Private Research: An Erotic Novella

by Sabrina Darby

  Sebastian looked back up at the ceiling, squeezing his eyes shut.

  “You’re right,” I continued. “I’m a coward.”

  “Mina.” His voice sounded ragged, like he was struggling to speak, and it hurt me. Hurt me the way his anger at Harridan House had terrified me, had made me realize I didn’t want him to be angry with me. “We’ve had a relationship since the first day we met.”

  “Why did you never ask me out?”

  “I don’t know.” He opened his eyes and sat up. In the dark, I could just make out the pale outline of his body, arms resting on his knees, head in his hands. “No, I know why. Because I was immature. I’d only be in the States a few more months and I wanted to fuck around. I knew you were the kind of girl . . . you’d be my girlfriend. Things would be complicated.”

  Girlfriend. That’s what I’d wanted. And what had I imagined? A long-distance relationship based on sweet romance? But who knows what would have happened if we’d acted on our attraction back then. Maybe I hadn’t needed a “wild” year of my own to be his sexual match. In fact, the concept went against all my ideals, my feminist ideology. Just as all the shame I’d held all those months should have gone against it as well. It was all too complicated. My actions and motivations, and Seb’s, didn’t fit neatly into some theory. This wasn’t school, or research. I wouldn’t be writing some dissertation that analyzed everything to death.

  And analyzing this right now, when all I needed to know was that he wanted to be with me, with only me, was stupid.

  So the question remained: What did I want?

  “I’m sorry. About tonight. It wasn’t fair to you. None of it.” It wasn’t enough of an apology. Nothing would be.

  He didn’t answer, but the uneven sound of his breath filled the space between us.

  “I have to go back,” I continued. “I have a TA position for the fall. In the spring . . . maybe I could come for a month or two while finishing up my dissertation, but then I’d have to return to defend it, finish everything up. Then, who knows where I’ll get a job. It would be long-distance . . . which is what you didn’t want.”

  “Right.” A single word. Was I convincing him? I wanted him to lie back down and grab me and tell me none of the obstacles mattered. That we had to try. That what we had was bigger than distance.

  But was it?

  Was it for me?

  “But maybe a few months long-distance, and some time together in the spring, and we’ll know.” I hardly felt like myself speaking, voicing the tentative desire to try. “We’ll know it’s . . .” I took a deep breath. “It’s love and worth compromising for. Worth shifting our lives to make it—”

  He was on top of me so fast, the movement took my breath away.

  “—work,” I gasped, finishing the sentence even as his hands held my wrists by the side of my head and his body pressed mine down.

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Because it is for me. And I want to give this . . .” Love? Was this love for him? I hardly heard what else he said as the word spun through me, warming me in a way nothing else had ever before in my life. Wondrous. Is that what he meant? He loved me?

  His mouth lowered to mine, and the kiss tasted like love. Like a promise. Like tenderness. Like something that my stupid attempt at words couldn’t even describe. When he let go of my wrists to cup my face, I wrapped my arms around him.

  When he finally slid inside me, I wrapped my legs too. I pressed my body to his as tightly as I could, lifted my hips to keep him as deep as possible. His movements were slow and infinitesimal, but each shift sent tremors through me, unfurling, colorful ribbons of sensation and emotion. And I said with my lips what my heart and mind were too full to say.

  Love.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “WOULD YOU LIKE another drink?”

  I turned my head lazily to squint at Sebastian in the bright afternoon sun.

  “Mmmhmm,” I agreed, and watched him walk off, admiring the way he looked in his swim trunks. After a week in Cannes in the south of France, we both were more tan than usual. And after a week of getting-reacquainted-with-each-other’s-body sex, I still wanted to pull closed the curtains of the cabana, strip off my bikini bottoms, and fuck him here.

  I was starved for sex after the last four months without him, and I had no way of knowing if this summer would be all we had for another half year. We were celebrating regardless. Celebrating the fact that I’d finished my PhD, that I’d had an article on the overwhelming similarity between James Mead and Anne Gracechurch (using forensic and computer analysis, and framing it as a mystery) accepted for publication. That we could even spend this time together. Things were good.

  We’d managed to make long-distance work these past nine months, in part thanks to some creativity with Internet video calls and in part due to the efforts we’d made to see each other. Although I’d had to miss Nigel and Kate’s wedding, Sebastian had joined me in November for my sister’s. I’d spent half of December and all of January in London, working on the final stages of my dissertation before I submitted it for defense. The backup version. I also used that time to follow more clues into the Mead-Gracechurch connection. While I had decided to cut my losses as far as the dissertation, I was still determined to find the missing link.

  During those weeks, we’d even visited Harridan House one more time just to walk through the halls as ghosts, to fuck in one of the rooms. We hadn’t closed off the future to any possible fantasies that might creep up, but bringing other bodies between us at this fragile point felt like an invasion of the world we were hoping to build. The love.

  The life that would be that much more difficult to maintain if I accepted the fabulous tenure-track position I’d been offered in Ohio. If it had been New York, or Chicago, or San Francisco even, then Sebastian could have been the one to sacrifice, move to a department stateside since he was still years from breaking out on his own. Instead, I had postponed accepting, which I knew meant other candidates were also waiting with bated breath. But there were still two postdoc positions that were due to be announced soon, and there was always the possibility of working as a researcher at that documentary-film company in London for which Kate had mentioned one of her bridesmaids, Clare, made films.

  Sebastian returned with two bright pink, fruity drinks, the glass wet where the frozen drinks sweated in the sun. On the beach, his predilection for scotch appeared to be subsumed by a taste for tropical, sugary drinks.

  He sat back down next to me on the triple-wide sun bed. Handing me the drink even as he leaned in for a kiss. On my bare breast. I’d taken to the topless sunbathing easily after all those nights at Harridan House. And there were all these little perks, even if “lewd” behavior on the beach was frowned upon.

  “We should close the curtains,” he murmured.

  “We should,” I agreed. I put my drink down on the table beside me, bestirred myself from the outdoor bed, and undid the ties that kept the canvas back. Tugged the edges closed. Then I climbed back on and crawled over to Sebastian. Straddled him.

  The feel of him hard under me had me bite back a moan. Discretion was necessary.

  My fingers rested over his nipples, which hardened under my touch. I looked down at his face, a study in pleasure. He reached his hands up to the strings on the side of my bikini bottoms and tugged. The fabric fell away and his fingers replaced it, reaching for me, cool on my hot flesh. I shifted up a bit, pulled his shorts down to free his cock.

  Positioned myself over him and eased down, sucking in my breath as always at that first delicious feel of his parting me, stretching me, joining us.

  We moved slowly, hips undulating, and I leaned forward to meet his open mouth. In the instant before, I saw his face, saw that look in his eyes. The one I hadn’t understood last year. The one I’d tried to deny.

  This wasn’t just sex. I felt that too.

  No. It was more.

  So much more.

 
Something worth keeping.

  About the Author

  SABRINA DARBY has been reading romance since the age of seven and learned her best vocabulary (dulcet, diaphanous, and turgid) from them. The day after her wedding she woke up with an idea for a novel and she’s been writing romance ever since. She is the author of On These Silken Sheets, The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe, and Entry-Level Mistress.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Also by Sabrina Darby

  The Short and Fascinating Tale of Angelina Whitcombe

  On These Silken Sheets

  Give in to your impulses . . .

  Read on for a sneak peek at three brand-new

  e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.

  Available now wherever e-books are sold.

  THE GOVERNESS CLUB: CLAIRE

  By Ellie Macdonald

  ASHES, ASHES, THEY ALL FALL DEAD

  By Lena Diaz

  THE GOVERNESS CLUB: BONNIE

  By Ellie Macdonald

  An Excerpt from

  THE GOVERNESS CLUB: CLAIRE

  by Ellie Macdonald

  Claire Bannister just wants to be a good teacher so that she and the other ladies of the Governess Club can make enough money to leave their jobs and start their own school in the country. But when the new sinfully handsome and utterly distracting tutor arrives, Claire finds herself caught up in a whirlwind romance that could change the course of her future.

  What would a “London gent” want with her, Claire wondered as she quickened her pace. The only man she knew in the capital was Mr. Baxter, her late father’s solicitor. Why would he come all the way here instead of corresponding through a letter as usual? Unless it was something more urgent than could be committed to paper. Perhaps it had something to do with Ridgestone—

  At that thought, Claire lifted her skirts and raced to the parlor. Five years had passed since her father’s death, since she’d had to leave her childhood home, but she had not given up her goal to one day return to Ridgestone.

  The formal gardens of Aldgate Hall vanished, replaced by the memory of her own garden; the terrace doors no longer opened to the ballroom, but to a small, intimate library; the bright corridor darkened to a comforting glow; Claire could even smell her old home as she rushed to the door of the housekeeper’s parlor. Pausing briefly to catch her breath and smooth her hair, she knocked and pushed the door open, head held high, barely able to contain her excitement.

  Cup and saucer met with a loud rattle as a young man hurried to his feet. Mrs. Morrison’s disapproving frown could not stop several large drops of tea from contaminating her white linen, nor could Mr. Fosters’s harrumph. Claire’s heart sank as she took in the man’s youth, disheveled hair, and rumpled clothes; he was decidedly not Mr. Baxter. Perhaps a new associate? Her heart picked up slightly at that thought.

  Claire dropped a shallow curtsey. “You wished to see me, Mrs. Morrison?”

  The thin woman rose and drew in a breath that seemed to tighten her face even more with disapproval. She gestured to the stranger. “Yes. This is Mr. Jacob Knightly. Lord and Lady Aldgate have retained him as a tutor for the young masters.”

  Claire blinked. “A tutor? I was not informed they were seeking—”

  “It is not your place to be informed,” the butler, Mr. Fosters, cut in.

  Claire immediately bowed her head and clasped her hands in front of her submissively. “My apologies. I overstepped.” Her eyes slid shut, and she took a deep breath to dispel the disappointment. Ridgestone faded into the back of her mind once more.

  Mrs. Morrison continued with the introduction. “Mr. Knightly, this is Miss Bannister, the governess.”

  Mr. Knightly bowed. “Miss Bannister, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Claire automatically curtseyed. “The feeling is mutual, sir.” As she straightened, she lifted her eyes to properly survey the new man. Likely not yet in his third decade, Mr. Knightly wore his brown hair long enough not to be following the current fashion. Scattered locks fell across his forehead, and the darkening of a beard softened an otherwise square-jawed face. He stood nearly a head taller than she did, and his loosely fitted jacket and modest cravat did nothing to conceal broad shoulders. Skimming her gaze down his body, she noticed a shirt starting to yellow with age and a plain brown waistcoat struggling to hide the fact that its owner was less than financially secure. Even his trousers were slightly too short, revealing too much of his worn leather boots. All in all, Mr. Jacob Knightly appeared to be the epitome of a young scholar reduced to becoming a tutor.

  Except for his mouth. And his eyes. Not that Claire had much experience meeting with tutors, but even she could tell that the spectacles enhanced rather than detracted from the pale blueness of his eyes. The lenses seemed to emphasize their round shape, emphasize the appreciative gleam in them before Mr. Knightly had a chance to hide it. Even when he did, the corners of his full mouth remained turned up in a funny half-smile, all but oozing confidence and assurance—bordering on an arrogance one would not expect to find in a tutor.

  Oh dear.

  An Excerpt from

  ASHES, ASHES, THEY ALL FALL DEAD

  by Lena Diaz

  Special Agent Tessa James is obsessed with finding the killer whose signature singsong line—“Ashes, ashes, they all fall dead”—feels all too familiar. When sexy, brilliant consultant Matt Buchanan is paired with Tessa to solve the mystery, they discover, inexplicably, that the clues point to Tessa herself. If she can’t remember the forgotten years of her past, will she become the murderer’s next target?

  She raised a shaking hand to her brow and tried to focus on what he’d told her. “You’ve found a pattern where he kills a victim in a particular place but mails the letter for a different victim while he’s there.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you, yes. It’s early yet, and we have a lot more to research—and other victims to find—but this is one hell of a coincidence, and I’m not much of a believer in coincidences. I think we’re on to something.”

  Tears started in Tessa’s eyes. She’d been convinced since last night that she’d most likely ruined her one chance to find the killer, and at the same time ruined her career. And suddenly everything had changed. In the span of a few minutes, Matt had given her back everything he’d taken from her when he’d destroyed the letter at the lab. Laughter bubbled up in her throat, and she knew she must be smiling like a fool, but she couldn’t help it.

  “You did it, Matt.” Her voice came out as a choked whisper. She cleared her throat. “You did it. In little more than a day, you’ve done what we couldn’t do in months, years. You’ve found the thread to unravel the killer’s game. This is the breakthrough we’ve been looking for.”

  She didn’t remember throwing herself at him, but suddenly she was in his arms, laughing and crying at the same time. She looped her arms around his neck and looked up into his wide-eyed gaze, then planted a kiss right on his lips.

  She drew back and framed his face with her hands, giddy with happiness. “Thank you, Matt. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You’ve saved my career. And you’ve saved lives! Casey can’t deny this is a real case anymore. He’ll have to get involved, throw some resources at finding the killer. And we’ll stop this bastard before he hurts anyone else. How does that feel? How does it feel to know you just saved someone?”

  His arms tightened around her waist, and he pulled her against his chest. “It feels pretty damn good,” he whispered. And then he kissed her.

  Not the quick peck she’d just given him. A real kiss. A hot, wet, knock-every-rational- thought-out-of-her-mind kind of kiss. His mouth moved against hers in a sensual onslaught—nipping, tasting, teasing—before his tongue swept inside and consumed her with his heat.

  Desire flooded through her, and she whimpered against him. She stroked his tongue with hers, and he groaned deep in his throat. He slid hi
s hand down over the curve of her bottom and lifted her until she cradled his growing hardness against her belly. He held her so tightly she felt every beat of his heart against her breast. His breath was her breath, drawing her in, stoking the fire inside her into a growing inferno.

  He gyrated his hips against hers in a sinful movement that spiked across her nerve endings, tightening her into an almost painful tangle of tension. Every movement of his hips, every slant of his lips, every thrust of his tongue stoked her higher and higher, coiling her nerves into one tight knot of desire, ready to explode.

  Nothing had ever felt this good.

  Nothing.

  Ever.

  The tiny voice inside her, the one she’d ruthlessly quashed as soon as his lips claimed hers, suddenly yelled a loud warning. Stop this madness!

  Her eyes flew open. This was Matt making her feel this way, on the brink of a climax when all he’d done was kiss her. Matt. Good grief, what was she thinking? He swiveled his hips again, and she nearly died of pleasure.

  No, no! This had to stop.

  Convincing her traitorous body to respond to her mind’s commands was the hardest thing she’d ever tried to do, because every cell, every nerve ending wanted to stay exactly where she was: pressed up against Matt’s delicious, hard, warm body.

  His twenty-four-year-old body to her thirty-year-old one.

  This was insane, a recipe for disaster. She had to stop, now, before she pulled him down to the ground and demanded that he make love to her right this very minute.

  She broke the kiss and shoved out of his arms.

  An Excerpt from

  THE GOVERNESS CLUB: BONNIE

  by Ellie Macdonald