The Moonstone and Miss Jones

by Jillian Stone

  A face appeared in the flat square above the buttons and America jumped back. “Apologies for the delay, we’ll be bringing you down shortly.” It appeared to be a photograph of a young man with close cropped hair, near their age. And she distinctly saw the disembodied head animate. The image turned profile and bobbed about.

  Just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating she checked in with Phaeton. “Are you seeing this?”

  The lighting inside the elevator dimmed, and the panel of buttons flashed.

  Phaeton cleared his throat. “Mind telling us where we’re going? Just so we don’t get the mistaken idea we’re being abducted?”

  The elevator dropped suddenly, then corrected itself for the trip down. They both anxiously watched the numerical digits above the door, until the word Lobby appeared. But the metal cubical didn’t stop; it continued its descent, past P1, P2, P3, P4.

  Then there were no more numbers or letters. Phaeton caught America around the waist and gave her a reassuring squeeze. Suddenly, the word Pool flashed above the metal doors and the lift came to a stomach lurching stop.

  The doors opened onto a room encased by glass walls and a rectangular bathing pool. The main plunge was large indeed with two smaller, steaming pools at one end. America reached for Phaeton’s hand. The air was sultry, with a tinge of antiseptic in the air.

  They walked around the entire glassed-in pool, until they found the entrance. An envelope was attached to the door with a message: One for each ear.

  “Welcome to Black Box.” A young man approached them wearing a dressing robe, over loose fitting plaid pajamas, and bedroom slippers. “My name is Jared J. Oakley. Most everyone calls me JJ or Oakley—take your pick.” He pointed to the packet on the door. “You don’t need to put in the ear buds unless you want to send or receive messages.” His smile was relaxed, affable.

  She and Phaeton were a bit slow to answer, since they were so busy staring.

  Jared’s laugh was gentle. “Look, I know this is a bit overwhelming so why don’t I ramble on—stop me if you have a question.”

  The young, rather handsome man looked them over. “You’re Phaeton and America.” He grinned. “Cool names.” There was something about the way he spoke that reminded her of . . . Tim.

  “Where are we exactly?” Phaeton queried, having found his voice.

  Jared turned to him. “You are in the guest sector of a very large complex of interconnected underground chambers.” His eyes rolled upward. “We are nine stories underground, and the space is hermetically sealed—impervious to harmful gases—and the chambers are lined with fifteen inches of lead, which means this environment is free from the destructive cosmic rays that are about to unravel our world.”

  He paused to let them take it in. “About an hour ago, Victor called and said he suspected Vauxhall was down and thought you might try the hotel. He asked me to keep an eye out.”

  “It appears Lovecraft had the same idea,” Phaeton said.

  Jared nodded. “It’s late—enjoy your stay—sleep late. We’ll slip you back through in the morning.” He showed them to a sort of tropical bedchamber just off poolside. “We have regular rooms down the corridor.” Their congenial host rocked his head back and forth. “Maybe four star quality without the turn down and pillow chocolate.” He rolled back a glass door. “But since we have no other guests at the moment—you can have the pool and this room to yourselves.”

  A four-poster bed veiled in sheer white drapes lay cantilevered over a rectangular pond, which featured a waterway that trickled over smooth black rocks, and zigzagged down into the swimming pool.

  “There are three pools. The large for a swim, two hot pools for tired muscles, and the other is for bathing. If you decide to bathe—don’t get out until you are finished washing up. The bath automatically drains, sanitizes, and refills itself.” Jared nodded a bow and backed out of the room. “Sleep well.”

  America whirled around. “What do you think, Phaeton?”

  He set down the satchel. “I think I’m beginning to like it over here.” He shrugged out of his new blazer and rolled up a shirt sleeve. Down on his haunches he dipped his hand in the water. He peeked over his shoulder and raised a brow. She knew a signature Phaeton grin was hidden behind his sleeve.

  She tilted her head. “Well?”

  “Like a baby’s bath water.” Now she could see his smile.

  “Stop! I know exactly what you’re thinking, Phaeton Black.”

  His arm swept back and forth. “Oh no, Miss Jones, you’re wrong indeed.” He shook off droplets and sauntered close. “You are going to have to seduce me into removing all my clothes.” His smile turned into a challenging grin. “So that we might cavort like porpoises in and out of the pool.”

  America lowered her chin and slanted her eyes. The sultry look that always captured his attention. She reached up behind the strapless gown and found the small metal pull.

  And pulled.

  The bodice slipped off her breasts, and down her hips. She stepped out of the dress and laid it across a lawn chair near the pool. She turned to him and unknotted the tie at her hip. She let the protective shawl fall away.

  “I suppose there is no need for that, with fifteen inches of lead protecting pea in the pod from nasty cosmic rays.” He was so taken with the violet lace v-string pantie, he could barely speak the words.

  America pulled the strings halfway down her buttocks and she caught a glimpse of him watching her disrobe with unapologetic interest. America began to laugh. “You might attend to the removal of your own clothes.”

  Eventually, he did turn away, but not before taking a good long side-glance at her. Phaeton finished his undress while she waded into the pool. From a safe position in the water, she watched him disrobe with growing curiosity.

  His shirt was off and his torso and arms were taut with muscle. His beautifully proportioned broad chest narrowed down to slim hips and long sinewy legs. America sank lower into the warm pool water. Needless to say, he was a particularly handsome man. But this evening, he could be a seductive stranger. “Shall we have a fantasy?”

  “What do you desire, my love? To be captured by a centaur and ravaged in the road?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Too muddy.” She dipped her head back to wet her hair. “What about this . . . a lovely pond nymph is taking her bath in a woodland thermal spring, when a hot and dusty warrior comes along, and begins to disrobe . . .”

  Phaeton grinned. “Start us off darling.”

  She looked up at him as though he were a complete stranger. “Don’t be shy handsome warrior, show me everything.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  PHAETON DROPPED HIS PANTS and America’s brows lifted. She pretended that she saw entirely too much of the beautiful warrior. Squealing with laughter, she turned around and did not move until he plunged into the pool.

  She circled back as he rose out of the water. “Are you a Greek god? Tell me sir, what is your name?”

  “Sir Phaeton.” He swept wet hair back behind his ears, and waded straight for her. “And compliments like that will get you ravaged soon enough.”

  America back-paddled farther away from the swinging sword. “Very impressive, sir.”

  “Alas, the beauty extols not my intellect, but my lance. Come here, little nymph.”

  Warily, she swam around him. “ ’Tis a very grand and ferocious lance, sir.”

  Phaeton narrowed his gaze. “I take what I want, pretty one. You will do as I say or there will be consequences.”

  America shook her head. “I have come to this place to bathe, not to screw.”

  He waded after her. “Coward.”

  “Bully,” she countered, drifting closer, her head just above the water.

  “Beware, my love.” Phaeton sank deeper into the pool and soon they were close enough to kiss. “That kind of impertinent speech requires punishment.

  Without touching him, she pressed her lips to his. “I feel great love for you, Sir Phaeton.�
� His body stirred.

  “As well and as deeply, I hope, as my affection for the ravishing pond nymph.”

  She gave him another kiss for his endearing declaration.

  “Again,” he ordered gently, and she complied. “I must see more.” With a bit more coaxing he led her to the shallow part of the pool and America allowed him to look upon her. “Tell me what you are feeling little nymph.”

  She blushed. “I feel beautiful and seductively naughty.”

  Phaeton remained the strange knight as his eyes roved appreciatively over her body. He experienced the strong rush of desire that swept through her voluptuous frame. She shivered slightly under his scrutiny.

  His cock was as hard as a stone. “You are perfectly made, America.”

  She stared for a moment, then shook her head with a laugh. “What flattery and nonsense.” She noted stacks of rugged towels and huge wooden bowls filled with soft brushes and soaps.

  Her eyes grew wide. “Look, the pool for bathing.” She led him over to the separate bath, and admired his rigid, bobbing lance. She took up a block of soap, and pushed it into his hand. “This will give you a chance to appraise every small detail. Count the beauty marks.” America turned her back to him and held her hair up as he scrubbed from shoulders down to the pleasantly curved small of her back.

  He couldn’t see her expression but he was sure she smiled as he counted her flaws. “Three small moles thus far.”

  “ ’Tis a relief to turn away from such a penetrating gaze, sir.”

  “And what about you, my dear? I can still see the blush on your cheeks from the sight of my erection—I mean my savage sword.”

  He pointed out a bruise above America’s hip and traced it to the booty bumps she had taken this evening. “Yes, I think my back did ache some after a dance.” She turned enough to see the frown on his face. “Phaeton, you must not treat me like a fragile little flower.”

  The irony of her remark elicited a bark of laughter as he scrubbed her lower back. “Two perfect dimples above a plump little derrière.”

  “Too plump?”

  The frown in her voice made him chuckle. “Perfectly plump, my love, and very desirable.” His hands were full of lather and he slipped them around her hips, to softly stroke her belly.

  America shuddered from his caresses, falling back against his chest and into his arms. Her knees had quite literally grown weak from his gentle fondling.

  He moved his hands lower, under foaming water, to stroke between her legs. “Open for me.”

  Catching his fingers in hers, she brought the well-practiced, stimulating hand back up out of the water. “Not yet, sir.” She found herself arching back against his chest as she encouraged him to explore her torso. His fingers lightly traced along her hip bones and up past a hint of ribs, to the crease under her breasts. Cupping both mounds, he pressed her against his body and she felt the hard thrust of his erection pass across her buttocks.

  Her entire body relaxed, as his fingers moved past her navel, and lowered into the channel below, the one that made her writhe with arousal. His fingers circled the place that made her want more and more of his touching.

  “Please, I cannot breathe.” Wrenching herself out of his arms, she moved away. She reached out to hold onto the edge of the pool, and took up a cake of soap.

  He did not follow her directly, but watched her wade through the pool, a beautiful woodland water nymph in a garden of earthly delights. “You have the most glorious flush of arousal on your chest and neck . . . and cheek.”

  Lathering her hands with soap she offered to bathe him. “Come here, handsome knight, and let me clean you up.”

  America washed his unruly hair and brushed the dirt from his fingernails.

  “My turn.” Phaeton soaped her tangled mass of waves. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he used the other to support her head as he laid her back into the gently stirring waters to rinse the soap away. He kissed her mouth, her neck, her shoulders, and when he reached her breast he covered her nipple with his mouth and tongued until she arched against his arm. She uttered his name in the most erotic and innocent bedding voice.

  “Sir Phaeton.”

  “Let yourself explore, little virgin nymph. I will not hurt you.”

  Guiding her hand below his navel, her fingers tangled in the mat of wet hair, landing on his erection. She wrapped her fingers around the velvet shaft and stroked. He groaned and encouraged her to soap and stroke some more.

  There was something wickedly daring about flaunting their nudity and sexual response to each other in such a potentially public place. The more he touched her—the more she opened up to him. Most provocatively, Phaeton wanted them to be chanced upon. And she could not deny that their possible exposure felt delicious and decadent, as long as she was safely in his arms.

  Phaeton lifted her up onto the ledge of the pool. America drew her legs out of the water, and he moved between her thighs, opening her. He remained in the water with his head buried between her legs.

  “Phaeton,” she moaned, “We’ve got company.”

  “What?” He looked up to see two chaps step into a pool across the room. Steam swirled off the circular shaped bath. And there was a low motorized humming and a great deal of foaming and churning at the surface of the water.

  Phaeton vaulted out of the bath, pausing briefly to take in the vision of her nude figure as she reclined in repose. “You are a beauty, my love, but you are mine alone.” He carried her into the bedroom and lay her down on the bed.

  Propped on her elbows, America directed her most radiant smile toward him. She shook her head, and a mass of damp waves descended past her shoulders and down her back.

  Phaeton rested on his side, chin propped in hand, enjoying the beautiful picture as she pushed her hips up and tossed her head back. In fact, he watched her erotic undulations with a sinful amount of lust building in his groin.

  “She lays beside me naked, not a stitch of clothing

  I cannot fault her body, not a single part

  Soft shoulders, lovely shaped arms

  Nipples that invite my mouth, her slightly

  rounded belly

  Beneath her rounded breasts

  That comely curve of hip and heavenly thigh

  There is not a detail that falls short of perfection . . .”

  Phaeton ran his finger along her comely curve of hip. “Ovid—third century poet philosopher—”

  “I think he died in prison from syphilis,” she interrupted. “And that was rather a mangled recitation.” America’s eyes had changed into challenging, smoldering pools of desire.

  Phaeton was very aware that she had moved her knees farther and farther apart so he might see more and more of her. Pink folds of moistened flesh, framed by close-cropped curls. She moved her fingers through the folds and opened farther, bidding him to enter her. She smiled, a bit dreamily. “Let’s see if I can torture a bit of the old Roman poet . . .

  “Such wicked behavior—please do save your badness for bed.

  “Strip me naked with no embarrassment—

  Your knee between my thighs,

  And vary your passion, sir, thrust that tongue

  between cherry-ripe lips.

  Do not hold back your whispers, your moan of pleasure

  Make this bed shake like mad . . .”

  America watched his desire grow as she spread her legs. “How long can you stand this?” she whispered.

  Phaeton had not far to reach her. He was on his knees and took her up into his arms. She kissed his face and ears and neck and helped him reach her breasts by arching her back. She watched him bring one tight, swollen nipple at a time to his mouth to suckle, then nibble until she moaned with pleasure.

  America pushed Phaeton away and moved off the bed. “Perhaps your difficult pond nymph needs to be taught a lesson?”

  She held out a hand, and Phaeton was on his feet. He ordered her to the tall bedpost. Obediently, she turned her backside to him and hel
d onto the heavy carved post above her head. Her body quaked in anticipation. He stood to her side, and placed one hand on the flat of her belly, the other on her rear.

  He spanked firmly, until her stomach shuddered from arousal. Then he stopped and moved his fingers between her legs and stroked softly until she wet his hand from her pleasure.

  “Again,” she whispered. Phaeton repeated this punishment several times, moving his hand up her belly, across her ribs and over her breasts. He whispered in a dry husky voice, “I will use my hand as long as it makes you moan in ecstasy.”

  “Umm, yes, that kind of playful force that goes well with pleasure.” America stopped his fingers, and backed away. “Punish me with demands, if you can catch me, sir.”

  He pursued her around the bed and across the room. Against the wall, she allowed herself to be captured by her ravager and made to do his bidding.

  Taking her by the hair—he pushed her down on her knees and presented his turgid cock to her mouth. “Take it—all of it.”

  They aroused each other against every wall, inside the water closet and on a secretary chair. By the time he cleared the top of the writing desk they were out of breath, skin glistening with sweat and the delicate perfume of America’s musky emollient all over their bodies.

  Phaeton nuzzled her hair, her throat, pausing above her mouth to recite.

  “Ladies, in fact, love to yield,

  Even prefer a rough seduction.

  It delights them, the audacity of near rape,

  And the lady could have been forced,

  Yet she asked . . . for the pleasure.”

  America took Phaeton by the hand and led him to the end of the secretary where she bent over, laying her chest on the table so she might present her backside to him. Phaeton was so highly aroused he nearly thrust in for immediate relief—but he stopped himself.