by Meta Mathews
“Who are…” Jack paused. “What are you?” He didn’t expect an answer, which was just as well, because she merely smiled and glided across the floor towards him. He backed up a few steps, but when it became clear she intended to follow, he decided to stop and stand his ground.
He had to clear his throat twice, but he finally managed to rephrase his question. “What do you want with me?”
Her only answer was to latch onto the front of his towel and tug. Jack grabbed for it, but he was too late. She’d pulled it away from him and tossed it to one side.
“Look, lady…” Jack had started to speak when he suddenly realised he couldn’t move. He felt as though he’d been encased in a hard shell of plastic—only his eyes and cock seemed capable of movement.
He dropped his gaze to his quivering cock and watched it grow to a degree he’d never achieved before. Seconds later, his balls started aching with need, and if he had been able to speak, he suspected he would have begged her for relief.
Perhaps he had begged, at least in his thoughts. He began to fear she could read his mind, as she encircled his cock with her hand and squeezed. He might not be able to speak, but he could certainly moan.
And moan he did. Repeatedly, while she tweaked his balls and played with his dick, teasing him until he thought he’d surely lose his mind.
If he hadn’t already.
At long last, she dropped to her knees in front of him and took him into her mouth. If he hadn’t been rendered immobile, he feared his legs would have given way. As it was, he was forced to stand there like a statue while she sucked and ran her tongue along his length, licked his balls, then sucked some more.
When he finally came, his ejaculation was so powerful it was almost painful. The intensity of his groans increased, and only when he’d emptied himself completely could he stop moaning.
The woman stood, pushed her tits back into her bodice, and grimaced. “There, I hope that satisfied you,” she said, just before she faded away.
Finally free to move, Jack dropped to his knees, still gasping from the intensity of his release. His muscles felt as though they had been through the most strenuous workout of his life.
His heart pounded much too fast, so he eased himself onto the floor and lay there for several minutes, wondering what in the hell was happening to him. When he could stand again, he returned to the bedroom, grabbed his cell phone, and called his uncle’s number. He wasn’t particularly surprised to get voicemail. “This is Professor Durban. I am unable to take your call at the moment. You can try me later or leave a message.”
Jack impatiently waited for the beep. “Uncle Ben. I need to talk to you. This damn research you’ve got me doing is… Well, I’m not sure what the hell is going on. Call me.”
He flung his cell phone onto the bed and headed back to the bathroom. He was running late but he couldn’t leave before showering again. He couldn’t recall ever having felt quite this dirty.
* * * *
When her cell rang at eight o’clock the following morning, Amelia awoke feeling more rested than she had in months. Just for an instant, though, she didn’t know where she was.
She let her phone ring while she took stock of herself. She lay naked under the bedclothes, so obviously she’d covered herself up during the night. Bright light poured through the bedroom windows, and Wellington sat in his usual spot on the sill, surveying the birds perched on electric lines outside her apartment window.
Just before the phone kicked over to voicemail, she grabbed it from her bedside table. “This is Amelia.”
“Amelia, it’s Ben.”
“Hey, Ben. What’s up?”
“I was wondering if we could have lunch today.”
“Sure. When did you get back?”
“Early yesterday morning. The plane was late getting into Hartsfield, as usual. I took yesterday off to deal with the jet lag. I brought some papers back for you to go over.”
“Okay. What time do you want to meet, and where?”
“The diner, of course. Is noon okay?”
“Noon’s fine. But don’t you teach today?”
“I do. My class is over at nine-thirty, so I may go straight to the diner as soon as I can get away from the students. I don’t want to eat that early, but I can grab my favourite booth and go over some papers I brought back from England. See you at noon.” He hung up before giving her a chance to respond.
She closed her phone, then pushed herself up in bed. Her nightshirt lay on the floor where it had fallen the previous evening, during that unbelievably realistic dream. Or hallucination. Or whatever it was. She almost blushed just thinking about it. Obviously she’d spent way too much time lately researching the damn Duke of Durbane.
“Gotta get him out of my mind for a few minutes,” she muttered while climbing out of bed. Wellington jumped off the windowsill and stood staring up at her. His tail twitched.
“Okay, okay, I’ll feed you, just as soon as I grab a glass of tea.” Amelia had never cared for coffee, so she started her day with a cup of hot chocolate during the winter months, or a glass of iced tea during the summer. Late August in Atlanta definitely called for iced tea.
Fifteen minutes later, she was back in the bathroom preparing to shower. She’d adjusted the water temperature to lukewarm and was about to step over the side of the tub and under the spray when her gaze paused on the top of her right thigh.
She stared open-mouthed at the clear patch of skin where her tattoo had once been.
“What the hell?” she exclaimed. The words were barely out of her mouth when the spot started burning as though someone was holding a match to it.
She screamed and jumped under the cool water, then remembered the curse word she’d used. “All right, all right,” she yelped, leaning back so the water could spray directly on her thigh. “I’m sorry, already. I forgot that I’m not supposed to say the word hell. It just slipped out.”
The burning sensation ceased immediately, and when she propped her foot on the side of the tub to examine her thigh, not even a red spot marked the area where seconds before there had seemed to be fire.
“Psychosomatic,” she murmured. “Gotta be psychosomatic.”
But that still didn’t explain where her tattoo had gone.
* * * *
Ben Durban, as usual, had claimed the far back booth in the popular eatery near Emory’s campus. Amelia estimated he’d arrived at least two hours earlier, based on the number of crumpled-up artificial sweetener packets piled beside his coffee cup. A brown briefcase occupied the bench seat between him and the wall, and half a dozen stacks of paper were spread out around him in a semicircle.
Ben had been her mentor in undergraduate school, her committee chair when she was working on her dissertation, and was now her benefactor, since she’d graduated and discovered there was little call for history professors in the current economy. He paid her well for the research she was conducting for him.
He looked up as she approached, half stood, then motioned towards the opposite side of the table before dropping back onto the crinkled vinyl bench. As usual, his high brow was furrowed, as though he’d been in deep thought for so many years that the wrinkles had taken up permanent residence there. His white hair was a little longer than usual, almost touching the collar of his dress shirt.
Amelia slid into the booth. “How was class today?”
He rolled his striking blue eyes and scowled. “They’re not real students. They’re a bunch of know-nothing nincompoops who couldn’t tell you the difference between the Restoration and the Regency.”
“Western civ class?” Amelia asked the question, knowing that he didn’t teach freshman classes, but she enjoyed goading him just to watch him clench his square jaw. He’d obviously been a handsome man when he was younger.
“They’re first-year graduate students,” Ben responded. He twisted his lips in a gesture of distaste. “But forget them. They’re hopeless anyway, and I’ve got more important topics to d
iscuss. You won’t believe the luck I had on this trip.”
Amelia stifled a moan. Ben’s periodic trips to England always resulted in lots of boring work for her, because he invariably brought back reams of copies of old parish records, letters, and two-hundred-year-old newspapers.
Amelia nodded towards the papers spread over most of the table. “Is that what you want me to go over?”
“These?” He huffed. “No, there’s nothing here of importance.” He shuffled the pile together. “I’ll take this stuff home and file it. Here’s what you need to work on.”
He’d just reached for his briefcase when the waitress approached. Her nametag read Betty and she’d worked at the restaurant ever since Amelia had been coming here. She held a pencil poised over her order pad. “Hey, Professor Durban.” She nodded towards Ben then Amelia. “You folks ready to order?”
Ben glanced at Betty then his empty coffee cup. “No food. Just coffee.”
Amelia threw up her hand. “I’m starving, so yes, I am ready to order. I want the daily special of meatloaf and green beans with a side of creamed potatoes. And, of course, a large glass of iced tea.”
Ben heaved a sigh. “Oh, all right. I’ll order too. Give me my usual. A chef salad, hold the lettuce.”
Betty didn’t so much as blink. “A three-egg omelette with bacon, ham and cheese. Anything else, Professor?”
“More artificial sweetener. You’d think the damned stuff was rationed, the way you folks divvy it out.”
Betty stared pointedly at the pile of little green packets beside his coffee cup. “Gotcha,” she said. “One cup of caffeine sweetened with poisonous chemicals comin’ right up.”
She scurried away while Ben shook his head. “Everybody thinks they’re a comedian.” He shrugged and turned back towards his briefcase. After flipping the latches open, he raised the top and pulled out a small, cloth-covered rectangle. “You’ll want to be careful with this. It’s almost two hundred years old.”
“What?” Amelia screeched. She reached across the table and gingerly grasped the lightweight package. “Is it legal to take documents out of the country when they’re that old?”
“Shhh.” Ben glanced around. Amelia followed suit and was glad to see that no one was paying any attention to her. Still, she lowered her voice. “What is this?”
“It’s a diary. I want you to type it up on the computer so I can read it.”
“Whose diary is it?”
“A woman who may have been related to the woman who married the last Duke of Durbane. The female who kept the diary was named Martha Comstock.”
“Comstock?” Amelia knew her family name wasn’t uncommon, but for Ben to mention it in connection with their research on the Duke of Durbane left her feeling just a bit queasy. Maybe she shouldn’t have ordered the meatloaf after all.
Ben affected his most innocent expression. “Comstock is a common name.”
Another shiver of suspicion shot down Amelia’s spine. “Are you seriously thinking I might be a descendant of the woman who wrote this diary?”
Ben’s lips twitched—and not in a ‘hey, this is amusing’ kind of way. “Really, Amelia, there’s no reason to believe you and Martha Comstock are related. It’s a coincidence. Coincidences are just that—coincidences.”
“Ooooo-kay.” Amelia had known Ben long enough to know when he was blowing smoke, but she also understood the futility of arguing with him. “You want every word transcribed from the diary to a computer file, right?”
He nodded. “Well, every word you can recognise. The ink is faded and her handwriting was not the best, but unlike some of those idiot students I have this semester, you’ll at least be able to tell an s from an f.”
Amelia didn’t have to respond because Betty had walked up with their order and started setting dishes on the table. Amelia quickly tucked the diary into a side pocket of her purse where she knew it would be secure, then smiled at their waitress. “Thanks, Betty. That looks wonderful.” She closed her eyes and inhaled the saliva-producing aroma of meatloaf and creamed potatoes.
“You always act like you’re starved,” Ben grumbled as he leant back in his seat so Betty could freshen his coffee. “Didn’t you eat any breakfast?”
“I slept late this morning.” Amelia was first horrified, then mystified, to feel a blush staining her cheeks. Recollections of that dream in which she’d enjoyed an unbelievably lengthy climax had just popped into her head with unfortunate repercussions. She grabbed her glass of iced tea and emptied it in a few huge swallows, but she could still feel heat in her face.
Fortunately, Ben didn’t appear to notice. He ripped open a packet of sweetener and stirred it into his coffee before addressing Amelia again. “I got the diary from a woman who lives in the house where Martha Comstock once lived. The woman was happy enough to sell the book to me. In fact, she said she’d been intending to throw it away but just never got around to it. After all, she has no blood connection to the Comstocks.”
Amelia swallowed a bite of meatloaf. “Okay, what’s Martha Comstock’s connection to the Duke of Durbane?”
“I suspect she was the cousin of the woman the duke married. That’s what you—hopefully—will determine from her diary.”
“So, since the duke’s wife was named Amy Pennycut, this Comstock woman would have been a cousin on her mother’s side.”
Ben gave her a duh look but merely nodded and kept eating.
“Meaning that if the duke’s cousin Charles planned to use the Hardwicke Marriage Act in hopes of voiding the duke’s marriage…” She paused as the possible significance of the diary hit her. So little was known about what eventually became of the duke and duchess, any details about their lives that Martha Comstock might have noted in her diary could be invaluable to Ben’s and her research.
Ben forked up the last bite of his omelette. “As you’ve surmised, that diary has the potential to be of tremendous help to us, so be careful with it.” He dropped his fork onto his plate and started gathering up the papers he’d moved from the table to the bench when their food had arrived. He stuffed them into his briefcase and closed it.
“Do you have a class this afternoon?” Amelia asked.
Ben sighed. “Yes. It’s a waste of my time trying to teach those numbskulls, but it’s what I get paid for. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He tossed a couple of twenties onto the table. “Take care of the bill and tip Betty a dollar or two. You can keep the rest.”
Amelia shook her head as he walked away. Knowing how long he must have kept that table tied up, she figured she’d better add at least a five to his forty to see that poor Betty’s tips were reasonable for the day.
* * * *
Jack tried all afternoon to reach his uncle, but Ben had apparently turned his cell phone turned off, because Jack’s calls immediately went to voicemail. He then tried Ben’s office phone and finally, later in the afternoon, his home number. Ben wasn’t answering there either.
That didn’t mean Ben wasn’t at home, of course. Jack figured his uncle was avoiding him. Ben would especially be making himself scarce if he suspected Jack intended to tell him to take his research into the dukedom and shove it where it would be shielded from the hot Georgia sun.
Jack’s increasing irritation with his uncle merely served to feed his determination to best Ben at his own game. He drove to Ben’s house and turned into the driveway. He cut his motor, climbed out and looked around. If Ben was inside the house, his car would be in the detached garage, but there was no way to see inside. The door was solid steel, and the two small windows on either side of the building were covered by curtains drawn tight.
Shrugging, Jack walked around the rear corner of the house. His uncle, who had never married, had purchased this house in an established neighbourhood nearly forty years earlier, and over time had turned it into his own little kingdom. The fenced back yard was shaded by massive old maples and oaks with a thick undergrowth of dogwoods and redbuds. A large, screened-in porch jutted off
the rear of the house and opened into the kitchen. “Hallelujah,” Jack muttered when he tried the screen door and found it unlocked.
He stepped onto the porch’s tile floor and paused for a second to admire his uncle’s interior decorating. A glass-topped table was pushed up against the inside wall, right under the kitchen windows. Wicker chairs with tropical print cushions were scattered around the room, along with three ottomans and four side tables. A chaise longue occupied a desirable spot near the far side of the room, strategically situated under a slowly spinning ceiling fan.
Although he had little hope of success, Jack tried the door leading into the kitchen. “Locked, of course,” he said aloud. He peered through the kitchen windows but the room was deserted. He turned, intending to leave, but the chaise longue suddenly seemed incredibly tempting.
A soft and cooling breeze swept in through the screen, and the intoxicating fragrance of honeysuckle permeated the room. A stray beam of sunshine slipped between the branches of the dogwood growing right outside, illuminating the lounge.
I’ll just stretch out for a few minutes and wait for Uncle Ben.
* * * *
When Jack awoke, some undetermined time later, the sky had darkened and distant rolls of thunder heralded the approach of an afternoon storm. He blinked, puzzled for a few seconds as to where he was. Then he recalled. I’m on Uncle Ben’s porch. But where the hell is Uncle Ben?
He’d started to push himself up when he realised he was naked. He was also extremely aroused. His engorged cock wavered around and around, forming tiny circles that gave the impression it was rotating in time with the ceiling fan.
Dear God, he must be losing his mind. Then he realised that, as before, he couldn’t move. Not his arms, not his legs, not his head. He could talk though. “Damn you, leave me alone. I don’t want anything more to do with you.”
A laugh, brittle and humourless, sounded from just behind his head. “That’s not what you were saying when I pulled those strange clothes off you. You were begging for your release then. I sucked your cock until you were moaning like a bitch in heat. Shall I finish it for you?”