He had shut himself for three hours in what was left of his workshop. The bottom part of it anyway. Three hours he had spent crafting a small gift for her while the workers took away the debris and sorted the rest. Three hours bent over the broken worktable, getting cut by the tiny sheet of silver he had pounded, burned by the soldering iron. He had come close to throwing the special project aside at least half a dozen times so he could start another one, a perfect one. Always trying to better the first trial. But the tiny item had sparkled like dew in the grass when he had finished and stood to admire it. Just like Eleanor, it was a curvy little thing of beauty made of durable material. Deceptively tough. The rose broach she kept pinned to the bodices of her dress had never appealed to him. He found it too austere, too thorny and old-fashioned for such a vivacious, such a beautiful woman.
Leeford hoped she would like his gift. If not, then he would make another. And another.
The sun had set below the horizon, the last of its copper rays had graced the opposite wall in his room. Cracks and outright holes punctured the wall. Would his house ever look the way it had? The lone gas lamp that still functioned on the second floor provided just enough light to illuminate her hip and leg and create a patch of tantalizing darkness to pool at the juncture of her thighs. Her nipples stood in proud points, looked hard like pink candy.
He loved candy.
“You know,” he said, kissing her throat, her cheeks, her mouth. “I have not courted you properly. Not even a proper meal.”
“Ah yes, dodging bullets and murderous madmen has a way of disrupting the finer things like courtship.”
She licked her lips, received him when he planted another kiss, this one deep and passionate. He sucked her tongue into his mouth, nibbled on her bottom lip before moving lower over her, every inch and every angle, wanting to touch her in all manners possible. As lightly as he could, he kissed the awful bruise on her chest. She did not seem to mind or be hurt by it. He moved on, went by her reactions, and if he gauged them correctly, she wanted more—much more—of what he was about to do.
Leeford wanted to linger, but seeing as she would arch her pelvis whenever he came close to her sex, he went right for it, parted her with delicate fingers so he could kiss her there, lick the tender flesh, suck the folds into his mouth and play with them. Tremors shook her. She fisted his hair.
“Well, so much for slow and gentle,” he remarked against her vulva.
Eleanor gripped the other side of his head. This time, he forced her hand away and planted it on the mattress. “We do things my way.”
She growled words he did not understand. His little tigress! His curvy little assassin. The other half—the better half—of his soul.
If he did not start ramming his tongue into her pussy within the next few seconds, she would go up in flames. Or dislodge a good fistful of his gorgeous dark blond hair. Her thighs quivered when he set to work. Long hands pressed on either side to denude her hard little pearl and take it into his mouth. She moaned her delight. He sucked another one out of her with greedy pulls on her pussy, the lips, the clitoris. Such skilled hands. Such a knowing, decadent mouth! He may have thought women would not give him a second glance, and sometimes, her acerbic self would tend to agree—nothing more blasé than a woman—but she knew too that anyone would commit a crime to lie with such consummate lover. Such attentive, ingenious—
“Oh Divine Graces!” she cried when Leeford’s tongue, which he had made pointy, tickled her clitoris. Oh. Goodness. “Do it again…please. Do it again.”
Another tongue-lash like a musician plucking the string of a harp. Fever spread through her bruised body. Frissons tickled her.
“Again…again.”
Despite the fatigue pulling at her, Leeford’s tongue fired her muscles, triggered images in her mind’s eyes. She wanted him. She had to have him. He had to take her. Take her now.
Another flick brought the wave. She arched off the mattress, fisted the sheets, head lolling, fire ripping through her, taking her on a frenzied voyage in a sea of red and gold, of drums in her ears. She let him devour her—take it, take it all—to the deepest recess, the last shred of herself. She let him make love to her with his mouth, his fingers, which he had introduced into her searing flesh, let him pump them, twist them, stretch her wide to collect more honey.
And when the wave receded, when she opened her eyes to catch him studying her, she raised both hands above her head, linked her fingers then lifted her knees to her chest.
“Take me.”
With the soft amber light, Leeford’s athletic chest and shoulders corded as he advanced on her, knelt up right by her backside, seized her knees to keep them wide apart. She made herself bare for him, exposed, vulnerable. Trusting. Unlike other lovers, she knew he would not do to her things that had felt good at the time but only brought regret and shame the morning after. Spark had used her thus. She had wanted the extreme and received it. Eleanor now wanted something different. She wanted vigor tempered with gentleness. She yearned for strength softened by skill. A perfect mix of intensity and carefulness that only a man who loved a woman would ever achieve. And because Leeford loved her, she knew he would touch her in ways that would fulfill her every need, and her expectations too. She would give to this man her body, willingly, but she would also give him her heart. Trust had never come easily to her, except for Leeford. In his case, it had come naturally.
“Take me,” she repeated, never leaving his dazzling blue gaze.
One of her knees in each hand, he brought his cock right against her pussy, curled his spine and claimed her in a long, tender penetration. As smooth and glossy as his member was, she felt each ridge and vein as if he had tongued her clit for each. On a ragged whimper, she released.
Instead of working his fine hips back and forth, he knelt very still then abandoned a knee so he could lick his thumb and press the pad of it against her sex. ’Round and ’round, he rubbed her hard little pearl. Eleanor fought against the urge to lock her ankles behind his head in case she hurt him. Bruises covered him. She wanted to stay this way, open wide for him, hands locked together above her head.
“Am I making love to you slowly enough?” he asked. Oh that mocking grin!
“Yes,” she hissed.
The fullness of his cock inside, coupled with the wet thumb rubbing her triggered another series of frissons to shoot down her back and thighs. Vaginal muscles working hard, she squeezed around him. He must have enjoyed this for his eyes narrowed, his mouth parted on a slow, lascivious smile. Leeford pulled out by a few inches, thrust back in. A little bit harder. A little bit deeper.
“Ah!”
He smiled at her reaction. Thrust again.
“Oh! Divine Graces! Yes!” She welcomed his cock into her with furious bucks but could only do so much without changing her position. She grabbed her knees, forced them higher.
“Touch your breasts,” he murmured, pushed deeper. “Touch them.”
Eleanor let him deal with her knees while she squeezed her breasts together hard, worked her fingers into the mounds so the nipples would protrude. So very hard. Achingly hard.
The bed creaked when he grabbed her ankles, raised them out high and wide. Long arms corded, he kept her there, spread around his cock while she worked her breasts and nipples.
“Since I cannot, you kiss them for me.”
Bruises forgotten, she brought them high, met them halfway by dipping her chin. Each received a kiss.
“Do you know what I would do?”
She nodded.
“And…?”
A nipple between her teeth, she watched Leeford’s expression turn from shock to delight.
He gave a sudden, potent thrust that rocked the bed. She cried out in thrill and anticipation.
“Brace your hands,” he whispered. Curled back for another deep penetration.
His cock felt long and hard inside her. Exquisite sensation. The headboard creaked when she braced her palms against it, locked h
er elbows.
Leeford pushed her legs in a wide V, took his time admiring her sex stretched around his, both glistening and throbbing in need, his gaze like a physical thing going over her, leaving burning need and urges in its wake.
He pulled back to the glans. Stilled.
“Leeford?” She curled her hips but could not deepen the touch. He barely parted her lips.
The explosive thrust ripped a yelp from her. And each subsequent claim triggered a staccato of cries. Higher her voice rose while his cock plunged. Higher the cries. Deeper the claiming. As though they had met in another reality, on another level, her voice and his drive met somewhere in a pure moment of ecstasy that blinded and deafened and stupefied her. His orgasm preceded her own by a second or so. She felt each throb before her world became a raging sea. His name resounded over and over. Hers as well. She cried her pleasure, whimpered and yelled it. Leeford received it, took it, gave her his. After a series of disorderly thrusts, he freed her ankles, folded her legs behind him then rose between her thighs in a sweat-covered, panting rendition of perfect male symmetry and vigor. His disheveled hair gave him a rugged look.
“Well…” He pursed his lips, nodded, took a deep breath. “I love you. So much.”
Not what she had expected. Eleanor smiled in lazy contentment as remnants of climax tickled through her. His semen coated her nicely. She was loath to let him go. He leaned over to the side, used those long arms of his to pull the drawer out by a few inches. After rummaging inside, he retrieved a tiny object and showed it to her.
“There. This is what I made.”
Eleanor took the delicate little pin. A flower. A violet, to be exact. Tears welled her eyes. Silver welded with astute steel clasps. She recognized his touch there, if only in miniature. The tiny petals fluttered with minute little hinges. If she angled it downward, the flower would close and if she tilted it back up, the petals would open as if in full bloom.
“It is breathtaking. I cannot believe you created this in such a short time. How can I accept such gift when I have nothing to give in return?”
He pinched it by the stem and pinned it to the corner of the sheet, looked at it for effect. “Of course you can accept it. If not, then I will only melt it and use it for parts in another project.” His grin mocked her. “A violet made of metal. Beauty and strength. I thought it appropriate for you. Even if I know very little about you.”
“Something we will remedy as soon as I am more coherent.” She grinned. “I do not know what to say. Thank you seems so tired.”
“Have you not already thanked me enough? You braved Spark’s madness to come get me, knowing the sort of man he is. You still came.”
“I could not do nothing!” The thought of a man such as Leeford, such an honest and good man at the hands of a sadistic monster like Spark. She shivered. “Did he tell you about us? He must have gloated…”
Leeford put his index finger on her lips before pulling out and lying by her side. Gravity darkened his eyes. “What you two have shared has nothing to do with this. With us. The past is gone. The future yet to come.”
“I would very much like to stay here with you.” She laughed when he grimaced.
“I wonder how your mind works sometimes,” he said, pinching the shell of her ear and pretending to peer inside. “I thought the matter already settled. But if you must have a formal invitation, I would like to inform you, as officially as can be, that you are most assuredly welcome in my house and in my heart, despite my long-standing celibate status and the countless bad habits that have sprung for such condition, forever and ever, or until one of my machines blows it all up. In which case, we would have to move. Satisfactory?”
Eleanor nodded. “Very. No more whisky?”
A dark blond eyebrow arched. “No more assassinations?”
“Agreed.”
He shook her hand, kissed her knuckles. “Agreed.”
A gust of wind outside whistled into the many cracks in the house. Light from the lone gas lamp on the second floor blinked then died.
“And I know just which project to start,” Leeford remarked dryly in the darkness.
Her snort of unladylike laughter surprised Eleanor. She had an inkling that life with Leeford Gunn would be anything but boring.
Author’s Note
Writing this story, I have learned two things—one, the English know how to whip together some awesome cakes, and two, afternoon tea is more than just crust-less cucumber sandwiches. Ms. Jane Pettigrew wrote a fascinating book on the subject titled Tea Time: A Complete Collection of Traditional Recipes, Dorling Kindersley, London, 1986. For the reader interested in a good recipe for winter warmers or Bara brith, Tea Time is a fascinating compendium of everything tea. Discrepancies, omissions or disasters of the teacup kind are from my own stock.
Leeford Gunn’s house was furnished, lit, equipped and decorated thanks in part to a book from author, environmentalist and influential figure to the self-sufficiency movement John Seymour titled Forgotten Household Crafts, Dorling Kindersley, London, 1987. Any mistake, oversight or outright fabrication is not anyone’s fault but mine.
Eleanor Cleverly’s very special corset could not have been the awesome personal armory it was without input from award-winning author, corset connoisseur and great friend Sahara Kelly, who attacked the proposition with maniacal glee. A pistol and a dagger in a corset, I asked? Bloody brilliant and don’t forget the garrote, she replied. Thanks Sahara!
About the Author
I am a mother, spouse, older sister, writer, ex-soldier, high school drop-out, dog owner (or dog owned), half couch potato/half intermittent jogger, wannabe renovator and avid reader who watches too much television, sinks too much money in clothes, likes animals more than humans, recycles, wore braces, never downloads copyrighted stuff, was a nerd without the grades, has a belly laugh that turns heads in theaters, can’t stand bullying, is mother hawk more than mother hen, votes even if candidates aren’t that great and thinks formal education is highly overrated (probably because she has none).
Nathalie welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Nathalie Gray
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Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.
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