by Sharon Kleve
“You should’ve asked me.” The anger was still there, but the glare was gone, her eyes having softened a bit.
“I know, but after seeing the way you looked when Dr. Rylee described your pre-and-post reproductive system, I didn’t want to put you through that again by having your husband ask even more personal questions. And I do know how personal those changes had to have been.”
She’d done it for them, for him. If Jackson had been less selfish, he would’ve walked away when he realized their working relationship was growing into something more personal. But he enjoyed her intellect, sweet scent, and honest spirit too much to turn away from Nevaeh’s serenely, sensual allure.
“It was my choice to make,” she’d told him that night, tears in her eyes for the children they would never have. She’d caressed his cheek, wiping away his tears. “I couldn’t deny the calling of my heart, Jackson Glory. I didn’t even want to try.”
Neither had he, which was why he’d spent two years completing every one of her people’s courting rituals.
“Perhaps,” she began, no trace of anger in her voice, “that is something else we need to discuss.” She took a deep breath. “What did you learn from Dr. Rylee that has upset you so?”
Jackson scratched his head, giving himself a few extra precious seconds. “Well, he told me that I should know better than to expect him to break doctor-patient confidentiality. Then he laughed at me and said I should stop worrying and be happy to be married to a woman half my age. While I know the Serenitarian calendar is longer than that of Earth’s, when it is all said and done, you’re only three years younger than me. Not the half the good doctor referred to. So I got to thinking and the only thing that made sense was—”
“My transformation,” she finished.
Jackson nodded.
“So, I guess that puts you around twenty-two in human years, a little less by Serenitarian calculations.”
She nodded, then raised her head. “Why should that matter?”
“I guess it really shouldn’t. In the grand scheme of things, it really doesn’t but…”
“But what? Just tell me already and be done with it.”
“All too many human males, throughout Earth’s history, have taken younger women as mistresses or wives. The men were blinded by the women’s youth and beauty, thinking some of it would rub off on them. In the end, they discovered the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That being around youth and being young are two very different things.”
“But I’m not half your age, no matter what the doctor said. Perhaps my body, Jackson, but nothing more.”
“Ah, but that’s just it. A forty-four-year-old body cannot keep up with that of a twenty-two-year-old. Your stamina far outpaces my own. As I get older, that will become more evident than it is now.”
“So you thought to show me now what joining with you would be like in this fantasy future you’ve created for us?”
“Not fantasy, Nevaeh, reality. Human men’s vigor decreases the older we get. Women, on the other hand, well, there’s increases, which is why it actually makes more sense for an older woman to find a younger lover than it is for an older man to do the same. The younger man can fulfill the older woman’s sexual needs in a way an older man cannot.”
She gazed at him thoughtfully, and Jackson wondered if she regretted marrying him. Well, the insecure part of him wondered that. The rational Jackson knew Nevaeh’s gaze meant she was simply thinking about all he’d just said.
“What do,” she began after an excruciatingly long time, “couples like your parents do when the male grows older?”
He frowned. “What do you mean ‘do’?”
“I mean do they all engage in quickies? Stop such intimacies all together? Take younger lovers? What do they do, Jackson, when, according to you, their sexual drives and stamina no longer matches?”
He stared at her, mouth wide open. Only Nevaeh could ask something like that. Now Jackson asked himself the same questions, annoyed his wife had bypassed his manly logic and gotten straight to the heart of long-lasting marriages.
“I guess they make do. Work something out that works for the both of them.”
“And do all human couples, even young ones, have the same sexual drives and stamina as their mate?”
Yeah, her Serenitarian logic was annoying as hell, especially when she seemed to understand marital relations better than the man who’d been married once before.
“No,” he offered grudgingly.
“Then I don’t understand, Jackson. Why should it matter that my Serenitarian-Human body is younger than you or the rest of me?”
“I just… I just… want to always be able to please you. Give you what you want, deserve. I don’t know how much longer I can do that.”
“You do please me.” A sultry hand glided up his chest and to his shoulder. “Indeed, you’ve always known how. Even the first time.”
“But not this week?”
“No, Jackson, not this week.” Her hand skated to the nape of his neck and pulled him closer as if to kiss him. Instead, she asked, “Do human women really find the quickie ritual satisfying?”
Jackson nearly laughed. “I think,” Jackson said, truly reflecting on his past experiences, “some do, but others do it more for the guy when he wants to and she doesn’t. Or when she wants to, and he’s too tired or too lazy to take his time and do it right.”
“Jackson,” she whispered against his mouth, “I have no interest in joining with you if we’re too tired to enjoy it and each other. I would rather have quality over quantity any day. As it stands, except for this week, we’ve managed both. But we need not join so often if it puts undue stress on you.”
She kissed him then and smiled wickedly when she released him. “I do find myself wanting you more than I thought possible,” Nevaeh shyly admitted, “but your desires seem to be on par with my own.”
That was true. But how long would it last? Jackson gave himself a mental kick in the ass. Why was he borrowing trouble where there was none?
“Do we not have enough to worry about, Jackson? Must you invent problems that may never come to fruition?”
She untied his robe, again pushing it off his shoulders. Nevaeh looked down at his lap, a smile gracing her beautiful features. Jackson glanced down as well. Little Jackson was awake, looking at Nevaeh and going from at ease to full attention.
“I think,” Nevaeh began, sliding the robe from his arms, “that you’ve highly underestimated yourself, husband.”
He glanced down again. The big head seemed the only one concerned with him growing old. Because the little one was unfazed by Jackson’s mid-life crisis.
“Quality over quantity, huh?”
“Of course,” Nevaeh stated with sincerity, then winked at him in a very human way. “But right now I want both.”
So did he, and Little Jackson, now Big Jackson, agreed.
“Phase three?”
“Goddess yes,” she moaned, right before straddling his hips and taking his mouth hard.
She didn’t have to say, “Touch me,” because Jackson was already tearing the robe off her heated body. Greedy hands claimed all in his path, in search of the treasures he’d left unexplored this week.
Nevaeh was so damn hot in his embrace, searing him with her relentless kisses. Something else he’d neglected. But not again. Never again. Serenitarians had it right. Joining was about the journey, not the destination.
Jackson didn’t want to repeat this ritual. He never wanted to make Nevaeh feel rushed and unfulfilled in their lovemaking. She’d said quality not quantity, and he believed her.
With an impatience unlike her, Nevaeh joined them. All Jackson’s thoughts that weren’t of his wife and what she was doing to him and what he planned to do to her, drifted away, taking his doubts with them.
Many minutes later, Nevaeh stopped and peered at something over his shoulder.
Breathing hard, he asked, “What is it?”
“It’s been fifteen minutes.”
She stared down at him.
He grinned at her. “Are you ready so soon, my twenty-two-year- old?”
Nevaeh threw back her head and laughed. And he mouthed a nipple, turning her sweet laughter into a husky, needy moan. “Yes, do that again.”
He did. And more.
Forty minutes later they lay spent in their bed, candles out, lights set to ten percent.
Jackson rolled onto his side and watched Nevaeh as she struggled to keep her eyes open, feeling proud that he’d brought his wife not once but three times, leaving her panting and asking if he were ready. He had been. Lord knew he was. But Jackson went an additional eight minutes, just to prove he could and to relish in the giving, the knowing.
“So, you found nothing about the quickie you liked, honey?” He had to know.
Her eyes said she’d rather sleep than talk, but she obliged him, the way she always did.
“Morning intimacy is nice.” Her hand covered a delicate yawn. “If you allow me to use the bathroom first.”
He nodded. That made sense. Sex on a full bladder was different for a woman than for a man. He’d forgotten that. Okay, potty break before morning sex. Got it.
“Anything else?”
Another yawn. He was losing her fast.
“Joining while standing is… better than I would’ve imagined.”
Jackson grinned but tempered it when he sensed a “but” coming.
“But not in the bathroom, Jackson.” She grabbed his arm, wider awake than a moment ago. “Of all the things I’m willing to share with you, there are some I’m not.”
“No bathroom sex. Got it.”
“No bathroom sharing.” Her hand tightened. “At. All.”
Yeah, got that. Loud and clear.
“And my office, Nevaeh?”
She pulled the covers up to her chin and turned away from him. He really should let her sleep. She had an early conference call to Serenity in the morning. And no, he wouldn’t alter her alarm clock tonight. He’d put the poor woman through enough this week.
Jackson settled in behind her, pleased with the way the day ended and the fact that he’d finally come clean with Nevaeh. Next time, he would just share his concerns right away. It would likely save them both unnecessary grief. Nevaeh had pledged to do the same, admitting she didn’t tell him she disliked quickies over concern for his honor and pride.
Surprising him, Nevaeh spoke, her voice groggy but clear. “Your office desk is good, but the couch would be better. In that position, with our difference in heights, I prefer kneeling to standing.”
With those scintillating words, she fell asleep.
Jackson smiled. She liked practically everything about this week except for how short he’d made each session. Well, he could remedy that. If she liked sex in his office, then she was more open to adventurous antics than he’d given her credit for.
His smile grew wider. There was another fantasy Jackson had kept to himself. After tonight, he figured Nevaeh would be up to trying anything. Maybe even a little dressing up and role playing. Yeah, another plan was beginning to come together. All he needed were a couple of those little silk-and-lace numbers he’d seen in a store window in the garment district on the white level. Yeah, he remembered the red-and-black lingerie he’d eyed but was too afraid to buy for Nevaeh. Now, well, he was sure she would like the sexy little outfits.
Satisfied with his new plan, Jackson pulled his wife close and fell off to sleep, dreaming of Nevaeh and how much she would enjoy how well her husband had learned his lesson—giving instead of receiving.
ABOUT N.D. JONES
Cancer’s reach is far and wide, its tentacles capable of breaching fortressed walls and destroying the lives within. And while many innocents has fallen victim to its vicious might, others have survived its cruel lash, carrying the wounds of a war well fought and battles best left to nightmares. But survive they have, fight they did, inspirational they are.
But what of those lost lives, the ones that the heart refuses to forget? Phyllis Jones, sister, mother, grandmother, friend, and fighter. My aunt. A life not defined by cancer, but a life cut short because of it, Phyllis Jones, like countless others who’ve tasted the bitter whip of cancer’s tentacles, reaffirmed life even as she slipped into death. Let us remember. Better yet, let us fight and conquer the monster.
N. D. Jones lives in Maryland with her husband and two children. Having earned a M.A. in Political Science, she is a dedicated educator. She taught high school social studies for nine years. Currently, she is a professional development teacher specialist with a local Maryland school system, working on increasing student achievement through teacher and administrator efficacy. N.D. is also a continuing education student who is pursuing her doctorate in education in Community College Leadership.
A desire to see more novels with positive, sexy, and three-dimensional African American characters as soul mates, friends, and lovers, inspired the author to take on the challenge of penning such romantic reads. She is the author of two paranormal romance series: Winged Warriors and Death and Destiny. N.D. likes to read historical and paranormal romance novels, as well as comics and manga.
Website: http://www.ndjonesparanormalpleasure.com
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/ndjonesparanormalromanceauthor/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/NDJones
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The Clue of the Red Tresses by Laura Strickland
Romantic Time Travel
CHAPTER ONE
London, England, September 1882
“What is the significance of those red hairs you found?” Stephen Longstreet asked his uncle as he peered into the clockwork mechanism of the time machine. For once, the fog had cleared from London’s skies and the clear morning light slanting into the large high-ceilinged room illuminated the scene far better than a hundred gas lamps.
“I’m not entirely certain,” Anthony Gregory admitted. The man cut an odd figure as he hurried about the chamber in his rumpled coat, tie askew and brown hair mostly on end. “But more than once when I discovered the machine in this condition—it having been used I mean—I’ve found at least one strand left behind.”
“Ah.” Stephen eyed his uncle unhappily. To say Anthony became distracted easily would be an understatement. Yet the pure genius of his mind frequently left Stephen amazed. This place—Anthony’s workshop nestled at the top of a warehouse just south of the Thames—lay littered with brilliant inventions that, once built, rarely saw the light of day.
Like the time machine in question. Though Anthony had perfected it months ago, he’d as yet refrained from allowing it a trial run. Now it seemed someone had been using it without Anthony’s knowledge or permission.
Stephen’s heart sank. He’d hoped to be the first to operate the machine. Damn it, he wanted an adventure! And that explained in part why he spent his free time cooling his heels in his uncle’s dusty workshop while other men his age alleviated their boredom with sport or social functions.
Then again, as his mother—Anthony’s older sister—never ceased telling him, he was nearly as strange as Anthony himself.
“Please, Stephen,” she frequently beseeched, “don’t turn into another Anthony. I could not bear having two black sheep in the family.”
Ah well, Stephen supposed what his mother didn’t know couldn’t worry her.
“Here, come look at this.” Anthony called Stephen over to a high workbench upon which had been spread a clean, white handkerchief. On the handkerchief lay a number of long, red hairs.
Eight of them, to be precise.
Stephen narrowed his eyes. The word “hairs” didn’t do these specimens justice. Each stood out against the white fabric like a strand of tensile copper, slightly coiled by curl.
A breath escaped his lips. The sight of the red tresses aff
ected him—he could not say why.
“Eight of them, Uncle? Does that mean the machine has been used eight times?” Unfair when Stephen had so wanted the experience. “Surely that’s impossible.”
“Who knows how many times? I found two hairs in the machine on more than one occasion. And I should have said yes, it’s impossible.” Anthony looked disturbed. “Someone would first have to discover this machine exists. So far as I’m aware, no one knows of it except me, you and Caroline.”
Caroline, Anthony’s young and erstwhile assistant, would never breathe a word about Anthony’s inventions and Stephen knew he hadn’t. “Curious.”
“Then the thief would need to get past the door locks. And decipher just how to operate the machine.”
“Thief?” Stephen repeated.
“It is an act of thievery—one nothing can justify. And she—it seems apparent from the evidence it has to be a she—must be brought to justice.” Anthony turned bright hazel eyes on his nephew. “That’s where you come in.”
“What—” Stephen began before they were interrupted. Caroline bustled into the workshop, her soft-soled shoes making barely a sound. She shot a look at the two men standing by the workbench and immediately joined them.
“Well,” she challenged in her brisk way. “And has Master Stephen any insights concerning our clue?”
“Not yet,” Anthony replied. “But he’s thinking. That’s a good brain he has in that skull of his, a very good brain indeed. Not so functional as mine perhaps but he inherited a measure of intelligence from his mother. That father of his however…”Anthony shook his head sadly, apparently despairing over the intellect of the unimaginative businessman his sister had married. Stephen in fact now worked for his father as an accountant and longed with his whole being to break out. At the age of twenty-four, he already dreaded the untold years of numeral-infested monotony ahead.
Caroline smiled. Not what might be called a raving beauty, she nevertheless possessed a pleasant face and a quick mind. Strange that such a woman would spend her time following the career of an outré inventor. Stephen supposed there must be something keeping her here and only hoped it wasn’t an attraction for him.