Hanging With A Time Surfer

by Celine Chatillon

  The mischievous twinkle in his deep ebony-brown eyes sold her on his sincerity. What a fascinating mixture. She stared at him as if he were a statue and not a handsome, virile-looking male. She couldn't place his accent, but with his roundish face, full lips, small nose and almond-shaped eyes he looked part Asian or part Polynesian—except for the fact he sported a rusty-red shock in the middle of his blunt cut, jet-black, shoulder-length hair. The punk stripe slapped across his forehead at a jaunty angle perfectly offset by a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. His smooth, tanned skin and firm biceps proudly displayed by his sleeveless muscle shirt and Hawaiian print board shorts indicated he was the outdoorsy type. He stood at least six foot—almost a full foot taller than Shelby, but she didn't feel the least bit intimidated by his height.

  "I'm Quentin,” he introduced himself. “That's what you were thinking, isn't it? ‘Who is this strange man in my dining area and how the hell did he break into my home?’ I know that's what I'd be thinking about now."

  Actually I was wondering what you'd look like in a nice tight Speedo on a whitewater raft. Shelby tried hard not to reveal her carnal longings on her easy-to-read face.

  "Quentin? Nice name. Um, ‘Quentin', are you from around here?"

  He chuckled. “You're supposed to ask me what high school I attended. I did my thesis on this era and locale. This is St. Louis, early twenty-first century, right?"

  The absurdity of the local custom suddenly struck Shelby as the most hysterical ritual in the world. She began to giggle uncontrollably. “Oh, yeah—you are so right! Okay, what high school did you attend, Quentin?"

  "None. I was home-schooled."

  Shelby laughed harder. “No, no, no ... You can't answer that question without giving me a name of a school. I have no way of knowing which neighborhood you grew up in and what parish you belonged to. You're not playing by the rules."

  He leaned against the countertop, licked his full lips slowly and grinned. “I don't play by the rules—ever."

  Shelby felt her heart racing, her palms growing moist and a pleasurable tension building in her lower regions. A mysterious, handsomely exotic stranger who doesn't play by the rules ... Just what the doctor ordered to help her relax?

  "Really?” She leaned closer toward him. “You never, ever play by the rules?"

  He shook his head and flashed his pearly white teeth. “No. Not if I can help it. I'm what you'd term a ‘free spirit'. I work for myself, by myself. I don't try to box myself in by following the dictates of fashion, political correctness or the late-great, blessed Saint Oprah."

  Shelby eyes widened with awe and excitement. Her desire to be with this mysterious stranger increased exponentially as her yearning to feel his powerful arms about her grew. He lowered his voice and focused directly on her face.

  "I'm my own man, and I enjoy meeting women who are their own woman. I believe this describes you perfectly. Am I correct in my thinking, Shelby Schwartz?"

  "You know my name?” she whispered.

  "It's printed on your mail sitting on a pile on the table. I'm not psychic—just resourceful.” Quentin caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “I have a feeling you're fairly resourceful yourself."

  Her breathing came fast and shallow. She continued to stare at him, slack-jawed, unable to unglue her gaze from his kissable lips and dazzling smile. He may not be psychic, but his presence was positively mesmerizing.

  "I've been known for my resourcefulness,” Shelby said at last. She hoped she sounded intelligent because at the moment she felt more like a quivering mass of desire than a confident businesswoman. “I sold over thirty million dollars worth of real estate last year alone. Not bad if I say so myself."

  He arched an eyebrow and flashed a curious look. “So, you'd say you were a successful business person?"

  She nodded. “Yes, very."

  "And you own this lovely brownstone and live in it all by yourself?"

  "Yes that's right."

  It wasn't quite a lie, but Shelby averted her eyes quickly so Quentin couldn't see the hurt mirrored there. Technically Graham still owned half of the house until the final divorce decree was granted, but he had told her that he was more than willing to sell her his half in lieu of her paying alimony to him.

  "There's no other person in your life now? No other lover?"

  She shook her head. He tilted her chin upward. Their gazes locked. “I believe you're only telling me a half-truth, Shelby."

  She swallowed hard. How did he know? “I thought you said you weren't psychic?"

  "I'm not—just resourceful. Who's this ‘Graham Goddard’ who receives mail at this address?"

  Shelby sighed and closed her eyes. “All right, you got me. Graham is my soon-to-be ex-husband. He left a few months back, and I have neither the time nor inclination to forward the lying, cheating, son-of-a-bitch bastard's second class mail on to him. Satisfied?"

  Quentin chuckled. “See? A little honesty goes a long way. Not a happy break-up I gather?"

  "No, not at all. I didn't see it coming. I was blind-sided by the whole thing.” She sniffed back a tear that threatened to spill onto her cheek. “I'm not the brightest bulb in the lamp at times, at least not when it comes to human relationships. I wish I could turn back time and change my ways and see what all I did wrong so it didn't have to end this way. But I can't. I'll have to learn to live with it."

  He dropped his hand from her chin and turned away from her. “Shelby, what if I told you that you could turn back time?"

  Time? What did Quentin tell her last night? That he wasn't from this century or something foolish like that?

  "Impossible. I read A Brief History of Time and watch the Discovery Channel occasionally. Time travel isn't possible. It's merely a fantasy."

  "It happens all the time in Star Trek, doesn't it?"

  Now she knew exactly what kind of loony bin this guy escaped from ... She had met his type before but not since her college days. Quentin was an escapee from a sci-fi convention, a thirty-three old virgin who still lived in his parents’ basement and collected Star Wars action figures. She should have known it all along. It was his surfer dude clothing style, his devastatingly deep voice, big, bulging muscles and strong hands that had lead her astray.

  She shook her head, trying to guide her thinking back on track. Maybe he was simply a very sexy geek with a few screws loose upstairs. He seemed harmless enough, except for the fact he kept breaking and entering her house without triggering the burglar alarm. How in the hell did he do that? Was he an escaped felon as well as a sci-fi nerd?

  "Is Star Trek you're all time favorite TV show?” She grinned at his back like he was half-brain dead as she slowly sidled over to the alarm control pad near the front door to press the emergency button. “I'm a Doctor Who fan myself,” she continued. “I attended a few sci-fi cons myself a few years ago before I became obsessed with becoming the number one real estate broker in the greater St. Louis area."

  She glimpsed behind her to make sure she didn't fall over the coffee table. Almost to the door now ... “I've always wanted to take a ride in the TARDIS and visit all kinds of fascinating times and places,” she babbled. “Too bad the Doctor always ended up in contemporary London most of the time. You'd think with a fantastic time machine like that he would have been able to land it in North America more often—like at the St. Louis World's Fair in 1904. That would have been a cool episode, and they could have filmed it here, and everyone who was a fan could have been an extra. Neat idea, huh?"

  She was almost at the alarm control pad. Just a few more steps and—

  "What are you doing?” Suddenly her visitor was standing next to her. He grabbed her by the wrist and pushed her finger away from the emergency button.

  Shelby blinked—then blinked again. “There are two of you. How are you standing right here beside me and over by the counter at the same time?"

  Quentin dropped her hand and smirked. “The ability to turn back time. You
said it yourself, remember?"

  The first Quentin whose back was still turned to them suddenly vanished.

  "What the...?” Shelby suddenly felt dizzy. She collapsed against her visitor. He scooped her in his brawny arms and whisked her up the stairs to her bedroom.

  * * * *

  What the hell am I doing? Quentin Takahashi, former licensed Time Agent and now renegade time surfer, knew he was taking a big risk exposing himself to a twenty-first century denizen. But he couldn't seem to help himself.

  Shelby Schwartz ... Sexy and vulnerable—the two traits that suckered him every single time. How did he hear her sighs echoing in the corridors of time? What possible link to the time strands did this woman from the primitive twenty-first century possess?

  Could she be a ‘Chosen One’ as well?

  He gently laid her on her bed, fluffed the pillow under her head then took a long step backward. The temptation to look behind her left ear for the mark indicating she belonged to the rare breed that could safely travel the fabric and threads of time was overwhelming.

  What would he do if he found it there? No, he couldn't turn her into the Time Regulation Agency anymore than he could turn in any of his fellow time surfers to those self-absorbed, egotistical bastards. They'd never train an old-worlder to keep the purity of the time strands. They'd probably erase her from the very beginning of her timeline just to play it safe ... just in case she turned out to be the Chosen One of All Times, the prophesied time surfer who intuitively understood the concept of time travel without the rigorous training and bureaucratic interference of the TRA.

  But what if she turned out to be the One? Didn't he owe it to all of creation to protect and defend her at all cost? The entire existence of this plane of reality depended on the Chosen One. He hadn't forgotten the oath he made when he joined the Time Regulation Agency...

  ...To protect and to serve the integrity of the time strands ... To eliminate any who would destroy, damage or otherwise contaminate the threads of time ... To erase all occupants of timelines that would pollute and forever alter the fabric of time itself...

  No! He wouldn't allow anything to happen to Shelby. He quietly approached the edge of her bed and knelt beside her unconscious form. Gently he turned her head toward the right and looked behind her left earlobe.

  The mark!

  "W-what happened?” She looked up at him blankly then did a double take and grabbed his wrist. “Y-y-you! Something is seriously weird about you. I saw you—I know I saw you standing in two places at once. Do you have an identical twin?"

  "Yes, I do. Colin is my parts clone, but he's at home right now resting in cold storage. What you saw was me standing in two places for a few seconds. My instructors at the academy said my sloppiness when it came to near time re-entry techniques would embarrass me someday and possibly destroy the universe."

  "Re-entry techniques?” She licked her lips as if starving for more than mere nutrients and held fast to his arm. “You mean your zipping around rooms and freaking people out by breaking into their homes without tripping alarms. Did you happen to train with David Blaine?"

  "I'm not a ... ‘magician'. Do they still use that word in the twenty-first century?"

  "Of course they do. You know they do. You're a very good magician. Do you practice your ‘technique’ on the sci-fi con circuit?"

  He'd have to check his time/space dictionary for ‘sci-fi con'. She kept referring to him as being a person who frequented such places. Perhaps it was for the best if he didn't try to dissuade her from her erroneous assumption.

  "Yes, I do magic tricks all the time at cons. People love them. They find me very entertaining."

  Shelby turned onto her side and brought his hand to her cheek. Sighing, she murmured, “I bet they do. I find you very entertaining—even if your ‘technique’ is a bit maddening. So tell me ... what other types of tricks can you do?"

  Quentin swallowed hard as she stroked his hand from the curve of her chin down the column of her throat and to the deep vee of her sweater top, nestling it between her surprisingly ample cleavage.

  She grinned. “Hmm, I know I'm not half as sexy as my tall, dark and gorgeous cousin who can seduce a man in twenty seconds or less, but you must find something about me pleasing enough to keep showing up in my bedroom."

  He swallowed again and cleared his throat. Allowing her to seduce him was one way to distract her from all the information about time travel he'd inadvertently spilled already. If the Time Cops ever did manage to follow his trail here, he could honestly say it was just an innocent sexual liaison and not a concerted effort to alter history and irrevocably change time itself.

  "I find everything about you pleasing, Shelby Schwartz.” He cupped his caught hand around her breast and gave it a squeeze. She instantly pulled him on top of her and planted a soul-stirring, breath-stealing kiss on his lips.

  Forget the friggin’ TRA! He wanted her to seduce him right now and right here!

  Shelby sighed against his lips as his tongue delved inside and met her own. She groaned and arched her back, her juices flowing, threatening to flood the bed with her need to feel his cock deep inside her.

  What the hell was she doing? Shelby felt genuinely shocked by her actions. She'd never brazenly pulled a man into her bed before—and a very odd-acting stranger at that, too. She must have lost her mind, but she couldn't seem to help herself. It had been so long since she had made love to anyone excerpt her battery operated sex toy. There was something about this Quentin that just seemed to “click” for her. Perhaps now was the time to give up being Shelby the workaholic real estate agent and transform into the impetuous sex goddess she had always envisioned herself to be?

  Her hands wandered across Quentin's broad shoulders and meandered down to cradle his firm buttocks. The man was solid muscle, his scent musky maleness and raw in its primal sexual appeal. The kiss deepened as their tongues danced together with a perfect harmony of lust and desire. Several minutes later he rose up on his elbows and looked down at her face through half-closed eyes.

  "Is toppling guys into your bed an everyday occurrence for you?"

  "No, of course not. I ... I just couldn't seem to help myself. From the second you mysteriously popped into my bedroom, I can't get you out of my mind. It's like you're a part of my very existence somehow. Weird, huh?"

  He kissed her cheek, trailing feather-light kisses across her neck and behind her left ear. “No, it's not weird at all. We're a part of each other's timeline. I don't know how, but I was meant to surf the time currents until I heard you calling for me. You're a chosen one like I am. Perhaps I was meant to be your teacher and guide."

  Shelby furrowed her brow. A ‘chosen one'? Was this guy heavy into The Matrix as well as Doctor Who?

  "You don't believe me?” Quentin pulled back and scanned her confused expression. “It's really not that important unless..."

  "Unless?” She playfully squeezed his ass and rocked her pelvis toward his already rock hard cock. “What all can you ‘teach’ me Quentin-without-a-last-name-or-address?"

  His throaty chuckle was answer enough. “You'll see."

  Their lips locked again. Hands raced to remove clothing barriers at breakneck speed. Quentin's electric yellow muscle shirt and tropical board shorts landed in a growing pile of clothing beside the bed. Shelby squealed as he made short order of her jeans and sweater, giggling as he pondered the catch on her bra.

  "What is it? Don't they don't wear bras in the forty-second century?"

  He grinned. “No, they don't. I've only seen these contraptions in museums. Why do you force your lovely breasts into such a painful device?"

  "To keep them from sagging. Gravity is a cruel thing here on planet Earth. And though it may not look like it, I've got an above average-sized rack on my short frame. It wouldn't do for a business woman to walk around with her jugs bouncing up and down all day in the office while meeting with clients."

  "I don't know. You might sell a whole lot m
ore real estate if they did. I know I'd buy anything with these gorgeous globes hypnotizing me from across the room."

  Finally he mastered the hook and eye closure and released her breasts from bondage. “Ah, perfect.” He took a nipple into his mouth and began to lick and nibble and suckle until Shelby's toes curled with excitement.

  "Ooo! I'm going to come this minute if you don't stop."

  He paused. “Is it considered ill-mannered of me in this century—making my partner come several times before my own climax?"

  "Why, no, it isn't. Not at all. It's just that I, uh..."

  He began to eagerly suckle the other perky point until her toes curled then pointed, the tension building in her pussy. Her breathing came fast and shallow as the exquisite torture of pleasure sensations began to mount in ever increasing intensity.

  What am I doing? Her mind raced, trying to reason with the overload of input from her love-starved body. She was allowing a stranger to boldly have his way with her. She wasn't even putting up a protest. What had become of calm and controlled Shelby Schwartz the business tycoon and bitter divorcee? Had Quentin already killed that lonely bitch and brought forth a new creation in its place?

  "Oh, God if you don't fuck me now I'll die!"

  His low, husky chuckle zinged a tingle down her spine. “Even I know that's a physical impossibility for Homo sapiens. Now, with a few other alien species that's not far from the truth, but it's not so with humans. But don't worry. I won't make you suffer..."

  He thrust a hand down the front of her damp panties and began to finger her clit. Shelby bucked against the pressure, gasping as he slipped a finger into her waiting cunt and began to pump at the same time. She moaned and begged for her release.

  "Rip these panties off me before I explode!"

  "This I gotta see.” Laughing, Quentin did exactly as he was told, flinging the shredded undergarment across the room. It soared in a straight line and landed atop the photo of her and Graham on their wedding day that sat on the corner of her dresser.