I’d heard a similar sentiment earlier today. Funny, from Micah, it had been the most despicable threat. From George, the most delicious promise.
It was a promise he didn’t get a chance to fulfill for quite some time. Okay, several days. Okay, two. But, trust me, when you’re waiting to have George Harrison Prescott’s hands on your body, time passes very, very slowly. (Especially given that it had also been two days since Jenny had spoken to me. She’d disappeared from the tomb, and failed to respond to seven e-mails and three voice mails. And those were just from me—who knew what the rest of the Diggirls had said to her after hearing my account of the coffee shop confrontation? According to reports, she wasn’t returning any of our calls. It was indeed possible our concern had spooked her.)
And so it happened that one evening I was sitting at my favorite study spot, the window seat in the tomb’s Grand Library, looking out at the moonlit courtyard. Connecticut was shuddering into fall, which meant lots of dismal, gray gloom transitioning us from verdant summer into the fiery brilliance of New England’s peak. Today’s weather was the sort I’d come to associate with New Haven. It spit rain all day, and the ground slushed with the results, soaking shoes and socks and the flares of everyone’s jeans and making them rethink that after-dinner section up on Science Hill or the screening at the Film Studies Center. I could feel the dampness as I sat there, legs crossed beneath me, a middle volume of the tomb’s leather-bound set of The Golden Bough open on my lap. Time was running out to find a thesis topic, but I kept getting distracted. The rotten evening was the perfect chance to dig in, uninterrupted.
Ever since Monday, being present at the tomb usually meant an automatic conscription into Josh’s latest campaign to appease the patriarchs and find the traitor before he caused a permanent break between the club and its most devoted supporters. We hadn’t gotten much further in our search, as Jenny’s efforts had turned up zilch, and everyone seemed too devoted to the cause to be responsible for the leak.
However, I happened to know that Lydia had taken advantage of the storm to trap Josh in her room for the evening. Bless her. The miserable weather and Josh’s efforts would keep everyone else away as well.
But clearly, I’d underestimated a certain man’s persistence.
The chandelier flickered to life above my head and I looked to the door to see Puck with his hand on the switch. “Ah, you are here after all.” I hadn’t even heard the front door open.
The sudden pounding of my pulse signaled: This is it. But I could play it cool. “Did Lydia tell you where to find me?”
“Not exactly.” He smiled and crossed to me. “Lydia said she thought you’d gone to the library. Her boyfriend said he was sure you were having a grand old time.”
“And then, no doubt, he sent you over here to conduct an investigation.”
“Precisely. I think there was something about strip-searching anyone I found inside.” He sat beside me and tapped the book in my lap. “What are you doing here so very late at night? No life?”
I checked my watch. It had gotten late, hadn’t it? I was surprised that even Lydia and Josh were still awake. They’d usually “gone to bed” long before this hour. And let’s not question why it took so long for George to come looking for me. “Studying. I take classes, you know. Or you would, but you opted out of Branch’s Shakespeare.”
“I decided the Nabokov seminar was more my style.” He tilted his head. “Bugaboo, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul, Bugaboo. The tip of the tongue taking a trip down the palate to—well, burst, actually—at last, through the lips. Bug. A. Boo.” He leaned in to kiss me.
“Gross,” I said. “Humbert was a pedophile.”
“A damn eloquent one. Besides,” he said, and nibbled on my lower lip, “you’re legal.”
Can’t really argue with that. I smiled and kissed him in earnest. “What are we doing?”
“What we should have done a damn long time ago, ’boo.”
“What, and lay our private doings open to the society during my C.B.?” I teased, scooting down on the seat so he had an easier time reaching me. Man, this boy could kiss.
“Mine or yours,” he mumbled, kissing down my jawline to my neck. “It’s all going to come out eventually. And I don’t care. Spend the night with me.”
“Okay.”
Simple as that. Because when a guy like George Harrison Prescott is this determined to hook up with you, when he walks through the rain and quotes ecstatic literature and kisses you like he hasn’t seen a girl in years—well, there’s only one acceptable answer. And that’s to accept. Not to overthink it, not to weigh the options, not to determine where this fit into the scope of your orderly C.V., and definitely not to start figuring out exactly where you would fall on his lengthy C.B. This wasn’t about my friends, or my future, or anything else but what I wanted…now. Within these walls, he was neither the reluctant legacy nor the school’s most infamous heartbreaker, but rather, an infinitely charming fellow Digger, fellow Prescotteer, and the guy I’d wanted to tap ever since I laid eyes on him.
George Harrison Prescott: accept or reject? No contest.
I stretched my legs out and tangled them with his as he fought for leverage on the slim window seat. Beyond the lead-veined window there was nothing but private courtyard and wintry dying garden and moonlight, and we were alone in the tomb of Rose & Grave, which is as good as being alone in the world. Here we were, set off five minutes from the rest of the population, separated from the students of Eli by our society names and the secrets we shared.
“It’s not as cold out as I thought,” I said.
“Huh?”
I bopped him on the nose. “Your skin. It’s not cold.”
“I bundled.” And then he began to unbundle me, starting with the scarf around my throat.
I loved this moment of hooking up with a boy, when you haven’t yet relinquished all sense of rationality, but you’re not by any means acting like you would in front of your parents. Our clothes were on, but we were horizontal; we weren’t completely mussed from making out, but my skin was flushed and he was removing his glasses and laying them on the table to my left. I’d seen George without his trademark glasses before, of course, but never from an inch or two away. I thought his copper-colored eyes were gorgeous before, behind the matching copper frames. Without them, and staring into mine, those eyes would have taken my breath away if I’d been able to breathe in the first place. Men should not get the kind of genetic advantages bestowed upon this boy. Or at least not without a big warning sign tattooed on their foreheads.
He shifted his leg slightly, and suddenly, I forgot all about his eyes. “George,” I murmured.
“Open your wallet, ’boo,” he said into the tender skin of my throat. “Because I have a feeling you’re going to owe these fine Diggers a lot of money pretty soon.” His hands slid up under my sweater and I arched beneath him.
“Then we should probably adjourn to someplace more comfortable.”
He lifted his head. “I have the perfect place.”
And then, before I had a chance to gather my books or slip my shoes back on, he was pulling me out of the Grand Library and up a flight of stairs.
“Um, I can assure you this is not the way out,” I said.
“And I can assure you all I’m looking for tonight is a way in.” He reached our destination and held open the door with a flourish. “Milady.”
The Inner Temple. I hesitated. “You’re serious? What if someone comes into the tomb?”
He grabbed me around the waist and drew me inside. “I guarantee everyone’s gone home for the night. Besides, you think we’re the first to think of it? The first to do it?” He pushed my hair to the side and began kissing the nape of my neck. “I bet a ton of guys used to bring their dates in here to show off. Nothing so sexy as knowing what kind of power the guy you’re with is wielding. Knowing you’re with a Digger…”
“Yeah,” I replied. “But I’m a Digger, too. Ho
w do you plan to impress me?”
“Oh, I’ll think of something.” And then he kissed me. And I know I’ve gone on about George’s kisses in the past, but indulge me one more time. He’s phenomenal. I’ve never ever been kissed this way. Not to get too technical about it, but the man kisses as if he’s doing way more to you than just kissing you.
My body got that impression as well.
WAYS IN WHICH “PUCK’S” REPUTATION IS WELL DESERVED
1) The aforementioned kisses.
2) The tremendous skill he possesses in removing a girl’s clothes in a manner so subtle that, addled as she is by the kisses, she isn’t even aware of what he’s doing until she’s standing, half-naked, underneath the star-studded dome of the Inner Temple and he’s moved his kisses south.
3) The things he does south, mainly to breasts. Quite astonishing, actually. Wow. Wow.
4) The way—
That’s about as far as I got with my list before my knees buckled beneath me.
“Whoa there, ’boo.” He chuckled against my bare skin and steadied me as I sucked in a breath and tried to make my stomach look like I’d ever taken advantage of the free Pilates sessions at the Eli gym. But it was tough to maintain the proper concentration when George Harrison Prescott dropped to his knees before me, anchored his hands on my butt, and began to nuzzle my belly button.
“Take your pants off,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Look at you,” he said, and rocked back on his heels, watching me. “So agreeable all of a sudden. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“The pleasure.” I slipped my jeans down over my hips and received another jolt of happiness when his eyes widened. The load of laundry I’d done yesterday was totally worth it. “Fuchsia. Just for you.”
“Very nice.” His face expressed something far greater than approval, however. I kicked off my socks and pants and hooked my fingers beneath the straps of the thong.
And then I hesitated. “Wait a second—”
“Oh, I agree. Leave it on.”
I stabbed him in the chest with my finger. “You’re still clothed. What, planning on bolting and leaving me here in my skivvies?”
“Hardly.” He pointed at the closet in the rear of the room. “With all the robes in there, it would be a pointless prank.”
Good call. “Then I think you’re overdressed.”
He spread his arms. “Help yourself.”
So I did, because peeling material off of George’s Adonis body is not exactly an undesirable task. I’m embarrassed to admit how many times I’ve imagined him naked, and happy to report the reality blew them all away. And once he was naked, and I was nearly so (he flatly refused to let me take off my panties), all teasing went out of the proceedings. The point of no return.
Then I learned George’s kisses were merely a prelude to the rest of the tricks in his repertoire. I’ve lived twenty-one years on this planet, and I think I’ve been around the block a couple of times (my C.B. audience can attest to this fact) and I never even knew some of the things he proceeded to do to me were physically possible. For instance:
Exhibit A: The throne on top of the dais is an antique, intricately carved affair, covered as it is with bas-relief scenes from the Grecian underworld and crowned by two large globes on the front of each armrest, which, it turns out, are great places to hook your calves when you’re in particularly intimate positions wherein you are on the chair and he is…well, not on the chair, but rather, on the dais. On his knees. It was a gorgeous piece of furniture really, probably part of a set along with that diamond-dust mirror down near the kitchen. The only thing that might have improved upon the whole experience was if we’d had the mirror nearby. But I digress. I’d never thought of the straight-backed throne as particularly comfortable, but now I don’t know if I’ll be able to consider it at all without immediately breaking out into a sweat.
Exhibit B: Sex on the conference table may be a bit of an old saw in the corporate world, but sex on the Rose & Grave conference table, beneath the starry dome, surrounded by wood paneling and oil masterworks and George, George, George…I think I owe the good Diggers a couple hundred bucks. At one point, I grabbed his shoulders and stopped him.
“Do you think this place is bugged?”
“That would be fun.” He swiveled a bit, demonstrating a move I swear is illegal in three out of five states.
“George! It’s not funny. I’m creeped out by the idea that this could wind up on tape.”
“Smile for the camera, ’boo.” He chuckled, then reached down between us and made me gasp. “Come on, you think we’d still be forced to do all that transcribing in the Black Books if they had the Inner Temple wired?”
“Good point,” I managed to get out in between labored breaths.
“Then again,” he said, and rolled us both on our sides, “see that third star over there? Looks suspiciously like a lens, don’t you think?” He pulled me on top of him and grabbed my hips. “I think this is my best angle.”
I promptly came, so it was clearly my best angle as well.
Exhibit C: We ended up on the floor of the Inner Temple, lying on top of an unused robe, directly beneath the oil painting of Connubial Bliss. And I still had my underwear on, mere technicality though it was. George seemed fascinated by it, constantly running his fingers beneath the straps at my hips and in the back, obviously pleased as punch the flimsy scraps of material weren’t in the least impeding his current activities. And I had to say, I was with him on that one. I’d always figured thongs were supposed to be sexy for the boys only; I’d never realized what a turn-on they were for me until George showed me their full potential.
“Remember what I said the other day?” His voice sounded gruff and breathless. “About what I was thinking during your report?”
“Yes,” I murmured, looking down at him through half-closed eyes.
“This is it. This is what I wanted. I saw you standing here in front of this painting, talking about those other guys, and I wanted you. Right here. Like this. This is my fantasy, ’boo. You are…my fantasy.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and I felt his chest shudder beneath my palms as his breath caught.
So I took over, happy to oblige any and all of this man’s fantasies. Because it was no longer a secret he’d satisfied all of mine.
I hereby confess:
What happens in the tomb
stays in the tomb.
8.
Weird Sisters
Over the years, I’d heard many rumors about the wonders to be found in George Harrison Prescott’s bedroom, including, but not limited to: black satin sheets on the bed, mirrors on the ceiling, and a jukebox that only played Barry White.
Negative on all three. Well, there was a little mini-jukebox (which I later learned was a present from his father on the occasion of his father’s wedding), but it held a variety of songs by a variety of artists, and as far as I knew, “Fight for Your Right to Party” didn’t count as a make-out song. The sheets were standard university-issue blue, there was a normal mirror hanging on the inside of the closet, and I was spooning with George on the narrow single bed. His arm was draped loosely over my waist and the stubble on his chin was scratching my shoulder blade.
THOUGHTS I HAD THAT MORNING
1) Wow, did I really do all the things I did last night?
2) My thighs feel a little stiff.
3) This is nice. I could hang out here and cuddle with George all day.
4) Except I have that seminar at 10:15.
5) And I have to pee.
One moment more of relaxing in George’s arms, feeling our entire bodies pressed up against each other, back to chest, thigh to thigh. One moment more of hearing his breath in my ear and relishing his warm hand on my belly. And then I stretched a little and slipped out of bed.
I was buttoning my jeans when he blinked awake. “Morning.”
“Hi.” Dude, was that shyness? Wherefore had I suddenly become shy in front of George Harriso
n Prescott?
“Are you leaving?”
I giggled. Strike two. “Yeah, I’ve got work to do.”
He rolled onto his back and put his hands behind his head. “But I’ll see you tonight?”
My heart rate skyrocketed.
“At the meeting.”
Of course. The Thursday meeting. “George, I always go. Besides, it’s lobster night at the tomb.”
“Good point.” He smiled, but didn’t move from his prone position. “See you later, Boo.”
And that was it. I left his room, got out of the suite without any of his suitemates noticing me (no grist for the Prescott College gossip mill, thank you very much), and made it back to my suite. Lydia’s door was closed; I was safe. It was over.
But it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
The next few weeks passed in a flurry of sexual activity. Ostensibly, I was still taking classes, writing papers, doing problem sets, and working on getting together a thesis topic. But I can barely remember classroom discussions and I’ll be the first to admit my papers weren’t exhibiting their usual level of literary passion.
Josh had stepped up his efforts to discover who was responsible for the leak to the website, and though we each devoted plenty of time to trying to find this guy (or girl, as Nikolos insisted on reminding us at every opportunity), the identity of our leak persisted in eluding us as efficiently as Jenny eluded every Diggirl who tried to corner her into a private conversation. (And, to be honest, shitty as it sounds, the more often she avoided us, the less we all felt inclined to speak with her about it. We already knew how she’d respond.)
We’d decided, en masse, that a formal confrontation, which was the standard club M.O., would be too much for our shy brother to handle, so the best thing to do would be to go to her one by one and express our concern that perhaps her boyfriend failed to treat her with the proper respect. A girlfriend intervention. But she proved a slippery little sucker. It was nearly impossible to contact her outside the tomb, and we never caught her alone inside, or without the trappings of one of Josh’s top-priority electronic missions to track down the traitor.
Under the Rose Page 10
