The Trouble With Moonlight

by Donna MacMeans

  She slipped a comfortable nightgown over her head and unpinned her hair. Still, even after the tedious task of brushing her long tresses, she felt a restless energy that prohibited sleep. She slipped Locke’s munisak over her nightgown and set out to see if she could find a suitable read in the library.

  The gas jets were lit. Locke sat behind the desk, nursing a snifter of brandy.

  “You couldn’t sleep either?” she asked.

  “You left me with a lot to think about,” he said.

  “The ambassador’s ball?”

  “Ramsden.” He took a swallow of his drink and turned a somber face toward her. “I still can’t accept that after all we’d been through together, Marcus could be a Russian agent, but there are questions . . .”

  She hated to see the sad, depressed expression on his face. Far better to glimpse his slight smile when he had solved a riddle, or his earnest concentration when he showed her how to work the levers. Or better yet, to view the complete abandonment to pleasure when he laved her breasts while she balanced above his lap. That memory alone stirred her breasts and set them to tingling beneath the cotton of her nightgown.

  “I thought I might find something to read, to help me relax. Can you recommend a book?” She stood before the high bookcases scanning the titles. She heard his chair slide back before the prickling at the back of her neck advised he was behind her.

  “Most of these titles are tedious scientific studies.” He stepped beside her, but his hand pressed lightly against the small of her back. “How desperately do you want to sleep?” His eyes crinkled.

  With his fingers idly drifting up and down her back, she wasn’t sure she wanted to sleep at all. Her body awakened beneath his touch. Her shoulders lifted and settled, giving her chest a slight arch.

  “There’s some history books near the top of this shelf that might have you asleep in moments, while over here”— guiding her with his hand, he turned her slightly toward him—“we have religions of various cultures.”

  It was a wonder that he knew what was on the shelves as his gaze seemed focused on her breasts. The tickling in her chest drifted down to her core. She had no interest in the books before her, as her entire body hummed with delicious desire, desire for the man next to her. She wanted more than his glance; she wanted his mouth, and his hands, and . . .

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, leading her to believe he wasn’t as unaffected by her presence as he otherwise appeared.

  “Is there a book on husbandry?” The words just slipped out before she had the presence of mind to stop them. His eyes opened wide, his fingers froze. Her cheeks started to warm. Where was the errant moonbeam when you desperately needed one?

  “Animal husbandry,” she quickly modified. “I wanted to confirm a few . . . things.”

  His brow quirked. “Is it a ring you’re after, Miss Havershaw? Is that why you agreed so readily to move back?”

  “That wasn’t . . . I thought to . . .”

  “Because I believe I made it quite clear from the beginning, that even if I wanted to make plump-cheeked babies with you, such an arrangement would be impossible. Espionage does not coexist well with the demands of marriage.”

  “Do you wish to?” Her throat tightened. This was hardly normal socially approved behavior, but as her aunt had counseled, her unique abilities demanded that she bend the rules that governed the rest of society.

  “Do I wish to what?”

  “Make plump-cheeked babies with me?”

  “Miss Havershaw!” His face twisted in shock before he drew in a deep breath. “Sinda . . . If I were to make babies, I can’t imagine anyone else with whom I’d rather engage in such an activity. However, as—”

  She placed a finger on his lips. “As you are painfully aware, I haven’t a great deal of experience in this sort of activity. I sincerely believe that you are my only hope of experiencing intimacy. You said it could be pleasurable. Is that true?”

  “Well, yes . . . but—”

  “Then show me, please.” She shifted a bit uncomfortably. It hadn’t been her intent when she left her room to confront him in such a forthright fashion. Indeed, the very idea of asking for physical contact when one has spent a lifetime avoiding touch was unnerving. Even before considering the nature of that very contact.

  He glanced wildly about the study. “Here?”

  “Wherever you decide . . . I know this is probably an awkward request for you. I’m not sure I’d make it if it weren’t for the unfortunate accident, which may not have been so unfortunate after all.” She tried to smile, but she was too nervous to complete the expression. “My aunt tells me that the damage is done and there’s no turning back. If that is so, then I’d like to move forward and experience what I can while the opportunity exists.”

  “And children?” His brow quirked. “What if our experience yields a child?”

  “I suppose that will be another rare experience for me.” She managed to complete the smile this time. “However, you’ve made your position very clear. Once this mission is completed, you will go your own way, and I . . . I will go far away where no one has heard of the Nevidimi. I would not ask for any assistance from you as it regards a child. I do, however, require your assistance and guidance as it relates to . . . what’s that term they use at the Velvet Slipper . . . ?”

  He quickly interceded. “The act of procreation.”

  She bit her lip. “That wasn’t it, exactly, but it conveys the general idea.”

  She started to untie the lacing at her breasts.

  “What are you doing?” He placed his hand over hers to stop her progress.

  A bit of alarm raced through her. He hadn’t consented to her request. Perhaps her bold language had offended him. Perhaps he was no longer interested in her in that way. She swallowed hard and rallied what little of her confidence remained.

  “I think that’s obvious. The ladies at the Velvet Slipper wore very little clothing, just their corset and pantalets at first. Of course, later . . .”

  He looked around the room. “Not here, Sinda. Someone might see.”

  Although tempted to remind him of the high wall that surrounded the property, and the very late hour, she refrained. “If not here, then where?”

  “Up in my room. No one will disturb us there.” He looked at her askance. “Perhaps you should go there now and wait for me. I’ll turn off the lamps and be right behind you.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

  She started toward the door.

  “Sinda, are you quite sure about this?” he asked, interrupting her progress.

  She stopped. “Yes, I’ve never been more certain,” she lied.

  After she left, James walked back to the desk and finished his brandy in one gulp. The liquid burned his throat and exploded in a spreading warmth in his gut. What was he to do? It was hardly the act of a gentleman to willingly know a woman in such a fashion without intent of marriage. That first time was an accident. He hadn’t realized she was virginal. A man could be forgiven such an act under the circumstances. But this? Yet, she was asking for his assistance.

  And what was this “once our mission is accomplished” rhetoric? Hadn’t he been clear that he couldn’t allow her talents to be used by someone else? Hadn’t he explained that due to the tremors in his hand, he’d need her for missions beyond the recovery of the list? He frowned. Well, perhaps he hadn’t been exactly clear about that last point.

  He systemically went around the room turning off the gas jets. There was only one thing to do. He’d go upstairs right now and tell her that he had no intention of letting her go. Ever. She may as well realize that she would be a permanent resident of his household. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

  SHE LIT A FEW CANDLES IN HIS ROOM. THE LADIES OF the Velvet Slipper entertained in relatively well-lit rooms. The brothel hadn’t been fitted for gas, but the oil flames threw considerable light. Still, she was a little sens
itive about being quite so visible. She was a novice at this, after all, not one of the experts at the Velvet Slipper. In the bright light, he was bound to notice her awkwardness, and maybe a bit of her fear. He said it wouldn’t hurt, but how would he know? He was a man. Surely things felt different to the woman sheathing him.

  She removed the munisak wrapper and was about to shed her nightgown when she remembered she wasn’t wearing her corset or her pantalets. She’d learned from her trips to the Velvet Slipper that men found such intimate garments most appealing. She was contemplating dashing down the hall to her room to retrieve the traditional “procreating” undergarments when she heard his footsteps in the hall. There was no time. She’d have to make due with just her shift.

  Locke entered the room and stared at her. She shifted uncomfortably, regretting her lack of foresight in not being more seductively dressed.

  “Sinda, I think we should talk,” he said, his stern visage alarming in the soft, sensual light.

  He was reconsidering his offer of guidance, she knew it. Panicking, she immediately bent forward from the waist and shook her shoulders. Beneath the thin cotton, her breasts jiggled and collided into each other without the restraint provided by a corset.

  “Lu . . . Lusinda, what are you doing?”

  His voice sounded strained. She must not be doing it correctly. She straightened and swayed in what she hoped was a seductive movement as she began to unfasten the bodice of her shift. “I saw the ladies at the Slipper do that before their gentlemen. Of course, they wore corsets and weren’t as clumsy as I am.”

  “You’re not clumsy,” he said quickly.

  She sashayed closer to him with her night shift gaping open in the front. The fabric still covered her nipples, which ached with desire to feel his touch again. To hasten that event along, she reached for the buttons on his shirt.

  “You’re beautiful.” She heard him take a deep breath. “Intoxicating. But there’s something you should know.”

  She swayed her hips rhythmically as she had seen one woman do before. “Teach me then. Show me all that I need to know.”

  He put his hands on her hips as if to still her, but she rolled her hips anyway, enjoying the feel of his hands on her body. The beginning of a smile tilted his lips, while his eyelids lowered in a drowsy, amused slant. “You move like a belly dancer. Where did you learn to dance like that?”

  “A belly dancer? I’m not sure . . .”

  “They’re special dancers in Arabia that move their hips and their bodies in such a seductive fashion, no man can resist. ”

  “Can you resist me, Locke?” She pulled his shirt from the waist of his trousers and slipped her hands up his chest. “I pray you can not. You’ve taught me so much already, Locke. Now teach me pleasure.”

  She tilted her head, intending to press her lips to his, but before she could he bent and swept her legs up in his arms as if she weighed no more than a vapor. His lips found hers while he carried her to the bed.

  It felt wonderful to be held so tenderly in his arms. Her heart beat rapidly at the thought of what was to come. She wrapped her arms around his sturdy shoulders. Her whole body set to tingling. She felt alive and desired. This surely must be the pleasure he spoke of.

  He laid her carefully on the bed. His hand trailed slowly up her leg to her hip, pushing the thin nightgown up in the process. “You’re so precious, so beautiful, Sinda. You could have any man. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I want you, Locke, no other.”

  He kissed her bare hip. Never had she imagined flesh and bone could be so responsive. An intensity shot through her as if she had been struck by lightening. She could feel a pooling in her feminine core.

  “Ever since I discovered you under that net, I’ve wanted to do this, to see the lush body belonging to that magical woman.” He pulled the gown higher. She shifted so he could remove it entirely, leaving her to lie exposed to his scrutiny. He stroked her breasts, letting his thumbs coax her nipples into pebbled peaks. She wanted to pull him down on top of her and feel those nipples press into his chest.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered as if saying a prayer.

  However, at the moment she didn’t wish to be revered, she wanted to feel passion. She wanted to feel his skin on her own. She reached to take off his shirt, but he stood and worked the buttons himself. Instead she reached for the buttons of his trousers and quickly released the bulge that pressed at the juncture of his legs. His manhood stretched out as if it were an independent living thing reaching toward her.

  Without much thought, she licked it. After all, it was poised near her face and she had observed the Slipper ladies doing that very thing. He stopped all movement above her.

  “What are you doing?” his voice gasped.

  “You tasted my breasts in the carriage. I thought to taste you. Do you like it?”

  He didn’t answer, but his manhood did. It leapt up and down in tiny spasms as if in agreement. She was going to lick it again, but the thing kept jumping. She reached out and held the root of him in her hand.

  He groaned but did nothing to stop her, so she tasted him again, this time taking the tip of him between her lips. Her fingers sensed a throb shudder through him.

  “Sinda, please,” he whispered in a strained voice. He placed an arm on her shoulder and gently pushed her back toward the mattress. “I’m to be the teacher. If you continue this, I’m not sure I’ll be able to complete that . . . experience.”

  “You don’t like it.” She had observed men enter the Slipper who seemed to want only to be tasted. The ladies would bop their heads, sampling the entire staff of the man. “Perhaps, I didn’t do it correctly.”

  “On the contrary, I like it a bit too much.” His teeth flashed in a smile. He quickly disposed with the remainder of his clothes, then sat on the edge of the bed and began to stroke her leg. “You did it exactly right.”

  His compliment warmed her, restoring a bit of her bruised self-confidence. She almost missed that his hand had inched to the inside of her leg. The pressure of his hand encouraged her to spread her legs further apart. She acquiesced. His fingertips stroked the inside of her thigh, that area rarely seen and never touched but by a bar of soap and a washcloth. She quivered at first, not used to such a pleasant invasion of touch. Her legs spread further.

  “I promise you, this won’t be like the time in the carriage, ” he said, his voice washing over her like welcomed rays of moonlight. “Before we attempt anything, I want to make sure you are ready.”

  “How can I make myself ready?” she asked, her voice cracking as his hand cupped that pinnacle of private areas at the juncture of her legs.

  “Just relax,” he said. “You needn’t do anything. I’ll know when the time is right.”

  His fingers parted her curls, then one finger slipped tentatively inside her. A bit of discomfort thwarted her belly. Something wasn’t right. None of the ladies she had observed at the Slipper lay upon a bed with a man’s hand exploring her. This must be one of those methodologies that he had picked up in India. Her thighs tightened and closed slightly.

  “Perhaps I should do a visual inspection,” he said suddenly, his face a mask of concern. “I’m not sensing the level of progress that would suggest you are ready for the next level of instruction.” He disengaged his hand and stood.

  Panic unleashed within her. If she wasn’t ready to receive pleasure now, she might never experience that particular sensation. “Tell me what to do. I will attempt to do better. I promise.”

  But he had walked to the foot of the bed, then wedged his upper body between her legs, pushing them wider apart than she had imagined possible. Humiliation warmed her cheeks as his breath warmed the very area his finger had explored. None of the women at the Slipper had experienced this particular kind of scrutiny. Of that she was certain. She covered her breasts with her hands, as if to compensate for her complete lack of modesty at the other end. Her eyes closed, stopping the threatening tears from fall
ing.

  Fingers on both his hands aggressively parted her curls, pulling the hairs back, laying all to his view. She braced herself, waiting for the inevitable poking to begin.

  Instead something warm and moist lapped at her. She nearly jumped off the bed from shock, but his firm grasp on the inside of the thighs held her in place. He explored her most intimate of places with his tongue. Wave after wave of searing delicious intensity jolted through her from her core to her breasts. Her back arched, her nipples thrust between her splayed fingers.

  “Dear heavens above, what are you doing?” she cried, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he found one particularly sensitive area that he sucked and lolled with his tongue, thrusting her into extreme gyrations on the bed. Just as she thought the waves of sensation would tear her apart, one of his fingers slipped deep inside her, then two fingers, then three.

  She felt impaled upon his hand, yet it wasn’t an uncomfortable sensation.

  “Now, you’re ready,” he said, withdrawing his fingers.

  She struggled for breath, wishing he hadn’t completed his delightful visual inspection. She felt a moment of pity for the Slipper ladies and, indeed, all the English ladies who hadn’t experienced this delicious and most unique Indian technique.

  He reared up on his knees between her spread legs, his manhood thick and long. Then he positioned its tip in her throbbing wet spot and slowly slid inside as he lowered himself over her. He stopped a moment to kiss each of her straining breasts.

  “How does that feel?” he asked. “Does it hurt?”

  She felt herself adjust to the thickness of him, yet she was relaxed, accommodating. The sensation was similar to that she’d experienced when he had held her in the carriage, at once inside and yet all around her as well. She smiled.

  “It feels pleasant,” she said, not sure what other word would do. Indeed, most of the pleasantness was the lingering glow of his inspection, and the pleasure derived from the sheer nearness of him.