“You know,” she murmured, her tone sleepy and soft and more alluring than should be legal, “you’re very good at this.”
“I’m better at other things.” To prove it, he cupped her breasts in his wet palms and chafed the budding nipples with his thumbs.
She didn’t protest as he’d half expected. In the echoing stillness of the tiled room the sound of her catching breath seemed loud, and so sexual it inched him closer to a trembling release right there. Then her hands landed on his, and to his delight she pressed him into the full bounty of her breasts.
“Harder,” she whispered, no louder than her shallow breaths that excited every manly part he possessed. “Please…harder.”
Roderick’s answer was nothing more than a growl as he followed her command, lifting the soft, feminine weight in his palms, his fingers kneading her firm flesh. It was as though she had been made to fit him. He would never cease to marvel at their perfection, like two halves of a whole. She seemed to feel the same way, arching her back and wiggling her bottom against his shaft until he could no longer contain a broken groan of pleasure. Her head moved against his shoulder, her face turning to him just as he sought her mouth with his own, and when her brazen tongue played with his, a rage of delight seized him. With her hands encouraging his to ravish her tautly puckered nipples, he rubbed them without mercy, tugging on them until she cried out and her feet kicked out of the water with a splash. Her response, so headlong and honest, was all the impetus he needed to redouble his efforts to make sure that this time around, she wouldn’t yearn to sneak away once all was said and done.
“Did you know,” he murmured against her lips while one of his hands slipped beneath the water and down her belly, to the small mound of curls between her thighs, “there is a mechanical invention called the Manipulator, which doctors use to alleviate hysteria in women? It vibrates and jitters like a bad engine, but that’s its sole purpose. And when it’s applied to just the right spot, it does in seconds what their useless men have no hope of doing if they had all day.”
“What?” Her toes curled on the lip of the tub as an exploratory finger searched her hidden nub. “I-I don’t understand.”
“I’ll build you one,” he murmured, biting her ear as he found his goal at last. “But for now I can show you the manual version of what it does.”
A sound between a gasp and a cry escaped her as he bore down with the single-minded ruthlessness to make her as insane as she made him. Her incoherent moans worked on him like kerosene on a fire as he tormented her by stroking her hidden pleasure center with a rhythm designed to shatter her will, her mind, her soul. Water sloshed over the tub’s edge as she bucked as though trying to escape the madness of it, and her helpless writhing against his stiff manhood was an excruciating delight. He was so hard, harder than he’d ever been in his life, and with each breath she cried louder until she was nearly screaming…
And then she was. The force of her release was so violent it tore her from his grasp to curl her forward, her hips pumping with a need to be filled, and before he could give it conscious thought he brought her bottom up, bending her over the side of the tub so he could discover her feminine entrance. His labored breath hitched to a stop when he slipped his fingers inside her scorching depths. She cried out again and pushed back against him, and without hesitation he replaced his fingers with his shaft, slamming into her slickness like a man possessed. The tight muscles gloving him were so searingly hot he almost came from her heat alone before his frenzied thrusting made her convulse around him to the point where he thought he might die. His mindless cries mingled with hers as the spasms of ecstasy hit with the suddenness of a tidal wave, and with the fevered instinct to fill her womb, he drove into her until the madness consumed them both.
Cornelia surfaced slowly, aware first of a chill on her bare shoulders and arms. Sound came next to her muddled senses—a log being placed on the fire, the cozy popping of sap as it burned. Then came tactile sensation—a dip in the mattress beside her, the flutter of covers on her bare skin, deft hands pulling her ragdoll-limp body to lie on top of his.
His body. Roderick’s. She knew it better than she knew her own now.
“Is it morning?” Her voice was blurry with sleep and well-earned exhaustion. If he expected independent movement from her anytime soon, he was doomed to disappointment.
“Dawn. An unpardonable time to be conscious.” With a loud yawn he pulled the blankets over them and rubbed at her chilly arms. “I say we show it who’s boss and go back to sleep immediately.”
“Mm, I love the way your mind works, my dear Coddington.”
“The feeling is ever so mutual, my dear Peabody.”
She doubted it, but it was nice to pretend Roderick could genuinely love anything about her. With her body flushed and sore from enjoying intimacies in every conceivable way throughout the night, it wasn’t even a great stretch to allow her hitherto-dormant romantic side to believe he might really love her. But her budding romantic side would be forever trumped by the world-weary pragmatist life had sculpted her into being. No matter how she looked at it, their enthusiastic bedroom exertions changed nothing. She was nothing more than the object of his revenge, and his heart still belonged to that gentle, perfect paragon of womanhood, Beth.
Whereas she was his little thief.
Cornelia swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. Would Roderick’s thirst for vengeance at last be slaked if he knew he had forced her to give him her closely guarded heart? Probably not. The only thing he desired—aside from a feverish slamming of naughties when his dander was up—was the one thing he had left to remind him of his dearly departed Beth. The egg. More than anything, he wanted that part of Beth back so he could once again be complete.
What a joy that must be, she mused while anguish settled its shadow over her heart. To be loved so deeply, it flowed even beyond death.
“How amazing this is. I can actually feel you thinking.”
With a conscious will, Cornelia forced the tension to drain from her muscles. “Just anticipating the evening’s festivities. It is Christmas Eve, after all.”
Her tension seemed contagious as it stiffened the arms holding her. “Did you find out all the information you needed?”
“You mean the egg’s location? Yes, indeed.” And she would rather walk down the middle of Beacon Street naked than think of it now.
“You seemed troubled about it last night.”
Troubled? Devastated, more like. “Hm.”
“Is it impossible to get to, Cornelia?”
“On the contrary, it’ll be like stealing candy from a baby.” Perhaps not an actual baby, but the cruel description was apt. And this time she didn’t have the excuse of not knowing about the trauma she would leave in her heartless wake. Once she got the Fabergé egg back in her hands she would know beyond all doubt she was leaving a weaker soul to founder after taking away a prized possession.
But…
If she didn’t steal the egg back, her own life was forfeit.
Survival of the fittest, Cornelia thought grimly, hardening her heart while trying to ignore the bitter sting in her eyes. One way or another, she would always find a way to survive.
Chapter Ten
The snow had blown down the coast overnight to leave the morning sky a gentle, hazy blue. Perfect flying weather with barely a hint of a breeze, and for that Cornelia breathed a sigh of relief. In a twitchy scheme full of variables, that had been one of the monsters.
Another one of those variables was Roderick.
He had been unusually quiet as he helped her reattach the air compressor to the airship, and adamant about running the test-firing himself. Soon after that, he’d stuck his head into the cloakroom as she went about her usual preparations of packing a work kit, and announced he’d be back after a few errands. It was almost funny. She was the last person she would have expected to see in a normal, domestic bliss kind of moment. Normal wasn’t something she was well acq
uainted with. And bliss? That was as foreign to her as the dark side of the moon.
But blissful was an excellent description of her mood despite the looming Christmas deadline, now only hours away. She didn’t have to look too far for the source of her newfound happiness—Roderick. The plain fact was, she hadn’t even known it was possible to feel as complete as she did when she was in his arms. In a short span of time, he had become her everything.
Which landed her in quite the quandary, considering she was the thief who stole the smile of his beloved Beth.
Don’t think about it, she scolded herself, trying to ignore the bleak dimming of her heart by focusing an inordinate amount of attention on packing the clothes she would need for the caper. What mattered now was for her to concentrate on righting a wrong she’d committed six months ago. Even if she hadn’t had the timepiece locked to her wrist she would still want to return that small part of Beth to Roderick. Her one goal in life now was to make him happy.
Even if she had to repeat the cruelest mistake she’d ever made.
Cornelia slammed the door to the cloakroom, just as she tried to slam the mental door on that nagging thought. Damn and blast, what was she doing, allowing a thought like that to surface? She knew all too well an uncomfortable conscience was hazardous to her health. If she didn’t want to wind up at death’s door again, she had to lock her attention on the singular goal of getting the job done. Failure would either land her in Irish Paddy’s merciless grip, or…
She glanced at the timepiece gleaming on her wrist, its benign appearance nothing more than a bitter mockery. Either way she looked at it, failure was not an option.
But, if something unforeseen were to happen…
Jaw locked with nerves she refused to acknowledge, Cornelia headed for the dumbwaiter and zoomed up to her office while the steam-powered pistons pulled their fuel from the boiler with the usual wheeze and whistle. Once there, she headed to her desk like a woman on a mission, pulling out little-used stationery as she went. For nearly a minute she and the blank page stared at each other, before she at last plucked up an ebony Waterman fountain pen and put the nib to paper.
Coddington —
This won’t take long. There are a few things I have to say, and on the off-chance events unfold badly tonight I wanted to make sure that in some way, my words reached you.
Considering how we have gone from a professional relationship to one as deeply personal as two people can experience, you might have wondered why I have chosen not to ask you to free me from your countdown timepiece. The answer, my dear Coddington, is two-fold. One, I know I deserve punishment for stealing your beloved Beth’s smile. And two, to use what has grown between us to my advantage is abhorrent and loathsome. I’m a thief, not a manipulator. To ask you to free me now would cheapen that which you, with your infinite tenderness, have taught me to feel.
I never expected to love you, Coddington. I never expected to love anyone, and if nothing else I’m grateful beyond words for this invaluable gift you’ve so generously given to me. I know you can never return my love. Even if I hadn’t wounded you so grievously six months ago with an act you are justified in never forgiving, I know your heart belongs to Beth. But that’s the odd thing about true love; it is selfless. I’m happy to give my love to you, not so that you will feel compelled to try and return it —an impossibility if there ever was one —but because I can do nothing else. I love you. Your mere existence fills me with unbearable joy. In a world full of material things, the promise of my undying devotion is the only gift I have to give. And even then I’m sure a good man like you must view the love of an undeserving thief like me as a pitiable gift indeed.
No matter the outcome tonight, my dearest Coddington, I hope you have a merry Christmas.
Love, Cornelia
She was melting a dollop of crimson paraffin on the envelope’s seal when the door suddenly slid open.
“There you are.” Roderick entered with his face flushed with cold, coat still on and chafing his hands together. “How are the preparations coming along?”
“All finished.” With a deft move she palmed the envelope before rounding the desk to welcome him with a warm kiss. As his cold lips heated beneath hers, she slipped the letter into his coat pocket. “What about you? Are your errands complete?”
“Yes and no. I need your help with the last one.”
“Oh?”
“Without a doubt.” With a surprisingly boyish grin he caught her hand in his and tugged her toward the door. “The thing I need help with is waiting for us downstairs. Care to join me?”
Cornelia couldn’t stop from grasping his hand with both of hers, while a storm of love filled her heart so completely she thought it might burst. If the man had suggested showing her the lowest pits of hell, she would have gone with him. As long as she had the promise of being at his side, she would go anywhere.
“All right, Coddington. Lead the way.”
Roderick wasn’t sure how well his surprise was going to go over, since Cornelia wasn’t the most conventional woman he’d ever met. But when she first caught sight of the Christmas tree standing in her bare front parlor her blank expression bloomed with vivid delight and a touching, almost childlike wonder.
“A tree?” As if she daren’t believe her eyes, she approached with a caution that made it seem as though she feared the tree would somehow startle and run away from her, before she touched a single finger to a bristly branch. A brilliant smile lit her face as she turned to him. “You really got me a tree?”
If he could keep that rare smile of hers around, he’d be happy to buy her an entire forest. “I thought we needed one to celebrate the season. I noticed a lack of festive adornments around your fortress, so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I corrected the oversight.”
“I’m afraid I’ve never had the chance to get into the habit of celebrating this time of year,” she admitted with an uncomfortable grimace. “December 25th has forever been just another day to me. It’s something other people—normal, good people—have the right to celebrate, not the likes of me and my kind. I’ve never had a tree before, not even when I was a child.”
“Then I’m glad to bring you your first.” Nothing in the world could have stopped him from crossing to her to pull her into his arms. Or from pressing his lips into the sweet warmth of hers and staggering inside as he always did at the way her mouth melted to fit into their kiss. Or from ranging his hands down the delicate indentation of her waist to greedily fill his hands with her exquisite bottom, and giving it a good squeeze through the high-waisted cycling pantaloons she wore while working.
Or from wondering if he would ever stop wanting her like an addiction he couldn’t sate or a thirst he couldn’t quench.
“There’s another Christmas tradition I think I should introduce you to,” he murmured when her mouth slid away to trace the line of his jaw. The heavy thrust of his manhood pressed against her belly, and she rubbed against it with a pleasant friction that would have scandalized her mere days before. “Ever heard of a certain custom involving mistletoe?”
“Mistletoe.” Her tone was gratifyingly distracted as she branded the side of his neck with a searing, open-mouthed kiss. “Isn’t mistletoe poisonous?”
“You’re not required to eat it. The tradition merely requires you to stand underneath it.”
“What a silly custom.”
“And be kissed.”
At last she glanced up. “How tragic. We don’t have any mistletoe, Coddington. Whatever shall we do?”
“We can pretend.” His grin felt hot as it blazed across his face, while his hands went to the buttons of the leather workman’s vest she wore over a white muslin poet’s blouse. “In fact, why don’t we pretend we’re Christmas presents and unwrap each other here and now?”
“Because that would put me behind schedule.” Though she seemed reluctant to leave his arms, she did at last ease herself away. “Besides, I told you—people like me weren’t meant to celebra
te this yuletide season. I’m not that much of a hypocrite.”
“This season is meant for everyone to share, Cornelia.”
“Even thieves like me?”
“Especially thieves like you. After all, you’re the kind of thief who would rather give a ring back to a broken-hearted woman at the risk of being beaten to death.”
“Really.” The change in her expression was startling. The warmth vanished as if it had never been, and in its place was a hard granite mask that made her almost unrecognizable. “What about a thief who steals a dying woman’s smile without a second thought?”
Roderick almost winced. “Hell’s bells, Cornelia. As sucker punches go, that was a good one. I didn’t even see it coming.”
“Just doing my best to remind you of the ruthless kind of person I am at heart, Coddington.”
“Ruthless? Is that how you see yourself?”
If her chin went up any further she’d give herself a crick in the neck. “That’s how I am. For your own good, try to keep that in mind.”
“Nevertheless, I can’t help but wonder—would you have taken Beth’s egg if you had known of its importance?”
She made a choking sound that seemed almost pained. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking too highly of me. I know for a fact I would steal Beth’s one remaining happiness right along with that egg. I know I would, because…”
Roderick watched her clamp her lips together as if she feared freeing the words fighting to get out. “Because why?”
“Because I’m going to commit the exact same crime tonight. And I don’t care,” she added fiercely, and her expression was as cold as when they had first met—except for a wet glitter in her eyes that froze his heart in mid-beat. “I don’t care that your accursed egg has found its way into the hands of yet another frail and sickly soul, a child no less. I don’t care if her love of that stupid egg has given her a revitalizing will to live. It’s that little girl’s life or mine, and if there’s one thing I know how to do, it is to survive.”
A Clockwork Christmas Page 9