, but failed and looked over his shoulder then at her hands. Alternately pleating her gown then stroking the pleats away, she smoothed the fabric over her thighs with her fingers. Lacing them together, she stilled.
“Never mind,” she said at last and started to rise.
Catching her hand, he drew her down once more. She turned her face away, intending he supposed, to hide the depths of her embarrassment.
“Might I suggest a slightly different approach?”
She looked at him, then said, “You’re asking?”
“Well…yes.” His echoing her words made her laugh. As he’d hoped, she relaxed a little.
“Will you disrobe?” she whispered.
“If you wish, yes.”
“Will I?” Softer still, her voice shook.
That surprising blush returned. For a twenty-first-century woman who made her living writing about sex, she seemed too uninhibited to blush. Then again, women blushed a lot in this time—or so it seemed to him.
“It seems fairer if we are both undressed,” he said at last.
After a brief hesitation, she nodded. “Will we kiss?”
“I hope so, but only if you want to.”
Arching one brow, her expression suspicious, she pursed her lips. “You are behaving in a manner most unlike you.”
Mirroring her quirked brow, he said, “Meaning, what? I am autocratic? Uncaring of your feelings or desires?”
“Well, yes. Not so much when we’re…having sex. But at other times, you are very autocratic and appear uncaring.”
He snorted. “In short, I am a boor.”
A smile twitched the corners of her lips. “In short…yes.”
“Then why do you want to watch me masturbate?”
“It isn’t that so much as it is…” She shrugged. He waited for her to continue. “I want to see you lose control.”
“You have witnessed my loss of control numerous times. Each time we have sex.”
“That’s different! And I don’t really see it happen. I…” She flashed him an accusatory glare. “I’m too caught up in my own release to notice yours. At least not as much as I’d like.”
“Imagine a volcano erupting.” That’s how it felt when his hot cum spewed into her even hotter cunt. And pleasing her pleased him more than he could or would admit.
“It’s not the same,” she insisted. “I want to see your expression when it happens. I want to watch how your body trembles and see if your skin tone changes and…all that.”
“I am an experiment? Like a butterfly pinned to a board so you may examine me at your leisure?”
Her beguiling half-smile reappeared. “If you wish, yes. The leisurely examination might please us both.”
Which was the exact point he’d intended to reach. He just hadn’t expected her to lead them there.
“Very well,” he said. She sprang to her feet, a wide smile puffing out her cheeks like an adorable chipmunk. “On one condition.”
“What?”
She sounded delightfully out of sorts. Just as he wanted her—off balance, him in control.
“You shall watch from start to finish without saying a word.” After she examined him from head to toes and back again, she nodded. “But first, you’ll let me bathe you.”
“For what purpose? Do you intend to make me lose control? Will you refuse to let me watch you? No! No, I won’t allow you to bathe me.”
“Then will you bathe me and do everything I ask you to do? Without questioning me at every step?”
The tip of her tongue darted over her lips. His shaft twitched, wanting that moist appendage running all over its length and breadth. He squashed the image and squelched a groan.
“So long as you promise not to pull me into the tub with you,” she cautioned.
“I promise. So long as you promise not to speak.”
Looking at him askance, she nodded.
Standing, his hand outstretched, he said, “You must sit, milady.”
“Sit?”
“Sit,” he repeated, permitting himself a small smile, “whilst I disrobe for milady’s pleasure.”
Her rosy lips formed an O before settling into that enchanting half-smile. Settling against the back of the chaise, she crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap. Her expression hovered somewhere between excitement and ennui. He preferred the former. He made a bet with himself as to how soon he could make excitement drown her obviously feigned boredom.
Whatever she’d imagined he might do to disrobe, a tantalizing striptease worthy of male exotic dancers was not among those images. She had no idea a man could look so intriguing while slowly removing his hose and garters. Or that sliding his breeches off his buttocks, then letting them drift down his powerful thighs to his now-bare feet could turn her innards to a quivering blob of anticipation. True, his shirttails hid his ass, but she remembered how round and firm those half-moons felt when she held each cheek in her hands and urged him to thrust harder, faster, deeper. When he turned to face her and she saw smallclothes covering his engorged shaft and testicles, she groaned in frustration. He winked, then—like a lad fearing he wouldn’t measure up to his friends—turned his back on her once more. A shimmy-shimmy and a bump and grind sent his underpants to the floor. Removing his cufflinks, he tossed them in the direction of her dressing table, his hips moving in time to music only he could hear. What she heard was a tune and drumbeat that had become synonymous with strippers in the twentieth century. Rolling his cuffs up his muscular forearms, he faced her once more. His expression puzzled, he muttered, “Front or back? Pecs or glutes? Which does my lady want to see first?”
“Shaft—” she began, stopping when his sharp glance warned her to silence.
Jutting his chin, he motioned her toward the bathroom. Since she hadn’t asked Margaret for heated bathing water, she shivered in dread of the icy tub and having to endure freezing water while she bathed him. When he opened the bathroom door, steam plumed out, enveloping her in warmth and the scent of jasmine. Votive candles flickered throughout the small chamber, adding to the secretive, sensual setting.
His light touch on her shoulder beckoned her deeper into the room.
“Can you see me?” She nodded, trusting he could see her, as well. “
Help me out of my shirt.”
His fingertips over her lips warned her not to say a word. She growled instead, earning an amused chuckle from him as he guided her hands to his shoulders. Then he just stood there, his arms at his sides, making no effort at all to help.
So, getting his shirt off fell to her. No sweat. Except…his chest hair sparkled from the steam and his skin looked so warm, she wanted to snuggle against him. Since she couldn’t ask, she assumed she could do whatever she wished and pressed her body to his. His heat flowed into her, lessened by the few articles of clothing between their flesh.
Damnation! She needed to know what he wanted.
Duh. He wanted her to remove his shirt so he could take a bath. She, however, wanted him naked for the sole pleasure of looking at him. On the other hand, were he naked and in the tub, she could fondle him to her heart’s content. Which wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind when she started, but would do until she could tell him what to do.
Sliding his shirt over his head, she just had to lean against him. Since he wasn’t helping, she just had to wrap her arms around him so she could pull his shirt down his back. How could he blame her for her breasts rubbing his chest and her nipples pearling? ‘Twas all his fault for not removing the damn garment for himself. Was it her fault that his shaft had gotten so hard and long it pushed at her mons? Just when she stood on tiptoes to kiss him, he eased away then stepped into the tub. When he sat, water sloshed over the rim, drenching her bare feet and the hem of her gown.
His expression unreadable, he picked up a large sponge. “I’ll show you how to do this, then let you have at me.” Dipping the sponge, he held it a little above his left shoulder then slowly squeezed out the water. She followed the droplets as they meandered from his trapezius, down his pecs to rejoin its own kind in the general population of scented bathwater. The luckiest drops of all surrounded his still-hard shaft as it floated and bobbed along his thighs.
“Think you can manage?” he said, his voice a little rougher—kind of gravelly. He extended the sopping sponge as she leaned over to take it.
Warm, silky water flowed over her chest and soaked the front of her gown. His gaze arrowed to her rigid nipples. His tongue swept his parting lips. That was all the invitation her body needed.
