She felt a thrill low in her belly at how undone he’d become in so short a time. She decided to press her luck. “But I want to see all of you this time. It’s only fair.”
She received no coherent reply to this other than a squeeze to her wrists and a roll of his hips against the most sensitive part of her.
He pulled away at last, but only to divest her of the rest of her clothing. She watched him with amazement as he worked at the strings on her shift with alarming dexterity. He was beyond good at this, and she wondered if she needed to be jealous of the other women upon whom he’d honed his skills. Then she decided she didn’t care when he finally managed to strip away her shift and immediately sucked one of her nipples into his mouth.
He played with her body until she was in an agony of sensation, and just when she’d almost resorted to begging him, he finally allowed her to strip him of his nankeens and explore his body as he’d explored hers. She ran her hands over the sharp, eager jut of his hip bones, the sleek, plush flesh of his arse, and finally, the hard, hot length of him, heavy and alive against her palm. Just the barest of caresses, and he was moaning out her name, pressing her into the bedclothes and nudging himself between her legs.
“Minerva,” he whispered, hot and desperate in her ear as he wrapped her legs around his waist, canting her hips until they were locked together. “Minerva,” as if her name were the only word he remembered.
And when he finally pushed inside of her, she knew he had been right that day on Jacob’s Island—there were no words. All she needed to know was in his eyes—unfocused, soft with adoration and bright with awe. And when he began to move, first gently, then with inexorable passion, ecstasy sparked, wild and electric, in his glance.
He never looked away from her, and when he tried to speak, his words were nonsensical, filthy rubbish. She reveled in it. Here he was, stripped bare of all of his words and masks, naked love and lust written in every line of his body, every thrust of his hips and caress of his hand, every kiss of his lips and stuttered exhalation of his lungs. He’d stopped hiding from her, and she vowed to herself in that moment to never make him regret it.
“I love you,” she whispered, for though he’d said the words more than once, and though he must have known, she’d never said them back.
He may have proven words unnecessary by the worship in his eyes and body, but those particular words, from her heart to his, must have been very nice to hear indeed. He groaned, and his thrusts picked up and became just a touch more insistent. He angled his hips, shifted his hold on her body, and began to hit upon some spot inside of her that made her vision go bright at the edges and her body feel as if it were being struck by lightning.
Thought—much less words—became impossible for her after that. There was only the warm, animal heat of his body covering hers, the impossibly perfect fit of him inside of her, the sound of their broken breaths and uncontrollable moans—and then, when it had all become nearly too much, the blush-inducing, obscene slap of flesh against flesh.
At last, she crested, her whole body sparking and shuddering with ecstasy again and again, and she cried out in awe. It was even better than the pleasure he’d brought her before with his mouth, for she was surrounded by him entirely, held firm in his warm embrace and hot, desirous gaze.
He finally broke his careful vigil as he too found his release in the wake of her own, tucking his head into her shoulder with a groan. His body tensed and began to shake helplessly, and he spilled inside of her, his hands squeezing her hips with an intensity that stopped just short of too much.
“Mine,” he murmured possessively into her shoulder, convincing her more than ever of his Viking ancestry.
She laughed and held on to him tightly, never wanting to let him go again. “Yes, and you’re all mine.” Every contradictory, unique bit of him.
MUCH, MUCH LATER, he rolled off to one side, her hand clasped tight in his, and they both panted, bodies limp with sated exhaustion.
“Chevalier indeed,” she murmured when she finally worked up enough residual energy to speak again. She turned her head and gifted him with a lazy smile.
He looked well pleased with himself, staring in sleepy satisfaction at the ceiling, still half-breathless and painted over in sweat. “I do believe toward the end I was more hedonist than dashing French nobleman.”
“I do believe you’re right,” she replied, feeling the wonderful, exhausted soreness in all of her muscles. “So, just out of curiosity, did you write me a poem?”
He laughed. “I knew you’d not let that lie. I can’t believe I am marrying a Misstopher.”
She didn’t know she still had the capability of blushing after being had so thoroughly, but blush she did. But she didn’t bother to deny his accusation. She’d never deny being a Misstopher again, for she was, through and through.
“I only wish to know if you are over your creative malaise,” she said primly, for even if she were a rabid Misstopher, she wasn’t going to let him tease her too much without returning the gesture.
He saw through her immediately and snorted. “Creative malaise?” He propped himself up on his elbow and grinned down at her, running his fingers rather boldly over the curve of her hip. She shivered in response. “I believe those days are over. My muse has returned with a vengeance.”
“Then you have written me a poem?”
His grin turned wolfish. “Indeed. Would you like to hear it?”
She narrowed her eyes, not quite trusting that grin or the playful glitter in his eyes. “Of course,” she said.
He made a show of clearing his throat and composing the planes of his face into some semblance of proper gravitas.
Then he opened his mouth and spoke.
There once was a man from West Barming
Who wrote rhymes the world found alarming
Along came a girl
Who thought him a churl
’Til one day she found him most charming.
Silence.
She finally found her voice. “You . . . You . . .”
“What?” he asked, all innocence, his eyes sparkling with mischief and just a bit of wariness—as if he expected her to attack him for his impertinence.
He was a wise man, for attack him she did . . .
But with a kiss, loud and inelegant, on his absurd mouth. He looked satisfyingly flummoxed.
“You say the most lovely things.”
He laughed in delight. “Knew one day you’d come to appreciate my gift.”
She most certainly did, and when he rolled on top of her and she could feel another of his particular gifts prodding hot and hard at her hip once more, she appreciated him even more.
He must have read her thoughts, for his cheeks flushed adorably, and his grin turned a bit dangerous. His eyes went hooded as he began to move his own hips in a most delightful way, sending little bursts of pleasure through her with every slow, grinding drag against her core.
He started to pepper her face all over in kisses.
“First an ode, now a limerick,” she mused through his kisses. “I wonder what can possibly be next.”
“A fairy epic,” he murmured.
She pulled away and stared at him incredulously. “Really?”
He furrowed his brow in irritation. “Why does no one believe I can write a fairy epic?”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that you can. I just wonder if you should,” she said pertly.
“Everyone’s a critic,” he said with a sigh, snuggling closer in her arms. “And you wonder why I didn’t want anyone to know I was Essex.”
She laughed and kissed his pouting forehead. “Fine. You may write a hundred fairy epics if you want. I’m just glad your muse has finally returned.”
“Indeed she has,” he said, smiling into her eyes and holding her close. “And I’ll never lose her again.”
The End
Author’s Note
Dear Readers,
For those who have noticed the (nearly two year
) gap between my publication of Virtuous Scoundrel and The Alabaster Hip: thank you for your patience! I had a bit of writer’s block, so I thought it only fitting to write a book about a character afflicted with a similar problem. I don’t think my block was quite so angst-ridden as Marlowe’s, but some days it felt like it came close. I am more than happy with the end result, however, and I hope you are too.
One of the most intimidating things about tackling The Alabaster Hip was the development of Marlowe’s poetic alter-ego, Christopher Essex. I am no poet, so I really fretted over writing some verse that was (passably) convincing for the time period. The poem, “The Alabaster Hip”, is as good as it gets for me, and even then I relied heavily upon one of Keats’s odes for a model. You’re welcome to figure out which one.
Another thing that helped me through (or distracted me from) the writing of this book was fanfiction. I am an unabashed, avid Fangirl Geek Extraordinaire, with so many ’ships I could form an armada, and so I got to wondering if a similar sort of subculture existed during the 19th century. I knew women (and men) were flinging themselves left, right and Chelsea at Lord Byron back in the day, but what were these people writing? Quite a lot, actually. The idea for my Misstophers grew out of all of this research—and my own (unhealthy) obsession with contemporary fan culture. There is a wonderful article on the subject by Corin Throsby, called “Byron, Commonplacing, and Early Fan Culture” in the book, Romanticism and Celebrity Culture, 1750-1850, if anyone is interested.
Thank you for reading this final installment in Montford’s, Sebastian’s, and Marlowe’s story. I’ve had so much fun writing these boys’ happy endings. I’ll be back soon for another excursion into Regency England, so stay tuned!
About the Author
MAGGIE FENTON has been a music teacher, a professional accompanist, a cheesemonger, a waitress, a line cook, and a college instructor…among other things. She has one master’s degree in English literature and another master’s degree in piano performance. She might try for a third if this writing thing doesn’t work out. She also writes Victorian steampunk romance under the pseudonym Margaret Foxe. Visit www.maggiefenton.com for Maggie’s latest news.
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