by Anna Butler
Ned stood where he had on that memorable night last November, leaning against the mantelpiece. Then, he’d been returning to his true self after years of suppressing it in his marriage to Laeticia. He’d been uncertain, shy, holding himself back. I remembered he said once that I had been the first, after her death freed him to choose the life he wanted. Although I hadn’t realized it then, and certainly would never have said it aloud since, while it was flattering that I had been the first, I would much, much rather be the last. The only. The one and only.
He wasn’t as uncertain as he had been that night. Too much had happened since. Instead of the shy, downcast looks of last November, he stared at me openly, eyes wide and dark, the pupils swallowing up the world. He smiled and held out both hands. I crossed the room to join him in about five strides.
“Dear Rafe,” he said.
“Do you remember the first time I kissed you?” I clasped his hands in mine. “Right here, right on this spot?”
Ned laughed and nodded. “Do it again.”
Oh, but I was very happy to comply. Back then, I hadn’t kissed his lips, not to begin with, but the enticing little hollow at the base of his pale throat that the lamplight in the dining room had caressed before me.
I like kissing.
Like Ned, I’d spent years in hiding. His constraint had been matrimony and the sense of honor and duty that would never have allowed him to be unfaithful to the mother of his sons. Only her untimely death had released those bonds. Mine had been less noble: I had no desire for a court-martial and a dishonorable discharge from Her Imperial Majesty’s Aero Corps. Most of my encounters over the years had been quick and furtive, but I’d taken every chance I could to practice my technique.
I not only liked kissing, I was good at it.
Fast little kisses to start with, kisses that barely made contact with the skin of Ned’s throat, kisses meant to tease. He tilted his head back to let me in, closing his eyes. His mouth opened on a soft sigh. I hoped he was giving himself up to the pleasure, losing himself in it, that nothing mattered to him at that moment except the feel of my mouth on his throat and lips. I hoped so. I wanted to please him.
I kissed and licked the delicate skin under his ear until he choked with laughter at the tickling. He tightened his grip on my hands and tugged at them until I raised my head. Ha! He’d lulled me into trusting him there and took full advantage of it. He swooped to capture my mouth with his, cutting off breath and thought, bringing a dizzying warmth with his hot tongue, and making me moan.
Of course, they were very manly moans.
Ned began to move, rubbing against me with the sinuous suppleness I’d expect from a cat. We were still fully clothed. The superfine worsted of his evening trousers was soft as silk, but the hard length of his cock pressing through it formed a provocative contrast and a most delightful sensation as it rubbed insistently on my thigh. Feeling his hardness thrusting against mine, our cocks straining for each other, not skin to skin, not able to see anything of his cock but for the bulge tenting the front of his trousers…. There was a rather delicious sense of mild wickedness about it; a racy, naughty promise of what was to come; a real feeling of forbidden fruit. When I slid my hand between us and palmed his cock, teasing him, Ned jumped, clutched at me so hard I’m sure he left bruises, keening in a very satisfactory way.
When finally we pulled apart to regain breath and sense, Ned leaned to rest his forehead on mine. He shivered. I don’t think it was from cold. “And so to bed, Rafe?”
Well, I certainly wasn’t going to argue. Rubbing up against each other was great fun, but it was rather like the amuse-gueules I had eaten earlier. A snack. An appetizer. Something to get the juices flowing for the main course.
I took a moment to dim the lamplight, passing my hand over the globes. The aether lightning crackled and danced inside them as it followed the path of my palm, the clouds inside each globe fading to a subdued glow. There. A much more romantic atmosphere.
It was the work of only a few moments to get down to our skin. Ned was too used to the ministrations of his valet, but mine had been a less privileged life. I was undressed before him and, laughing, went to help him. His valet would likely weep at the state of his neckcloth when I’d finished with it; poor Hugh would only grin at the state of mine.
I paused to take stock of him when finally Ned stood naked before me. Even with my spectacles safely wrapped in a silk handkerchief in my dinner jacket pocket, what I saw took my breath away. Great Scott, but he was beautiful.
We’re about the same height, Ned and I, but together we’re light and dark. I’m not as dark as my Anglo-Indian forbears, but still browner than Ned. A café au lait, perhaps, to his crème. He’s as long and pale as the Swedish ancestors on his mother’s side, all lean muscle and bright flaxen hair, marred only slightly by the scars arcing over the left side of his rib cage around to his back, the visible reminders of the autocar accident that had claimed his wife’s life over two years earlier and almost killed Ned himself. They aren’t a real blemish. They’re part of him. I traced them with my fingers, smoothing my fingertips down the lines of slightly puckered skin.
He put his hands on my shoulders, fingers pressing into the muscle and making me arch my back. “Do they bother you?”
“No.” They were part of the Ned I loved. “Except… except for the rush of dread I get when I think that I could have lost you before I even knew you existed. That bothers me.”
He slid his palms down my arms to hold hands again. “I’m still here.”
Thank the God in whom I have only the shakiest belief. I gripped his hands tight. Time to change the subject. I wanted him focused not on the past, but on the here and now.
So I kissed him instead. Kisses said what I could not, far more eloquent than I could ever be. Harder kisses now, coupled with long sweeps of my tongue down the side of his neck and along the sharpness of his left clavicle. A nuzzling kiss in the hollow before moving to the other side, along the right clavicle and up his neck to kiss and lick the underside of his chin. Then back down and sweep across in the other direction. His skin tasted faintly of salt.
Together we took a couple of jerky, ungraceful steps and fell onto the bed, Ned beneath me.
I pinned him down, feeling his laughter vibrating in his chest and mine. “Let me, Ned.”
He laughed as I released him, and then he put his hands, one on each side of my face, cradling it with a gentleness that was touching. He kissed me, his thumbs stroking across my cheekbones. “Whatever you wish.”
I wished a lot but took my time. We had all night, after all, and there was more sensuous pleasure in savoring every instant than in rushing to a conclusion. So I let my hands delineate Ned’s chest, moving slowly over bare skin, rubbing over pert nipples with my thumbs. I gave each one a quick suck, just to, well, titillate him a little before licking down his breastbone in long, long strokes.
Ned’s breath hitched, and his smile broadened as I mapped him out as if he were a world of curves and planes, contoured with muscle and sinew and bone. Here lies a plain and here a mountain… licking my way down hills and valleys of the landscape to the equator and south, farther south to the warm tropics… I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Ned’s voice was breathless, his chest heaving in short, fast pants.
“Cartography for lovers.”
“Hmmmn?”
There was no point in pursuing it. Ned didn’t seem very interested in the theory of geography, but perhaps the practical application would catch his attention. I returned to my task, charting every inch of skin with fingers and mouth. When I’d worked my way to the bottom of Ned’s rib cage and licked along each long, hard bone, why, then I could only laugh again, swoop south again, and sweep my tongue up the side of Ned’s hard, straining cock.
Ned gasped. Loudly.
I looked up the plane of Ned’s prone body. He had raised his head to watch my progress in mapmaking, and his eyes were very wide and dark, barel
y rimmed by that greeny-golden hazel.
I smiled up at him. “Liked that, did you? All right, then.”
I did it again, a long, lazy sweep upward. Ned’s cock was lovely, thick-based but with a flaring head that demanded I stop when I got there so I could mouth it, working over it with lips and tongue and, when Ned least expected it, gently grazing over it with my teeth.
Ned did more than twitch this time. His reaction was positively galvanic. His hands fisted into the sheets, his hips lifting.
So encouraging.
It spurred me on to work in earnest. I had learned over the years that it was best to vary the technique. I wanted Ned’s nerves on the stretch, every sinew straining with the desperation that came of not knowing if it was going to be a slow and languid lick from root to head or a lightning-fast attack where I swirled my tongue over the swollen cock-head, not knowing when my hands would smooth down the skin of his thighs or when I’d roll his heavy balls in my mouth like two large round dice.
Ned’s breathing was all over the place now, coming in short little gasps and—once or twice—a genuine, certified moan, interspersed with nonsense words and the word yes, over and over, not to mention calls to me as if he was calling on God… and, oh my Lord, was that Ancient Aegyptian?
And then Ned was yelling and shaking, and his hips thrust upward, almost costing me a tooth or two. A wet heat spurted into my mouth, my willing mouth, and I sucked and sucked Ned through his convulsion of pleasure.
Lip service. There truly is nothing like paying it, and paying it well.
I rather thought I’d like to stay there forever, with my mouth around Ned’s cock, Ned’s hands held fast in my own, fingers flexing in mine, strong and warm. When it was over and Ned had stopped writhing and was lying quiet and sleepy, his eyes gleaming with what I sincerely hoped was satiated pleasure, I licked my way back to the equator and headed north, kissing the entire length of Ned’s breastbone. Moving up his body, pressing myself in close, I slid my cock against his to reignite the fire that I wanted… hoped… knew would burn us until we blazed, a pair of matched comets scorching through the sun before settling into the calm, satisfied quiet of ash.
Chapter 6
MOLLY WAS a ragamuffin mongrel, not the sort a rich man usually favors when he could have any dog with an impeccable pedigree. Still, she was well-mannered and friendly, sniffing at my shoes, tail wagging. She didn’t pee on me. I was sorry to refuse her entrance.
“It’s Mrs. Deedes, I’m afraid.” The widow hulked behind me in the coffeehouse, the personification of virulent indignation. Mrs. Deedes was a Tartar. She was also, unfortunately, a regular customer. “I’m sorry, Ned, but you heard her threaten to complain to the parish council if I let Molly in. I can’t afford to risk their closing me down. You’re very welcome to sit outside.”
“I understand, Rafe. My usual, please, and a hot chocolate for Harry.” Ned put on his “House face,” gave Mrs. Deedes an icily correct bow, and took the dog and child back outside, establishing himself at one of my two pavement tables. Harry gave me a hard stare. Sam Hawkins gave me a very hard stare while speaking into his Marconi communicator, and a minute later Rosens and Matthews thundered down the stairs, along the side passage, and out into the street. They took over the second table. I would have bet my minuscule pension on both of them being heavily armed under their jackets.
When I joined them, Molly accepted half a fairy cake with more elegance and decorum than the average small dog. Certainly more than young Harry Winter, who slurped up hot chocolate with more gusto than grace. I took the seat next to Ned and smiled at the child.
His answering scowl must have made Sam Hawkins very proud. “Molly doesn’t like sitting out here. Mr. Pearse wouldn’t make her do it. Mr. Pearse would have liked Molly, wouldn’t he, Papa?”
Pffft. I wasn’t taking that sort of criticism without a fight. “I like Molly. And I can fly aeroships.”
Harry’s eyes brightened, and the scowl receded. But it was a very brief respite. He folded his arms over his chest and stuck out his bottom lip. “My papa knows all about mummies.”
“That is, actually, true. I know a very great deal about mummies. I’m going to teach Harry how to mummify small animals soon.” Ned stooped to rub Molly’s ears and glanced at the sky. “Then perhaps I won’t be banned from coffeehouses when it looks like rain.”
I was taking a mouthful of mocha at the time, and choked. Hawkins grinned, but Harry, oblivious, tilted his head back and upturned his mug to get at the last of his hot chocolate.
“That’s a touch extreme. I have an idea. See that door there?” I pointed to the side door between the coffeehouse and the bakery next door. Harry twisted in his chair to look at it. “That door leads to the passage through to my office at the back. Whenever you come here, we’ll let Molly in by that door and take her to the office, and she can wait there where Mrs. Deedes can’t see her. How does that sound?”
“You don’t have to do that.” Ned’s eyes were warm and amused.
I waved that off. “It’s all about ensuring customer satisfaction. Not to mention saving Molly from the bandages.”
Ned smiled. “If you’re sure, I’m very grateful. What do you say, Harry?”
I may have won some points. Harry put down his mug and nodded. “Very well. If you promise that Molly will like it. Did you fly your aeroship today?”
“Er… no. I’m afraid not. I don’t have one of my own.”
“We have one. Papa and me are going to Aegypt in it soon. To do digging.” Ignoring his father’s pained admonition—“Papa and I, Harry, please!”—Harry added, “I have my own trowel.”
I have never been kicked in the gut by a horse, but I can tell you what it feels like. It took me a moment to get my breath back, and I had to look away. “That’s nice.”
I must have looked like the horse had just trampled me too, because Ned frowned. “Rafe?”
I shook my head. Oh, how stupid of me! How very, very stupid.
It was as well I was sitting down. That way the wave of cold that swept over me, leaving gooseflesh and aching in its wake, couldn’t knock me down.
“Rafe?” Ned’s expression showed he understood. “Oh. I thought you… I mean, I go every year….”
My mouth was dry, perhaps from that feeling of intense cold. Not even the mocha helped. It tasted terrible. I hadn’t made coffee that bad since I started out with Mr. Pearse all those months ago. I put the cup on the tabletop.
“I know. I didn’t think, that’s all. If I’d stopped to consider it, just for a moment… but I didn’t.”
“I should have reminded you.”
“No. I should have known. When do you go?”
“The second of November.”
“Oh.” I tried another mouthful of mocha and grimaced. Terrible. This time I pushed the cup away. “That’s not so bad. Almost three months away. If I have it right from this year’s events, I can expect you back early April next year?”
Ned nodded. “About then, yes. We come back before it gets too hot to work.”
Five whole months.
I pushed through a smile. “Still, you don’t leave for a while, Ned. We’ll just have to make the most of the time we have.”
Ned reached for my hand and gripped it hard, despite Sam being there, and Harry. The rest of Museum Street might as well have been at Timbuktu, it seemed. “We will, Rafe. I promise you we will.”
I returned the pressure of his fingers. “Promise.”
ONCE YOU’VE tasted flight, once wings have unfurled and the winds are with you, once you have your little aerocraft darting and dodging all over the heavens to ride out storms, life tastes of disappointment when the skies are closed to you. Wherever you walk on the dull earth, you find your eyes drawn to the wide blue of the sky and remember when it was yours. You plod along, eyes stinging with the dust kicked up by your heavy feet, and every now and then, stretching out your arms to try and find your wings again, you strain every sinew to f
eel the wind raise you up.
The thought of five months without Ned left me similarly bereft. A shocking sense of loss and, I admit, a fear of solitude. My wings were out of reach for several days.
But mine is not a nature made for repining. I don’t claim I can effortlessly convert all my songs of woe into a blithe hey, nonny nonny, but I do make an effort not to dwell on my disappointments. There is a saying: write your regrets on sand. I try to live by it and inscribe my sorrows in sand, where wind and water can wipe them away. Some take a tsunami or a rather stiffer breeze than others, that’s all.
The proverb has its counterpart, the other arm of the balance: carve your blessings in rock. And that’s what I decided I would do—live the summer and early autumn with Ned and enjoy it to the very top of my bent, and carve every moment into memory to get me through the long winter. I stored everything up. We met more frequently than before. We were together every other evening, usually finding somewhere for a quiet dinner before spending at least a portion of the night either at my flat above the coffeehouse or, on occasion, at Margrethe’s. Those were moments I would cling to later.
Where once I might have stretched out my arms like wings to find the sky, in those months I taught them to curve inward to hold Ned so when he wasn’t there, I could lift them to feel the memory of him cradled between them.
Ned continued to visit the coffeehouse on his museum days. When he brought Harry with him, Molly soon got used to skittering down the passage to my office. I bought a dog bed to fit under the desk. Molly liked me and greeted me with slobbery wet licks and a rather unladylike wriggle of her hindquarters that was both funny and touching. Harry, however, thawed only slowly and certainly didn’t wriggle with delirious joy whenever he saw me.
Throughout a mild September and a blustery October, preparations for the dig were intense. Ned met almost daily with either his peers at the Aegyptian Exploration Fund or with those senior students going with him to Aegypt, planning and plotting, checking lists of stores, or studying maps and schematics of a temple complex in a place called Abydos. It meant he was more often at the coffeehouse too, but it was bittersweet. I saw more of him than I ever had, but it was in the sure and certain knowledge that on 2 November, Ned would leave.