Need pulsated low in her belly.
Leeford Gunn had begun something that she would have to finish lest she made a complete, hormonal fool of herself come dawn. Focus was paramount since she had already lost her emotional detachment. At least she was experienced enough to realize this. A younger, less self-knowledgeable woman might not have recognized the subtle signs of affection creeping into her judgment. It had happened to her once or twice, to fall for a “client”—Society members were only human—but never so fast.
Supine, nestled in thick blankets and crispy white sheets, she parted her thighs, caressed her belly and mons, tugged the nightgown up over her legs until she could slip her fingers lower. With a sigh, she reached the object of her discomfort and frustration. Imagining Gunn’s long, supple hands proved easy as she parted her sex and inserted her middle finger. She usually felt quite content to clear her mind of any man’s image before masturbating. But tonight, fired with Gunn’s exquisite attention, she struggled to hold out even one minute without picturing his face between her legs, his hips working as he took her, that ambrosial mouth, thin and formed to perfection. He would make for a singularly gifted lover, attentive and skilled with his hands as he was.
Moisture gathered in her folds as she began to rub her aching clitoris, round and round then in a pendulum motion.
Gunn’s mouth all over her. His tongue in her.
The images swirled in her mind’s eye. Eleanor sighed when tingles in her lower back heralded a peak. She worked harder, faster. Rubbed and teased her hard little pearl, thinking of Gunn’s hands and fingers. Then into herself she slipped two fingers. Thrust. Quick. Quicker.
Gunn’s cock as it would feel if—she hoped when—he would push into her.
Exhaustion and frustration gave way to temporary pleasure.
His lean hips shoving in. Into her. Deeper. Gunn’s dazzling eyes mirroring her passion.
She arched off the mattress when a fine jab of ecstasy cramped her thighs and sex, vaginal muscles squeezing hard. So hot. So wet.
Losing herself in Leeford Gunn’s embrace while his member would fill and stretch her.
Orgasm. Puissant. A long whimper left her. Then complete serenity spread through her tired body. Eleanor succumbed to sleep with her fingers in herself, imagining all the while they belonged to him.
Chapter Three
At ten to four, Eleanor stood outside the lighthouse, prey to both nerves and a deep thrill that forced her to smooth the front of her corseted dress several times. She always cared about her looks and prided herself on being well turned out, even while scaling a client’s wall. But she had taken a special interest in choosing her clothes that morning—barely morning. She yawned. Gunn had said to be there at four, not around four. The man held punctuality in high regard so she made sure to impress him. All part of her plan to play to his likings.
Wind tossed her hair around her face. After a deep breath, she knocked on the door and took a step back.
A short moment later the door opened and Gunn stood in the embrasure, half his face illuminated by an oil lantern he held high. He smiled. “Miss Violet. You are on time, thank you.”
As if someone had punched her in the belly, the sight of his face—and how she had imagined it as she pleasured herself only a few hours ago—drove all other thought away. She stood there gazing into his brilliant blue eyes and forgot who she was.
He seemed to experience the same struggle for focus since he matched her intense stare, his head cocked to one side, his wavy dark blond hair looking as though he had been dragged through a rosebush backward. Twice. The collar of his shirt stuck out of his sleeveless vest on one side.
After a start, he bowed at the waist. “Where are my manners? Please, come in.”
He ushered her into a darkened vestibule where a strange contraption that resembled a cross between a metallic umbrella and a small tent leaned against an old fiddleback chair. Stairs to her right led up into darkness.
A strong gust pushed her as she stepped inside, turned right away so she could watch Gunn lock the door behind them. Double bolt. Steel. Strong but fallible. Her quick assessment finished, she straightened and forced her hands to stop shaking. What was wrong with her?
Gunn turned, gave a quick smile then seemed to be looking for something in his trousers pocket, from which he pulled the lining when he slid his hand out. A tiny pocket watch different from the one he kept in his vest pocket gleamed when he began to toy with it, twirled it around.
“That is exquisite,” Eleanor said, trying to break the spell even if at the same time she would have kept looking into Leeford Gunn’s face well past all bounds of propriety.
“Oh this?” He brought it up for her to see. The little thing resembled a golden quail egg nestled in his long hand. “I helped a friend work on a contract, adjusted a mechanism’s precision. He made this for me as thanks.”
“May I?”
He nodded and let the watch slip into her hand. It felt so fragile she cupped it gingerly and put her other hand below in case it fell. Tiny engravings of leaves and roses reflected light.
“It tells the minutes and seconds only,” he murmured, drawing near. “See this?” With an ink-stained index finger, he caressed the watch’s delicate button. “If I rotate it one full turn, it will start counting a sequence. Then if I press it, it will stop counting.”
Eleanor’s gaze shifted from the watch to his finger then his hand. He had stained the cuff of his shirt with ink as well. So he was a left-hander. Another mental note to add to the file.
She swallowed hard. His proximity interfered with her ability to think rationally. “So, it is to ‘time’ something, not to ‘keep’ time.”
Gunn opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Then a wide smile stretched his lips. “To ‘time’ something of course. How astute!”
“Oh, it was only a silly remark. I meant no—”
“No, no, I love it. A timer, to time things. Perfect!”
He turned to climb the stairs, stopped then rushed back to her. “Um…” He reached for his “timer” with tentative fingers. “I will need this for my work.”
She wanted to laugh but would not risk bruising his ego. Eleanor returned his “timer” to him and fell into step behind Gunn. “What is this for?” she asked, pointing at the strange contraption by the chair. “An umbrella?”
Gunn chuckled, shook his head. “A folding table for outings. I have always wanted to eat a meal outside but not sitting on the ground. Oh well, when I do, it will not be on this thing.” He grinned. “I am afraid the design is flawed. I should get rid of it.”
Eleanor followed him up a couple of steps. Light cast scary shadows against the circular wall below them. “Could you salvage pieces of it? The hinges perhaps? Surely there is something good amidst the rest.”
Gunn threw her a slanted gaze. She snapped her mouth shut, afraid she had let on more than she intended, but he only shrugged and resumed his brisk climb. She could follow with ease but still realized the man was fitter than most. He took the last few two by two so he could open a thick wooden door at the top of the stairs before she reached it.
When Eleanor joined him on the landing, she froze in mute amazement.
Everywhere machines hung, lay or leaned, they stood, balanced or ticked, they rumbled, steamed and occupied every flat surface available in the giant circular room. To her surprise, it felt very cozy, very comforting. Below the domed ceiling of glass and steel stretched a metal framework where a collection of pulleys of all sizes and lengths of chain stirred in the amber light cast from gas bracket lights. She felt as though she were inside a living machine. Gears, chains, levers, switches, light bulbs, copper pipes, glass tubes. Sheets of paper lay everywhere. Drawings done in haste by hand covered three blackboards leaning precariously against a denuded portion of the wall. In a corner, a tiny enamel kitchen sink bolted into the wall, a cast-iron cooker on bowed legs, a small dresser filled with things that had little to do with
cooking. Pliers, tiny iron hammers, a set of miniature clamps. The man was messy. Steam rose from a kettle the likes of which she had never seen. It stood a foot tall on its pewter pedestal with a long “beak” and a thick porcelain handle. It resembled a crane to her.
But what caught her eye was a table across the room on which a gray tarp hid a barrel-sized lump. Her heart skipped a beat.
“Would you like tea?” Gunn offered as he looked for a place to set his lantern. He leaned it against another thing of which she did not know the use. Patted it once for safety then rushed to the kitchen area, zigzagging between machines as he went. The man never walked, he always rushed and knocked things aside in his haste.
“Sugar? Cream?” he threw over his shoulder.
She tore her gaze from the tarp. “Just sugar, thank you.”
Eleanor joined him for the simple pleasure of watching him work. After he knocked a few things down, clanged the kettle against its heater then poured too much water into a pair of mismatched cups, he grabbed one, seemed to change his mind then retrieved the other—the one with the least chinks in the porcelain—and proffered it to her. Bits of loose tea leaves floated on the surface. No strainer, no spoon, no saucer. She wanted to smile.
Eleanor took it in both hands. “Ah, thank you so much.”
She did not remind him about the sugar and waited while he retrieved his cup then raised it to him in silent appreciation. Together, they took a tiny sip. It was vile at best but she smiled. The worst tea with the best companion easily beat any other kind.
“So this is where you work,” she began, nodded as she looked about then took another sip.
By her side, Gunn had frozen with his cup an inch from his mouth. His gaze was riveted to her.
“Oh! Forgive me! I did not mean to sound so judgmental.”
“No, no, I was only…er. What were you saying?”
He kept staring. Heat flushed her cheeks. “I love it here. So much energy, so many things going at once. It must keep you very motivated.”
Gunn drank deep, grimaced, but was obviously relieved. His eyes sparkled.
“For instance this,” she said, walking over to a collection of copper pipes and levers on a wheeled platform. “What does it do? Let me see.” She cocked her head, took another sip. “With the counterweights, I would say we use this to lift heavy objects and move them around, almost like a chimney crane.”
Looking impressed, Gunn put the cup on the tiny dresser—he did not seem to notice he had just splashed his hand with hot water—before joining her by the large machine. He ran a loving hand over the closest pipe. Eleanor shivered at the gesture as she tried not to imagine it was her thigh.
“You are correct, Miss Violet. We hook up the object to move—boulders in a farmer’s field or a rockfall blocking the railroad tracks, for example—then after we charge the conduits, we pull this lever here.” He stretched so he could reach it, grabbed the copper lever than pulled it down. “Unfortunately, it needs a vehicle to bring it to the fields. I have yet to come up with a design that suits my needs. Wheels are no good. Wings either for that matter. I need something else, something that moves forward while shaping itself to the land.” He made a squeezing gesture with his hands. Such long fingers.
She nodded, noticed another piece that piqued her interest. “And this? I will admit, I have no idea what purpose it serves. But it is intriguing, beautiful even.”
Grinning, Gunn rushed to it, swung it around on its chain then shrugged. “Me neither. I was just looking for a counterweight to move this one over there.” He pointed to a barrel from which protruded half a dozen thin glass tubes.
They shared a laugh.
Enthused, she meandered through the place—part workshop, part laboratory, part scrap yard—and spent the next hour or so peppering an eager Gunn with myriad questions about his inventions, slowly working her way to the one that interested her until she stood right in front of it, arms crossed, looking perplexed. She wanted to show curiosity but no undue interest in it.
“This one is hidden, why?”
Gunn pushed on one corner of the tarp with the tip of his brown boot. Worn but polished and covered in buckles, they came high on his knees, clasped his calves in a wicked manner that created visions of being intimate with him while he wore them. She took a sip of her cold tea with the sole purpose of doing something other than staring at the man’s long, well-formed legs in those dark, striped trousers.
“It is not hidden.” He cleared his throat. “Merely, er, protected from the dust.”
“I respect your privacy, Mr. Gunn. You do not have to—”
Had he decided to throw himself into a glacial lake, his expression would not have looked more a mix of stern determination and waiting imminent doom while he grabbed the tarp and yanked it off to let it fall on the floor in a cloud of dust that rose like tiny moths. He retreated by several steps so she could approach.
“I sometimes grow too attached to my designs. They are only machines. Tools.” His deep voice was muted.
Resting on a table lay the real reason of her stay at Gunn’s estate. Cylindrical, it resembled a brass and silver pistol muzzle, but a giant version covered in tiny dials and switches. She could recognize Gunn’s artistic work there in the guise of pieces added to the design that had nothing to do with functionality and everything to do with aesthetics. All in all, his invention was a gleaming work of art. One Spark would turn into something ugly and dangerous, just as he had warped their sexual relationship into a battleground. She saw the potential for an airborne cannon, or one mounted on any vehicle for that matter. The extent of Gunn’s genius suddenly revealed itself to Eleanor. Spark could not be allowed to appropriate this machine. Not even a rough design and certainly not a functioning prototype, even if the Society kept a cautious eye on the dangerous man and his many homes.
“This is the one you spoke of yesterday? The condensator? It is larger than I anticipated.” The thing must have weighed, what, at least ninety pounds?
Heat on her arm indicated he stood close behind her. “You have a good memory.”
“And you have good hands.”
She felt him come even nearer until he stood behind her. A smell she had come to associate with him—he smelled of winter wind and the leather of his high boots—enveloped her in a cocoon that sensualized and titillated her. Need knifed her. Every breath in her corseted dress was torture, every hair stood on end, every nuance in the air filled her mind’s eye with images of carnality. She ignored it all the best she could. She needed to study the machine. Or at least get the plans. If Gunn had them. This would be much simpler. She would steal the plans and bring them to the Society for safekeeping while making her case in favor of redoubling their effort and sending a team after Spark instead of observing him and cataloging his moves. She might go herself as well, for old times’ sake…
But if Gunn worked without sketches, she would have to find a way to either disable the machine or destroy it. As a last resort, she would make the lighthouse temporarily unavailable. A small fire, strategically placed, ought to do. Or she could cut the gas lines. It would minimize the damage to his work but would take care of the dangerous invention. Spark would be informed of Gunn’s mishap. This would buy her time to convince Gunn that his invention was dangerous. She held high hopes he would listen to reason and trusted in his judgment, although she had no reason except for her instincts. They had never failed her so far.
Heat from her high collar flushed her cheeks when Gunn took her teacup and set it down somewhere. His hand shook.
“The way you look at it,” he murmured as he stood behind her once more. “It would have me believe you find it beautiful.”
“It is. I also see the danger underneath the beauty.”
“Danger?”
“Someone could twist your beautiful tool into a weapon. Disfigure it.”
After a long silence, Gunn sighed. “I know it has the potential for it. But if we let fear stop us, we woul
d never create. We would suffocate.”
She agreed with a nod.
“Miss Violet,” he murmured in her ear. “I have to make an admission to you.”
“Violet. You owe me nothing, Mr. Gunn.”
“Leeford. And yes, I do. I owe you the truth.” The words were like a razor across her chest. She swallowed hard.
“I could not function. All this night, I kept trying to focus on my work and could not. There should be a mounting device attached to the prototype, it was scheduled for today. But I could not… I felt…”
His long index finger traced her buttoned sleeve from shoulder to cuff. Pearly buttons created little bumps in his finger’s journey. She felt each in her belly and sex.
“I felt disjointed. Scattered. I could not even grasp simple numeracy. Equations kept jumping around. It was quite frustrating.”
She could relate well except that she had somehow managed to sleep. Only to experience vivid dreams of him.
Eleanor shivered beneath his touch. “I find your honesty refreshing. It seems to have become a lost art, has it not? Everywhere I go there is this dual conversation taking place. The words spoken aloud and those left unsaid.” She closed her eyes when he retraced his steps and ran his finger upward to her collar. “I find it refreshing and stimulating. Very much so.”
“Stimulating is a succulent word when you say it. Please say it again.”
“Stimulating,” she murmured, licked her lips. “Everything here is stimulating. Your inventions, your hands. You.”
His lips landed moth-light on the shell of her ear. He whispered, “Go on.”
“There is energy here, marvelous and dizzying. Each tick of the clock, each hiss of steam. It makes me want to…”
“What?” he whispered. “It makes you want to forget yourself? It sets your flesh on fire until it consumes you entirely? As it did me last night?” He kissed her earlobe, nibbled on it. “I want things from you, Violet. Decadent things that would make polite society shun me for life.” His chuckle made a strand of her hair fret. “Shun me again, but for different reasons.”
Mechanical Rose Page 4
