She laughed hollowly, still conscious of the ecstasy he’d brought her when his body joined with hers. “Yeah, right, sure I’m going to forget that.”
Then again, she really wanted the man, why shouldn’t she fight for what she wanted? She should find a way to introduce herself and see what—
“There is someone at the door,” the house’s security system announced. It was an old house with a very basic system, so it wasn’t about to be more informative than that. So, unless the water in the scrying bowl suddenly showed her who it was – which it wasn’t likely to do – she had to answer the door herself. A visitor, even someone looking to get their future read without an appointment, was better than pacing around feeling sorry for herself.
The man standing at the door was the last person she expected to be there. And the one person in all of space and time she wanted to see.
“Bern!”
He kissed her before she could say anything else. The fire that had been between them from the first moment sparked between them again. She clung to him with all her might, her body moulded against his. If he’d taken her there on the front porch she wouldn’t have minded. Instead he swung her around into the house, and kicked the door closed behind them. They fell together on to the entryway carpet and clothes were quickly shed and pushed aside.
He was thrusting inside her, hard and strong and fast, before she managed to breathlessly say, “You remembered me!” Then she came for the first time and forgot about words for a long time afterwards.
“Of course I remembered,” he said later, when they were lying together in a sweaty tangled heap. “You’re unforgettable.”
She stroked his cheek. “Oh, that’s sweet … wait a minute … that means you’re psychic.”
He nodded.
“I thought Percy was your team psychic.”
“He was, on the civilian side. The military side always tries to have someone who’ll remember the op on a TTP team.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“That’s because that information is on a need-to-know basis. This seems like a good time for you to need to know.”
“Now I understand why Kaye kept talking about your gut feelings. I should have guessed he meant your psychic intuition.”
“You should have guessed when we went for each other like we were in heat instantly. That kind of lust only comes when like meets like.”
“So I’ve heard. Hey, the lust had me pretty distracted. That and starring in orgies and fighting the Saxons and that whole Matter of Britain thing we had going.”
He sighed. “Matter of Britain, my ass.”
She stroked his. “It’s a very nice ass. I have a nice, big bed upstairs,” she told him.
He licked and sucked her nipples for a while then he helped her to her feet, even though she groaned in protest when he stopped touching her breasts. “I’d be delighted to spend as much time as possible in your nice, big bed.”
“Good.”
“But first,” he added, “I did come here to ask if you’d like to go on a date this evening. I’ve got tickets for a revival of an old musical I think you’ll enjoy.”
Curiosity nibbled away some of her lust. “What play would that be?”
He grinned. “Spamalot.”
She hooted, and they held each other tight, shaking with laughter. What other production could possibly be more perfect for their first date?
Crimean Fairy Tale
Victoria Janssen
The Crimean Peninsula – 1854
Private Jonas Weston survived Balaclava without a scratch, then things got worse. He emerged from the brutal battle at Inkerman Heights with a shallow lance wound over a broken rib, bad dreams and hands that would never quite stop shaking. Three nights after the battle, when he’d once again woken screaming, Sergeant Jennings told him, “I’ve a certain cure for the shakes, lad.”
Weston took another swig of coarse arrack and coughed into the embers of their shared campfire. It tasted miles worse than rum, but was thankfully stronger, and it helped numb the sharp pain in his side. If only he could get enough to make him sleep. He feared there wasn’t enough in the world. “Need more of this,” he said, shaking the flask.
“Not a bit of it. You need to dock a bobtail.” In a conspiratorial tone, he added, “So long as you don’t get yourself the crinkums, docking’ll put you right. Keep your eyes open for shankers or blue boars in her notch; those’re sure sign she’s a fire ship and you’d be pissing pins and needles before a fortnight was out.”
Private Dunn, who rarely said anything, piped up in agreement, nodding his head all the while. “Plenty of laced mutton here for no more’n tuppence. A healthy fuck’s the best thing for nerves. My dad told me so.”
Conversation erupted about the merits or otherwise of tossing off as opposed to tupping, and whether a threepenny upright was more or less likely to tip a man the token.
Weston wasn’t much for women. He’d tupped a few, but only if his friends had talked him into it first, and then he had to get over worrying he would hurt the woman somehow with his big hands and big body. It felt wonderful if she encouraed him and he got going; he liked tupping because who wouldn’t, but afterwards he always felt low for days.
His mother bore him out of wedlock, having been taken against her will, and though she’d never made him suffer for it in her short life thereafter, he’d never forgotten either. Even though they were paid and his mother had not been, he could never help wondering about the whores: what they thought about what they were doing, and if they really enjoyed it or were only pretending. If he’d had one, afterwards he would wonder if he was like his father had been, and that made him feel even sicker, even though he tried everything he knew not to get them with child.
It was an especially odd feeling because his father had another son, a legitimate one, serving as lieutenant of Hussars. Weston had even seen him, from a distance. He doubted the boy knew of his existence, and he certainly wished he didn’t know of the boy’s.
Aside from all that, Weston didn’t like the risks of whoring – he thought most men were mad to risk being burned or poxed on a regular basis, and been called a cockquean because of his opinion – but Jennings had as good as ordered him, hadn’t he? And, truth be told, he was like to die in the next few months, anyway, if the war continued as it had. He’d already escaped heatstroke and cholera, both of which had killed dozens of his mates before they’d even come near a Russian gun.
The thought of hiding his face in a woman’s soft bosom made him shake even more, with longing. He’d forget then. Forget that after running out of bullets and losing his bayonet in a Cossack’s ribcage, he’d beaten men’s faces to pulp with his rifle butt. The stink of their blood and bowels wouldn’t leave him, and he would catch himself looking at his hands to see if they were still gored.
He’d find a woman, hopefully a clean one, and then he’d forget it all for a bit and be as right as rain.
The wives and sutlers camped closest to the soldiers, followed by cooks, seamstresses, and laundresses. Clutching his greatcoat around him against the November chill, Weston weaved his way among wagons with chocked wheels, tents, campfires, pitiful attempts at vegetable gardens, coppers of boiling water. The cold had hardened the ever-present mud underfoot, but only a little. Everywhere were women, grubby children, and the occasional old man, hard at work. The women watched him as he passed, some warily, one or two with either undisguised interest or undisguised contempt. Either they knew where he was going and disapproved, or they didn’t like his dark skin. He’d been asked more than once if he was a Turk, when in fact he was the cast-off bastard of a viscount. His mother had been his father’s slave, from his sugar plantation in the West Indies; she’d died not long after she’d been emancipated.
The whores lived on the edges of the camp, most of them in shabby tents they’d made from army discards. Few had made any attempt to cheer up their muddy surroundings with gardens; the most decorativ
e items Jonas saw were petticoats and chemises hung to dry and fluttering in the chilly breeze. He could hear distinctive sounds through the thin walls of one of the closer tents and, a few hundred feet away, caught a glimpse of a red coat as another soldier ducked into a tent.
He hadn’t ventured far into their territory when several women converged on him, all talking at once and tugging his arms and the front of his coat. He didn’t like this much but was too ashamed to protest, for fear his distaste would result in their mockery. “My, my,” said a woman with bubbies like melons. “I’ll dab it up with you for a smile. Or how about a couple tots of rum? All the jam tart you want, for a couple tots of rum.”
‘I’ve not seen you before, me fine cocksman,” said a thin woman with a pointed chin. “Give my Lady Lcock a knock and your eyes’ll cross until you see your own nancy.”
A woman with greying hair grabbed his arm. “A lusty strong boy you are,” she said. “Just what I need, after that lazy lobcock I had today. Want a hot buttered bun, laddie?”
Jonas didn’t reply, but he looked at all of them, in search of a friendly countenance and one that was, hopefully, free of disease. Loitering behind the others was a little woman in a threadbare sparrow-coloured dress that buttoned up to her throat, with a thick wool shawl thrown over all. She was darker than the rest, her skin a warm brown that caught his eye and held it. Her hair, severely pulled back, looked thick and it curled around her neck. He wanted to touch it. Her face looked calm and smooth, her cheeks ruddy from cold and not from drink. She was watching him intently.
He had the feeling he’d seen her before, perhaps elsewhere in the camp. Not with one of the other men, he would have remembered that. Perhaps she worked at more than one job, and he’d seen her passing. Jonas wriggled free of grasping hands and called out, “What’s your name?”
She sidled up next to him with the ease of long practice and said, “Betsy, love.” Close to, he could see the shape of her nose and the soft curve of her lush lips. She was coloured, like him. His heart jolted. She snaked one arm around his waist and said, in a much softer voice, “Come along with me and I’ll take care with your ribs.” She smiled at him.
She must have seen him wince away from too importunate hands. “I’m Weston,” he said. He breathed in deeply. She’d washed recently, and used something flowery on her hair. Her hand was gentle on his hip. It was enough.
Betsy’s tent was on the outskirts even of the whores’ camp, nearly to the mule pickets. She took his hand and drew him inside. It didn’t hold anything but a pallet and a little jumble of miscellany that looked like clock parts, or … he wasn’t sure. He’d never seen anything like it before in his life. Was it some kind of luck charm? Or … Heat rose in his cheeks. It was probably some kind of sex implement. He couldn’t imagine to what use it could be put, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. A moment later, though, he’d forgotten about the jumble because she was pushing his greatcoat off his shoulders and unfastening the stock at his throat before pressing a kiss against his skin. He hadn’t even managed to get his coins out of his pocket yet.
Just that one touch of her full lips set him trembling all over. She was such a little woman she couldn’t reach higher than his throat. He resisted the urge to just lift her up in his arms, and instead pushed her away. “I want your clothes off,” he said. “Please.” Wincing, he got his greatcoat the rest of the way off, then his belts and uniform coat.
It wasn’t usual to unrig, but she didn’t protest, even though it was cold in the tent. “Let me help you with your boots,” she said.
Once he was naked, he took his time undressing her, kneeling first on her pallet to ease off her muddy half-boots and heavy woollen stockings. Her legs were long for her height, long enough to wrap around a man, long enough to hook over his shoulders and squeeze his ears. She didn’t wear a corset under her gown, only a soft bodice that revealed more than it concealed, softness he could almost feel melting beneath his tongue. He shook harder as he got her last layers off, petticoats and much-mended chemise, no pantaloons; shaking not so much from cold but from the feel of her soft hands when she laid them on his bare skin; shaking from his need to cover her with his body and make her cry out for him.
When they were stretched out on the pallet together, snuggled close together beneath her blankets, he didn’t do anything for a few moments but curl around her, his leg hooked over hers his arms around her waist, his face buried in her loosened hair. Her curls tickled his cheek.
She said, “What do you want, soldier? Want me to take you in my mouth?” Her hand trailed lightly over his bandaged ribs, then gripped his naked hip, her nail caressing the thin skin over the bone.
“Weston,” he said. “Use my name, Betsy.”
“Weston then.”
“I don’t want that,” he said.
“Do you want—” She stopped when he stroked her back, shoulders to softly cushioned arse.
“Hush,” he said. Slowly, he warmed up and his trembling eased. He was taking too long with her, he knew that, but she didn’t protest. He would pay extra, later, to make it up to her. Right now, he needed this. He needed to hold someone.
After a few minutes, he felt her relaxing against him, the cushiony weight of her small breasts easing against his chest, the shape of her nipples like fruit pips, only sweeter. He eased himself free of her embrace and slid lower to kiss her breasts and fondle her delicious little nipples, feeling something ease in him as she sighed and touched his shoulders. He slid lower still, pulling the blanket over his head so she wouldn’t be left in the cold.
“Weston …”
He didn’t think she was protesting, or not seriously. When he set to kissing her belly and thighs, another sigh eased out of her and her hands found his hair. Her fingers tangled in his curls, gently pulling and rubbing his scalp. She was going to let him take care of her. He closed his eyes, gripped her hips in his hands, and kissed her velvety skin until he could smell nothing but her arousal, rising around him like a fog; then he nuzzled through the hair covering her pussy. Her breath went ragged. He thumbed her lips open and blindly learned the shape of her inner creases with the tip of his tongue.
“You shouldn’t,” she said. “You shouldn’t – you’re not meant to …” Her voice trailed off in a small cry.
He pressed his lips tightly to her little knob and suckled. Her desperate sounds, her uncontrolled movements, flowed over him like the warmest summer wind. He brought her to her crisis, then stroked her down from it. She said, “Why are you … You don’t have to …” but stopped when he eased his fingertip inside her cunny and licked across her little knob once more before closing his lips tight around it and sucking. He brought her back up to climax again, and again, until she sobbed with the pleasure of it, until she slid into sleep beneath his hands and mouth.
Only then did he pillow his cheek on her breasts, the tension sighing out of him. She breathed deeply, evenly, her hand slack on his shoulder. He dared to kiss her skin, softly so as not to wake her or leave a mark. Then he rested, until his own exhaustion forced him into sleep with her. He didn’t dream.
She woke him, later, when it was dark, and he was momentarily afraid she meant to send him away post-haste. “Let me return the favour,” she said next to his ear, and he relaxed. Her fingers traced his cheekbone, and he turned his head to kiss her hand. “You gave me such delight. I’ve skill with my mouth. I’d share it with you.”
He was painfully hard and her breath on his ear sent warmth down to the ends of his toes. “Will you kiss me first?” he asked. “Please?”
She sat up. Before he could despair, she bent over him and feathered her mouth over his. His lips parted on a sigh. “One more?” he asked. The words had barely escaped him when she kissed him again, introducing his tongue to hers. He followed her when she would have retreated, sucking at her lower lip and stealing one last taste from inside her mouth. “Thank you,” he said.
She didn’t reply, and he wondered she was
angry that he’d overstepped. She ran her nails down his chest and belly, teasing him until his skin tightened all over his body. He touched her hair, threading his fingers through her thick curls. When her hot mouth closed over his cock, he gave himself up to her and the rising pleasure she drew from him. He could only last so long against her teasing tongue and wet lips. He lost control abruptly, with a hoarse cry, and came into her mouth.
Once more she didn’t send him away. Perhaps she didn’t like sleeping cold, either. Weston wasn’t about to complain. He spooned up against her back and slept.
He woke, once. Not from a bad dream this time. Perhaps he’d heard a cry from one of the other tents. He stroked Betsy’s cheek with his fingers. “So soft,” he whispered, in wonderment. He wished he could see her, see his brown fingers against her brown cheek. He’d never been with a woman of his own colour before, and had never realized how beautiful she would be to his eyes. He’d be happy to look at such a woman for the rest of his life.
Her eyes opened. It was too dark to see, but he knew she was awake and watching him. It was like a warm touch on his face. He ran his thumb over her mouth. “Must I leave?” he asked. He didn’t want to ask, but she might be afraid to ask it of him.
She smiled. He felt her lips curve beneath his fingers. “I’ve no desire to wander this cold night in search of custom,” she said. “You’re a lovely warm man, Private Weston.”
He could feel her breath on his mouth. He cupped her cheek in his palm and used his other arm to draw her closer, curving his hand over her plush round arse. He wasn’t much of a talker, but he wanted to talk to her. “Haven’t been so warm in weeks,” he said. It was the truth.
“I’ve never been so warm,” she said. “You surprised me, you know.”
“I did?” He stroked her bottom, trailing his fingers this way and that, for the pleasure of her softness against his own coarse callouses.
The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance Page 6