“Nor I yours.” He bowed slightly. “May I present myself to your ladyship. I am Jasper Dawson, and I am at your service.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dawson. I am—” How should she style herself? “Leonora Aldbury.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Aldbury.”
“Lady Aldbury,” she corrected by rote before mortification descended.
“Apologies, my lady.”
She shook her head. “None needed. I am simply the widow of a baronet. I did not mean to put on airs.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“Wilfred died over ten years ago. The loss is no longer keenly felt.”
“And you did not remarry?” Color rose on Mr. Dawson’s smooth cheeks. “Excuse me. That was presumptuous.”
“I did not remarry.” She studied him, suspicion and disenchantment seeping into her bones. “Mr. Dawson, I am not a wealthy woman, nor well connected. I am a poor candidate for a patroness.”
His blush faded to pallor. “Please, understand that is not my intention.” His voice was whisper-quiet. He stared at the leather seat of his sketching stool, then shifted to the portrait on the easel, finally landing his chocolate-brown gaze upon her. “My lady, since first I saw you in the Gallery last week, you have been my source of inspiration. My muse.”
A fog of disbelief muddled her brain.
“There is something about you, a calm elegance infused with a”—he raised his hands, fingers splayed as if grasping for a word—“an acceptance of life.”
Or, rather, resignation.
“I watched as you studied the paintings, contemplative and captivating, your steps across the parquet floor like dancing. Then you noticed me. My heart pounded in excitement. I wanted you to speak to me. When you did not, I was left bereft. I reimagine the moment often, but with a different conclusion.”
Like her invented scenario with him . . .
Good lord. Did he envision her like that? Her scalp prickled in embarrassment.
“And, to put your mind at ease, I already have a patron. A peer. He buys my art at his wife’s behest.”
She silently exhaled relief. “Your patron’s wife has an eye for talent.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
Everything was too perfect to be true. Surely there was some deception? “What do you want from me?”
“A chance to paint a portrait—”
Intriguing.
“Friendship—”
Her heartbeat picked up its pace.
He took her hand, smudging her glove with pink pastel. “A hope for more.”
Her lungs tightened for want of air. This was madness. She should break free, run away, never return to the Gallery again.
And never again have an opportunity for adventure . . . “Mr. Dawson, I think—” Emotion choked her. She calmed herself, gathering courage. “I think I should like that.”
His eyes widened with excitement. “Oh, my lady, you have made me a very happy man.” He pressed her hand between both of his. “Join me tonight,” he said. “An artist I know is having a party at his house in St. John’s Wood. I’ll send a cab to fetch you.”
The fog in Leonora’s head swirled. She should not swoon. Not here in the National Gallery.
“My lady,” he said sotto voce, “please say yes.”
Yes. She drew breath through her nostrils. Yes. She swallowed. “Yes.”
He took a calling card from his jacket pocket and picked up a pencil from his artist’s tray. “Write your address. I’ll send a cab around nine o’clock tonight.”
So late? “After dinner?”
He chuckled. “My friends sup at ten o’clock. It is an inconvenience to those of us who are not used to such a late hour. Take some refreshment beforehand, as you wish. They have a marvelous cook. From India. Very exotic.”
“India?” Did the Indians have a cuisine? Of course, why should they not? “And what does one wear to a party with an Indian cook?”
The amber flecks in his brown eyes sparkled. “Clothes.” He chortled. “What you are wearing is quite fine.”
A day dress at an evening gathering? This event was sounding more and more fantastic. “All right. I will be ready for the hansom at nine o’clock tonight.”
Leonora had decided upon the chocolate-brown striped day dress with velveteen jacket, her most fashionable ensemble, and one that fit her very well. Agnes had insisted Leonora have such attire in her wardrobe “in the event a gentleman asks you to tea,” a prospect Leonora had dismissed at the time as being quite preposterous.
Leonora snorted as she tugged on her gloves. Agnes was practical and prescient, and a good friend.
The hansom drove up at precisely nine o’clock. She tamped down any lingering trepidation as she descended her front steps. As the cab rushed to St. John’s Wood, trepidation turned to anticipation and excitement.
She really was doing this. She’d never in her life done anything as foolhardy as accepting an invitation from a stranger to a party full of even more strangers.
There was no turning back now. Especially as Mr. Dawson awaited her in a halo of lamplight at the front gate to the mansion, his face brightening as the cab pulled alongside.
“Lady Aldbury, welcome.”
His grip was strong as he helped her step from the carriage. He gently looped her arm around his and led her down the well-lit path to the entrance porch and through the front door.
Oil lamps and gaslight cast a golden hue across the interior, heightening the exoticism of the decoration. Here and there everything glittered: furniture upholstered in opulent brocades; fringed satin draperies flanking leaded glass windows; gilded leather volumes lining shelves alongside blue-and-white porcelain vases; Persian rugs covering the dark wood floors.
Every room was filled with chatting, laughing people, casually lounging and leaning on chairs and sofas as well as each other. Here affection and familiarity prevailed, unlike the repressed atmosphere of a ballroom.
Partygoers cheerily engaged her in conversation. Had she formed an opinion on the new Prime Minister? Wasn’t the champagne divine? Did she have her dress made in Paris? What was her estimation of Mr. Dawson’s skill with pastels?
She’d never talked so much in her life and to so many different people, never drank such exquisite champagne, never tasted such delicious and spicy food. Through it all, Jasper—for he was Jasper now and she Leonora—had been at her side, sweet and attentive, almost reverential. The perfect gentleman.
The fragrance of coffee and pipe tobacco drifted in the air as Jasper led her up the stairs to the grand first-floor landing, to an over-stuffed divan ensconced in a deep window niche framed by crimson velvet drapes. An ornate longcase clock chimed a quarter after two.
“How fares my muse?” Jasper asked as he sank into the divan and stretched out his long limbs.
“If this were a ball I would dance until daybreak.” Arms outstretched, she turned as if waltzing with a partner.
Jasper laughed.
Leonora plopped down on the other side of the divan and met his gaze.
Despite a haze of exhaustion, an invigorating energy stirred inside, goading her to the point of dauntlessness and daring. This night had been nothing like the stultifying balls endured in her youth. No indeed. The night’s festivities had been quite glorious.
All because of the young man before her.
She took his hand. “Thank you for inviting me tonight.”
“My pleasure.” His tongue flicked between his lips, plump . . . and enticing.
A kiss. She wanted to kiss him. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d kissed a man. Decades perhaps. How did one go about doing such a thing?
Jasper tugged on her hand. Encouragement? He smiled. Yes, encouragement.
She slithered alongside him, their bodies fitting together with each inch forward, until they were face-to-face. Her heart pounded in her ears as she surveyed the treat before her. His gaze lowered. She leaned in and pressed h
er lips to his succulent mouth.
His kiss was gentle yet determined, softness edged with a bristly masculinity. She’d forgotten that chafing caress, forgotten how she loved it so. Arousal flared every pore, igniting long-buried desires.
He gripped her waist; she clutched at his shoulders. His tongue teased before he opened for her, letting her savor him. He tasted like champagne and chocolate. She needed air, but she needed him—
She drew away, breathless, each heaving inhale increasing her aching need. “That was lovely.”
He stroked her cheek. “I am happy to oblige.”
She leaned in, brushing her lips against his rough chin. “I want . . . ” A faint scent of cologne, warm and earthy, flared her nostrils. “I want . . . ”
“What is it you want, my lady?”
She hardly knew. She wanted to be touched, to be held, to be—“Another kiss.”
“Just a kiss.” He took her hand. “Something so simple.”
He pressed his lips to her palm, the exquisite gesture melting her insides, tightening her nipples against her corset.
“Where would you like this kiss, my lady?” His query dripped insinuation.
She drew back, eyes wide, searching for meaning in his expression. “Where may a man kiss a woman?”
“Many places on a woman’s body are amenable to kisses.”
“Many places?”
He chuckled gently. “Absolutely. Will you allow me to show you?”
Excitement pulsed in her veins. “Yes.” Oh, yes.
Jasper drew the velvet curtains across the niche, shutting out the hum of partygoers, enveloping them in a modicum of privacy. He knelt down on the carpet at the side of the divan and slid his hands along her calves above her boots, pushing up her skirts. He pecked along her shin, his breath humid against her stocking.
He made his advance up her legs, across her knees to her thighs, his touch rousing passions long dormant. Her sex fluttered and contracted in anticipation.
His hand slithered through the split in her drawers, the sensation of skin on skin startling, sending a shudder through her.
Jasper hesitated. “My lady?”
Leonora angled over to lay her hands on his. “You’re tickling me.” She slid her lower lip through her teeth. “And I’m enjoying it immensely.”
“Shall I continue?”
“Oh, please do.”
He beamed and gently urged her legs apart, opening her drawers until cool air and his warm breath fanned across her privates, throbbing with desire.
“Beautiful,” he murmured before leaning over and pressing his mouth to the lips of her sex.
Leonora gasped. She’d imagined quite a bit in her decades of sensual solitude, but she’d never imagined anything as remarkable as this. His tongue slid slowly through her slit, dallying inside her intimate passage before taking one long lick upward toward her belly—
“Oh!” She jerked her hips against him.
The spot. He’d found the spot, the one the doctor had manipulated to ease her vexations, the one that elicited such profound pleasure.
Jasper masterfully worked his tongue against her, gripping her buttocks to steady her while she writhed in ecstasy. Lustfulness blossomed as she melted into the divan, her breathy moans mingling with the sound of him feasting upon her.
The onslaught of orgiastic joy was dizzying, lifting her until she was buoyant, as if swirling, twirling in the clouds. She giggled. Such carnal magnificence was so contrary to her prosaic dream of furtive copulation.
And Jasper was so much more perfect than her midnight phantom.
She speared her fingers through his hair and pressed herself against him, wanting—no, needing—to feel more, to never have an end to such perfect bliss.
Euphoria melded with voluptuousness, compelling her forward to a rapturous peak so familiar yet remarkably unknown, over which she stumbled with a wail of surprise, tumbling into satiation.
Leonora blew out an exhale as Jasper lifted his head. Above an endless grin, his eyes twinkled.
She tugged on the shoulders of his jacket. He crawled up the length of her until they were nestled and cuddling.
“Jasper, that was wonderful.” She threaded her fingers through his. “Surely there is something I may do for you in return?”
“Not tonight, my lady.” He languidly stroked her cheek. “Just knowing you are satisfied is enough for me.”
She heaved a sigh of contentment. This night was the start of a great adventure indeed.
PROTEST OF PASSION
Eliza David
The jeers below my office brought Gabby Santos to my attention. I was working over my lunch hour, as usual. I ran my hand through my curls as my eyes glazed over the report on my monitor, the words seeming to run together in my tired mind. The angry chants only added to my frustration: Hey hey! Ho ho! Wren Construction’s got to go . . .
“Damn it,” I said, pushing myself away from my desk and stalking to the window. My scowl softened upon seeing the beauty. She was standing on top of a bus stop bench, perched on the corner of Michigan and Wabash, one of the traffic lifelines of downtown Chicago. I felt the warmth of anger trickle away, replaced with titillation as she took charge of the crowd.
Gabby bent toward the sea of people, a black megaphone to her mouth and a fist in the air. “Richard Wren promotes a culture of socioeconomic division and wants nothing more than to break down the brown and black communities in this city for a chance at more green lining his pockets!”
The crowd cheered loud enough to almost drown out the cacophony of car horns on the busy downtown street. She turned her head to face the office building of Richard Wren, a construction magnate who was rumored to have his hands deep in the pockets of the city’s urban planners.
“Richard Wren! You hear us, you see us, and very soon, you will feel us. Hey hey! Ho ho! Wren Construction’s got to go!”
I watched as the crowd fell back in line with the chant. I was no activist but there was something electric in the throng of protestors, and Gabby being in the center of them intrigued me all the more. The moment I decided to get back to my desk was when our eyes locked. Gabby pushed a strand of her wavy black mane behind her ear. I swallowed, repeating the same motion with my shoulder-length curls. Her face studied mine before I pushed away from the window instead, ashamed.
Ashamed, because the target, the vile community trespasser she was protesting was me.
When I’d seen the renovated Hansen Park properties on the Wren Construction website three months ago, I knew it was the place for me. I’m a South Side native of the city, so I realized some of the politics that went along with city dwellers invading a historic Latinx close-knit community. Being black and queer, I thought I’d be spared from the cold shoulder my straight white neighbors had endured from the local mom-and-pop businesses. I assumed that my brown brothers and sisters would see me as an ally—not as an invader.
It became clear after a few negative run-ins that, in Hansen Park, if you weren’t a native, you were an enemy—ethnicity be damned.
I went home that night, exhausted from a slew of meetings and crunching financial figures for Anderson Law Practice. The thought crossed my mind to order another deep-dish pepperoni, but the neon lights of the bodega caught my eye. A quick bite was all I needed.
“Miss Suzannah,” the owner chimed, mispronouncing my name. I didn’t mind that Mr. Gonzalez didn’t call me Suzanne. He was one of the few business owners in Hansen Park who didn’t treat me like a community leech.
“Mr. Gonzalez, how’s your night going?” I said, leaning my arms on the raised counter.
He shrugged. “Ay, just waiting for the drunken gringos to come in and spend all of their money after drinking downtown all night.”
We laughed as I perused the variety of ready-made meals in the cooler. Although it had been a year since I’d broken up with my ex, Donna, I still hadn’t learned how to cook for myself. Being a single thirty-five-year-old in the city was
hard enough to begin with. I was reaching for a six-pack of tamales when the bell chimed from the entrance. I turned, nearly dropping the frozen package from my hands, as Gabby came to the counter.
“Como estas, pop,” she asked in her sexy rasp of a voice. The two began a brief conversation in Spanish before Gabby noticed I was there. The smile she shared with Mr. Gonzalez melted as her mouth morphed into a straight line. “Can I help you?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I was just—”
“Watching two people converse in their native tongue, a language you don’t understand? Maybe you should have thought about that before you moved here.”
I tossed the tamales on the counter. “Listen, you don’t know me—”
“Oh, yes, I do,” Gabby said, crossing her arms. “You work in that high-rise next to Wren Construction, don’t you?”
My gaze dropped. So she’d recognized me from the window. “Yes, that was me.”
“Hmph. And I’ve seen you strolling around here like you own the damn place—which you don’t, might I remind you?”
I raised a brow. “So you’ve been watching me?”
“Yeah, I have.” Her gaze floated across my body.
The tone of Gabby’s response halted me, warming me with passion when I should have been pissed at her confrontation. Our eyes caught for a beat before the ring of Mr. Gonzalez’s register.
“That’ll be three eighteen, Miss Suzannah,” he said. I dug out a five and slipped it in his hand.
“Keep the change,” I said. I tucked the tamales inside of my work tote and pushed past Gabby to head for the door. I rushed my steps outside before I heard her call out, “Hey, Suzannah . . . ”
I spun on my heel. “It’s Suzanne.” I was tired, hungry, and humiliated. The last thing I wanted to do was continue a fight with Gabby that I didn’t even have the displeasure of picking.
She jogged to catch up with me, her beautiful mane floating behind her. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her jeans and stared down at her red Converse. “Listen,” she started, her brown eyes trailing up the length of my body to catch my gaze. “Sorry for how I reacted back there. It’s . . . today was a tough day for me.”
Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 4 Page 14