by Sally Orr
Meta found herself pleasantly surprised that from his lighthearted words, “single moment,” neither of them would take this any further than just this one time. And while she anticipated enjoyment in the act, she now firmly believed she would remember this stolen moment of passion forever.
This voice took on a low seductive tone she had not heard him use before. The deep rumble sounded like an approaching thunderstorm, causing within her a resonance of languid ease.
The wholly wicked smile frolicked just above that deep cleft in his chin. “Of course, the site must also be removed of existing structures.” He took her hand and led her to the bed.
She sat, waiting.
He moved to stand in front of the cupboard. “Of course, the gentleman must go first.” Swiftly removing his socks and white lawn shirt, he pulled his cravat off and flung it on the bed.
She stared—she couldn’t help it. Never had she seen a man with a more broad, sculpted chest. His torso, lightly covered with dark chest hair, seemed too perfect to be real, like the marble statues of Greek warriors in the British Museum. Then she remembered him working alongside the Tunnel’s miners in manual labor, the likely cause of his large, smooth undulating arm muscles. Her throat dried. Upon the realization that he had allowed the exact amount of time needed for her perusal and physical response, she blushed.
He slowly moved his hands to the four buttons on the top of his falls.
She glanced upward to his face.
He wore a smirk of promised satisfaction. “The site must be completely bare, you understand?”
Nodding slowly, she licked her lower lip.
Flicking the buttons open with practiced skill, his trousers dropped to the floor. This time he lingered once again, giving her the time to fully take in the sight of his erection.
She had never been granted the opportunity to examine her husband naked. Their lovemaking had always been in bed, under the covers. Now with the freedom to take her fill of him, she couldn’t pull her eyes away—she couldn’t. She softly sighed.
He picked up his trousers and hung them over the cupboard. “We are only halfway to fully uncovering our building site.” Standing in front of her, he held out his hand.
She desperately wanted to stroke him, but she placed her palm in his large hand instead. A gentle pull, and she found herself standing.
He began to disrobe her. “The site must be cleared and laid bare for a full examination.” He knew exactly the order of which garments to remove and the method of removal. A swift tug with a flourish for outer garments, but for those items of dress that lay next to her sensitive skin, he pulled achingly slowly, leaving a stimulating trail of pleasant sensation. She had noticed seconds into his “site” examination that his full erection grew between them. But he had obviously trained himself to continue on, without overt regard to his state of arousal.
Soon she found herself naked, except for her drawers, standing still while he alternately moved his hands and lips across every inch of her sensitive skin in a thorough “site examination.”
“Hold your arms out to the side.” He trailed his finger from the top of her ear, down along the curve of her neck, and then out along her shoulder. “So many curves on a woman. Curves are the hardest part of engineering to get right. They must be given special attention. And only the most skilled craftsman can hammer out a curve in iron or carve it out in wood.”
The effects of his touch lingered on her skin. Her languid ease vanished and transformed into a deeper, wetter, urgent sense of desire.
He swiftly removed her drawers. Then his finger started on her low hip and traced the curve of her body all the way up and under the long line under her arm. “So many curves…beautiful curves.” He stepped closer to straddled one of her legs with both of his, so she could intimately feel him against her hip. Then he started to rock her slowly between the bed and his thigh. Meanwhile, his clever fingers stroked, circled, and flicked across her sex. He looked down between them at her large firm breasts. “And then the most alluring curves of them all.”
She smiled and watched his fingers move up to trace curves from the bottom of her breasts to the top. Then they circled around in even smaller circles until he repeatedly flicked his finger firmly across her nipple. She softly moaned, thoroughly eager for release.
Kneeling before her, he used his tongue and skillful lips to retrace the trail his finger had taken and moved upward. “Any engineer worth his salt knows the nature of these curves. The question is”—he traced the curve of her breast again from the bottom to the top—“the physical forces involved. What we have here is the force of a downward weight seemingly without support.”
She dug her fingers through his black locks falling around his neck. “Do you play the inquiring engineer with other ladies?” She glanced down at her breasts currently held upward with both of his hands.
His deep chuckle resonated. “Not when I was young, because I lacked the discipline to collect the relevant…data.” He moaned before licking each nipple again, one after the other. “In other words, analysis required a presence of mind that I frequently lacked for two obvious reasons.”
She sighed and managed to say, “You are a delightfully wicked man.”
“On my best days.” A bout of leisurely kisses began again, his tongue savoring her entire body from her intimate folds, to the sensitive spot behind her ears. His attention then returned to her breasts. “Now, the two choices for opposing forces to counter gravity are a vertical hold”—once again he placed both hands under her breasts and lifted them—“from a tight stay or some hidden buttress system.” He then tenderly kneaded or lightly flicked his fingers along the side of both breasts.
She dropped her eyelids, moaned, and let herself relish the pleasure of his tender touch. “It’s the tightness of the stays that provides a supportive shelf, correct?”
“You are a lady of some mechanical talent. But you are getting ahead of the force analysis.” A long kiss followed, an escalating dance of lips and tongues. He gasped for air. “So let’s examine the problem. On a normal gown, the downward force of weight is countered by an upward force of cloth just about here.” He proceeded to lick and kiss her thoroughly just under her neck.
Her breaths came faster and her moans louder. “The force of stays is…different…than…that…piece…of…cloth.”
“Correct, so there is little upward counter force in a stay. So what holds these lovely breasts up?” He reached over to the bed and grabbed his long black cravat. “Kneel before me, please.” His eyelids lowered a fraction, and he held out his hand to steady her.
With her heartbeat racing out of control, she climbed up and knelt on the hard bed.
He stood directly behind her. With both hands, he wrapped the cravat around her breasts and held them tight from behind. “Stay engineers have two weapons to solve the gravity problem. The first is friction.” Wearing his wicked smile, he pulled the cravat tighter and rotated it back and forth several inches.
Heaven. She lost all comprehension of his words.
“The expression on your face tells me friction is the preferred method of force.” He chuckled. “Now the second method used by stay engineers is a mechanical force provided by the whale bone, in the center or along the sides.” He held the cravat under her breasts and lifted the ends upward, so the cloth resembled a giant U. Then he alternately pulled the ends to cause friction on the bottom of both breasts.
She sighed. If she were in a normal state, she’d probably giggle, but her body had become a liquid pile of warm, reactive flesh, and her brain succumbed solely to obedience of his intimate touch.
He stopped moving the cravat, but still held it tight around her. “Of course, if these two forces, upward and counter, are not sufficient to counter the downward force of gravity, a disaster might happen.” He let go of the cravat ends.
The silky cloth fell across her sensitive skin until it pooled on the bed. Her bare breasts a fetching pink due to the lav
ish attention they had received.
“It would be a great tragedy if insufficient force caused a disaster, and you appear unsupported and bare as you do now, let’s say, in a crowded room.”
“More.” She chuckled. “More please.”
He wrapped his long fingers around both her breasts. “You know, I suddenly realize the similarities between these forces and those related to a cantilever beam.”
His sentences became too long, her need too great—she wanted him now. “Please stop talking.”
He chuckled before lowering her down on the bed, then covering her with his solid, warm body. Then achingly slow, he penetrated her with a single plunge. Holding himself up on his arms, he began to thrust.
She felt the rhythmic lifting, the sense of fullness, her softness filled with his solid, hot flesh. Her need climbed, climbed, climbed, and became restless. “Ah.”
“Yes.” He grabbed her buttocks and swiftly pounded into her.
Then her bliss came with an abbreviated sigh. “Oh.”
He continued as long as he could, before he withdrew at the right moment. A long moan escaped his lips as he released his seed upon the sheet.
They lay side by side, panting.
She had enough wits remaining to consider his control remarkable and not unexpected for an experienced rake. All she desired now was to do it again. How could she have been pleased with the thought that they would only do this once? Now the memory of his passion changed her mind and filled it with an aching desire she might not be able to forget—ever.
They both remained still, breathing hard, and clutching each other. Then, following a kiss under her ear, he buried his head in the crook of her neck until his panting slowed.
She remained still, relishing the warm slickness he left beside her. Around her the heady smell of sex mixed with the stench of the Thames seeping in through the window.
They held each other close and listened to the rain begin to tap upon the window. He rose, shut the window, and returned to the bed. “Let’s nestle. Funny, don’t think I’ve ever really appreciated nestling before. The physical part, I mean. Usually I avoided it, since it is the universal moment desired by all women to talk.”
She laughed. “It’s just words. Granted, not as enjoyable”—she smiled—“but you’ll survive conversation. Gives me an idea though. Tell me about the field guide. How it came to pass, the inspiration that spurred you to write it.”
“I find I’m not irritated at all over your version of female talk—surprising that. The expected flattery is the worst.” He pulled her onto his warm chest, facing him. “The field guide started as a jest between three friends the year we left Oxford. My friend Ross quickly became successful on the exchange, but he could always use more funds to invest. Meanwhile, the jingle-brained Boyce and myself struggled to find professions. At the time, I resisted engaging in my father’s occupation. I suppose it was some sort of rebellion on my part.”
“Understandable.” Her hands roved over his chest, stroking him in the direction of his smooth chest hair.
He smiled. “Boyce’s brother owns a publishing firm, so my friend challenged us to pen the field guide to help his brother’s business become profitable.” He chuckled. “But our reasons were more like a chance to best each other. In the long run, it proved an easy way to make instant funds separate from the control of our parents. The three of us all had experience with women from an early age, so writing the books was easy.”
“You had intimate relations with the same number of ladies in your field guide?”
He blushed, a heartwarming, rosy contrast to the dark stubble around his cheeks, the dimple in his chin, and those fathomless black eyes. “No, no, of course not, at least not that many. While every lady is unique, most of the descriptions arise from our previous experiences, hopeful imaginings, or just pure fiction. The book is mostly the product of three young colts with little to do, under the influence of a great deal of brandy.”
She laughed.
“After its publication, we received many compliments. It got to the point where strangers would shout at me walking down the street, ‘Hail there, my good fellow. Enjoyed your book.’ The handbook and field guide amused and entertained a large number of men, which I discovered to be quite gratifying. If you ask me today, I have only a few regrets. At the time, I was too daft and too young to realize the notoriety gained from its publication might affect the success of my future profession. Frankly, I’ve heard the majority of the ladies enjoyed it too.”
“You never became fond of these ladies in your past?”
He stared, wide-eyed. “Fond of them all. Two of the relationships lasted for over a year. Yes, I was devilish fond of them all.”
“Fond is the wrong word. Did you ever fall in love?”
“If you expect me to carry on a conversation about romantic love”—he rolled his eyes—“we can leave here this instant.”
“Why can’t you speak easily about simple emotions like love?” She clung to his chest.
This time he gazed at her like she had instantly become a candidate for Bedlam. Then he shifted his glance to the cracked plaster ceiling for several minutes. Finally, without turning his head, he simply replied, “I’m a man. I do not understand why, but men avoid that like the plague. You must not have been married long if you cannot understand that.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” He fell silent, so she expected him to fall asleep at any minute. “You must have fallen in love with some lady very hard to be so reticent and bitter about it.”
He sat up and pulled her along with him. “I’m not bitter,” he said, a defensive tinge coloring his voice. “Romantic love has no use, does it? Look at my father. When my mother had a stroke, he walked away from the tunnel. Walked away from the most exciting achievement ever constructed by man. Even when I pleaded, begged, he walked away.”
“But the woman he loved needed him more.”
“He could afford a servant to look after her.”
“Then they both would be alone.”
“Pardon?”
“She would be bedridden, ill, and alone. While he could help his son and build the most amazing achievement in England, but it would not signify—not really. How could it? I never witnessed any regrets in your father’s word or tone about his current situation in life. My guess is without her by his side to celebrate with him, the achievement became less meaningful. Maybe now he does his best to work on the project, whenever he feels he can spare the time, solely for your sake. You have to give him credit.”
“Perhaps a little, when he does provide help. But she is not in danger or pain and spends most of her time sleeping. A servant can be easily engaged to care for her, but he refuses to leave her side and gives irrelevant excuses. I am his only child—his son, for God’s sake. Since I am beginning my profession as an engineer, it is a crucial time when my whole future and career depend upon his assistance. He has vastly more experience than I do and can guide me as no other man can.” His voice softened on the last word, so he stopped speaking and rolled over to face the wall.
She could not see his face, but he seemed wounded by his father’s preference for his mother’s company. After this exchange, her previous concern about forming an unrequited love posed no threat. Instead, she found an overwhelming desire to help him achieve his goals by any means possible.
A little while later, they made love again. Only this time, in a slow method more romantic than the exploring engineer. His skills were achingly tender, but exhilarating nevertheless.
When she could no longer be pleasured, they remained in each other’s arms as the rain beat harder, the torrent blurring the small leaded glass windows.
He pulled her onto his chest. “I feel I must hold you, a gesture I’ve always made because it is required. But today I desire it. Another strange change in my normal behavior, is it not?”
She nodded, not knowing what to say.
“Perhaps the ease of a perfect day, in the
company of a beautiful woman, could be the reason.”
She smiled up at him. “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Drexel.”
He chuckled. “Time to call me George. And I suspect in the long run I owe you more than I can ever repay.”
They leisurely dressed, left the inn by the side door, and, under the gray skies of rain at dusk, walked back to town. Thankfully, the rain had rendered the streets deserted, affording some level of privacy.
Just two blocks from Swallow Street, they happened to meet Grizel and Sybella. Both Learned Ladies had been at the tunnel earlier and stopped to pay a call on a mutual friend. After greetings were exchanged, the two other women fell silent. They merely glanced at Mr. Drexel and then back at her, suspicions of an attachment or an assignation written on their expressions.
Meta thought that if she dismissed them or hurried away, they might become even more suspicious, so she decided to pretend nothing seemed amiss or improper. “I stayed so late talking to Mr. Brunel, Mr. Drexel kindly offered to walk me home. Dusk can be a frightening place in London. Would you ladies like to join us? Mr. Drexel can walk us all safely to our residences.”
The two women reluctantly agreed, and the party started off.
George winked at Meta, then wore a ridiculous smile the entire journey.
Grizel was dropped off first. Unfortunately, Meta’s town house was just around the corner, so she would have to leave the party before Sybella. Thus she would not have the chance to speak freely to George again.
It rained harder; the cold water poured off the edges of their umbrellas.
She turned to give her farewells to George, in case she might never see him again. But she couldn’t think of a word to say of any importance or ones suitable to mention in front of her friends.
He must have been in the identical situation. “I’m at a loss for words.” He shook his head. “Funny that.”