Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time

by Knight Blindness

  What songs are you performing on the different shows?”

  “Haven’t decided which ones for Jools Holland or Graham Norton. For Britain Has Talent I’m singing one serious song called, Just Show Me How to Love You and one cheery song called, Maybe I’m Amazed. Alex desired a different arrangement and asked the writer of the song for suggestions. The writer, a nice man named Paul, came to the studio and worked with us.”

  Esme gave a tiny “ooh” when he mentioned Paul. “You met Sir Paul McCartney...Paul

  McCartney, unbelievable. Stephen, you’ve no idea but he is huge in the music industry. Sir Paul is a legend, an icon.”

  “I just called him Paul. That’s what he told me to call him. I told him he needn’t call me Sir

  Stephen, simply Stephen would do.”

  “He never struck me as someone who was full of himself. I’m glad you both got on so

  well,” she said, sitting next to him.

  Stephen finished the water fast. “I’d love a glass of orange juice.”

  She got up, went to the fridge, filled his glass and sat next to him again. “Here,” she said

  and placed the glass in his hand.

  “Thank you.” He drank the juice almost as fast as the water. He set the glass down and

  looking self-conscious said off-handedly, “I’ve been sweating. I need to shower.”

  Esme waited a beat before deciding to venture into deeper relationship territory. “Would

  you like your back washed?”

  Stephen’s gaze lifted. His eyes not quite finding hers. “Is that a general question or do you

  offer?”

  “It’s definitely an offer.”

  He turned his head a fraction to the right. His eyes found hers. Debate raged behind his.

  He’d either forgive or he wouldn’t. Another I’m sorry wasn’t going to help.

  “I can’t undo what was said. You...” she took a fortifying breath and let it out. “You either

  believe I’ve changed or you don’t.”

  An agonizing long moment passed, then he stood and, extending his hand said, “Yes, I’d

  like my back washed.”

  She rose and slid her hand in his. “Shall we?”

  He let her lead him to the bedroom where he toed off his shoes and tossed his socks. She

  stripped him of the jeans. Her lips grazed his collarbone as she leaned in close to unbutton and unzip him slowly. She used her fingernails to rake his ribcage on her way to the elastic band of his underwear, loving the quiver that followed in their wake when she hit a ticklish spot. She licked his nipples and kissed his chest, his stomach, the thin line of hair leading to his crotch as she lowered to remove his underwear.

  When she started to remove her clothing, he grasped her wrists and stopped her. “Wait.”

  He went to the dresser that didn’t hold his clothes and pulled a red silk scarf, no doubt

  Miranda’s, from the top drawer.

  “How did you know that was there?” Esme asked. “You must’ve snooped.”

  “No...oh all right, yes. I snooped, so what?”

  “That’s terrible. You should be ashamed.”

  “I am,” he said without conviction. “Stand still.”

  “What are you going to do? Are you planning to tie me up?”

  “And if I were? Do you not trust me?”

  “I do. You’re the only one I trust to tie me up. Is that the plan?”

  “No. I want to wrap this around your eyes. I wish you to make love with your other

  senses—to know how it feels.”

  He stepped close as he tied the scarf over her eyes. Close enough for his erection to prod

  her buttocks through her linen skirt. This time she quivered with a frisson of anticipation.

  “Can you see anything through the scarf?”

  “No.”

  “Now I will undress you.”

  From behind, he drew her wool blazer off one arm at a time. Then, with his chest pressed

  to her back and his warm breath teasing the tiny hairs on her neck, he reached around and

  unbuttoned her blouse. He tugged it halfway down her arms to trap them at her sides. He pushed

  her hair away to expose her neck to his lips. Lips that nibbled from the top of her spine along the back of her neck to the side of her throat, where they lingered. Still imprisoned by her sleeves, she couldn’t touch him or taunt him in return but only moan and whisper, “more.”

  Without her sight, her other senses roared to life. She heard the almost imperceptible

  change in his breathing when he shifted from her throat to drag his teeth across the top of her shoulder, stopping to bite here and there. The jagged corner of one front tooth slightly overlapped the other. An imperfection that hadn’t registered with her when they’d kissed before.

  A single shoulder collapsed under the erotic damp warmth of his mouth followed by the

  fleeting sting of the bite.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “What did you feel?”

  “Soft then sharp, the contrast of the two was so good, so unexpected so...”

  “Sometimes pleasure with a mite of pain in the right place is magic, yes?”

  “Yes, magic.”

  “You crave more?”

  She nodded and her breathing fell into rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest as he

  kissed along the slope of the other shoulder.

  The hair on his chest tickled her arm as he dropped to kneel on the floor. He lifted a foot

  and removed one shoe and then the second.

  She wriggled and scrunched her bare toes into the thick bedroom carpet. The plush pile

  felt luxurious, decadent. She, who’d never acted a shameless wanton with complete abandon,

  wanted every decadent thing Stephen could think of done to her.

  Maybe it was the blindfold.

  “Step from your panties,” he ordered after sliding them down.

  When Stephen rose again, he moved behind her and raised her skirt high. Light fingertips

  caressed the inside of her thigh and brushed just the edge of her nest of curls. “Part your legs for me.”

  She did. He slipped one finger, then two, then three into her wet spot. Massaging the

  aroused nub, he circled, delved deeper, withdrew to her entry, then delved deep again. He slid his fingers out only to re-enter her in an imitation of the most ancient and intimate of dances.

  “You’re driving me mad,” she said, her voice low and husky. Any second she’d demand

  more than fingers.

  “Good,” he said, his breath ragged as hers.

  He pulled his fingers from inside her to remove her blouse, freeing her arms at last. When

  she tried to turn, he held her in place with an arm across her chest. “Wrap your hand around me,”

  he instructed.

  She understood and wrapped her hand around his erection. With his other arm pressed to

  her stomach, he held her in a fierce embrace while she rubbed the length of him. His breathing

  turned to hot pants, moist on her ear when she fingered the silken tip that cried to be inside her.

  From the nearby road, tires squealed, words were exchanged and then it was quiet again.

  Familiar noises that sounded other worldly to her.

  He clamped his hand around her wrist, took her hand from him and lifted his fingers to her

  nose. “What do you smell?”

  “Me.”

  He brought her hand up to her nose. “Now?”

  “You.”

  “That’s a correct answer but not the right one. What you smell is more primitive. It is

  desire. Yours and mine.”

  How rough his calloused hands were as he removed her bra to fondle her breasts. The

  hard mounds of his palms scraped her soft flesh while he gently rolled her nipples between his
>
  fingers. Pleasure and pain.

  He moved in front of her and brought her hand to his chest. “What do you feel?”

  “The pounding of your heart.”

  In return, she brought his hand to her chest. “What do you feel?”

  “A heart that races for me.”

  She pressed closer. She sucked his lower lip and then kissed along his jaw to his ear,

  where she asked, “What do you hear?”

  “The throaty words of a woman piqued with passion.”

  Heat crept up her spine, spread to her neck and shoulders. Without the ability to see the

  hunger in her eyes, see her lips part in invitation, see desire as it exploded through her, did lust cover him in a fevered blanket too?

  He positioned his raging hard on between her legs but not inside her. Then, he cupped her

  ass and pulled her tight to him, a single finger traced the cleft of her behind. “What do you feel when I touch you?”

  “Like my skin is on fire and I’ll burn until you’re inside me.”

  Slow and steady, he moved back and forth, in an erotic path that made her slicker than she

  ever thought possible. She moaned and clamped his back wanting the torment to stop, wanting it to go on.

  Without stopping the sensual taunt, he kissed her exploring every dip and curve with his

  tongue. When he broke the kiss, he asked, “What did you taste?”

  A light breeze from an open window somewhere ruffled her hair and sent a shiver down

  to the small of her back. He turned her, drew her to his warm chest and wrapped his arms around her. “Better?” he asked.

  “Much.”

  “What did you taste?”

  “The sweet hint of orange.”

  “And me, what do I taste like?”

  “The way you’ve always tasted to me, whether real or in my imagination. Rich and warm,

  like honey left in the sun.”

  She couldn’t take it anymore. “Stephen, if you don’t make love to me immediately, I shall

  die of want, I swear.”

  “Come,” he said and led her to the bed.

  “Can I remove the scarf now?” Esme asked and lay on the rumpled sheets.

  “Yes.”

  The frenzy of their previous sexual encounter at the castle ruin was absent. Today was

  the coming together through caresses that left no inch of skin missed. It was entwined arms and a tangle of legs and a duel to see who could kiss the longest, the most thorough.

  He entered her, withdrew, entered again deeper and harder with each stroke. And with

  each stroke, her muscles gripped him, milking him, demanding more. And with each demand, he

  groaned, thrilling her when he whispered her name, his lips skimming her skin.

  The power built within her. Her legs squeezed hard around him, she cried his name as

  relief surged through her.

  Stephen held back until she’d found her release. His came on the last wave of hers.

  He rolled onto his back. Esme shifted to lie on her side. She rested her head on his chest

  and listened to his heart that still thundered while hers hammered against her ribs.

  They lay quiet. She absently ran her fingers across his belly. He absently ran his hand

  along her spine, his fingers danced at the dimples above her buttocks before moving up and

  retracing the path he took going down.

  “What do you look like?” Stephen asked after a while. “Start with your hair.” He drew a

  lock out and brought it to his nose. “I like the smell. I am reminded of lavender.”

  “My shampoo does have a touch of lavender in the scent. My hair is coppery red but with

  a lot of gold mixed with it. The color is commonly called, strawberry blonde.”

  “I like strawberries,” he said with a smile. “I know the red with gold you speak of. A fair

  number of ladies at court had this color. Is it straight or curly? It feels straight.”

  “It’s straight.”

  “And a palm’s width past your shoulders.”

  He dropped the lock of hair and laid three fingers across her forehead. “You have a nice

  forehead, not too broad, yet not too narrow.

  He shifted onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow.

  Esme turned onto her back. She trailed a finger along the scar under his chin. “Did you get

  this at Crecy?”

  “Yes,” he said, confirming the accuracy of the Canterbury painting. “With the intense

  fighting, the bodies of horses and men quickly littered the battlefield. Those of us on foot had little space to wield a sword. An enemy soldier and I fought with our knives. He managed to slash me

  before losing our fight.”

  “It still bled when the prince knighted you, didn’t it?” She had to ask, had to hear him give

  voice to her improbable suspicion. She’d opened a Pandora’s Box of strange questions with

  stranger answers when she decided to investigate Stephen’s claims. Time travel was in a

  category by itself.

  “Yes. After the knighting, I washed off in the nearby river and saw to the stitching.”

  The sticky issue of the painting with Stephen’s face faded for a brief second while the

  cringe-worthy thought of getting stitches without anesthetic passed through her imagination. When the wild possibility the painting presented returned, Esme forced it to the back of her mind.

  Stephen’s forgiveness was what mattered for the moment. Besides, time travel was more than

  she cared to deal with right now.

  “My turn.” Stephen ran an index finger the length of her nose and back up to rub the tip of

  his finger over the bridge. “Where did you get the bump?”

  “Playing volleyball ten years ago. My partner went to return the ball and hit me when she

  brought her elbow down. She broke my nose. It hurt like the devil and bled like crazy. I was left with the bump when it healed.”

  “I don’t know what volleyball is. Doesn’t matter.” He moved to her cheeks and caressed

  them with the back of his fingers. “High and elegant.”

  The hands that so aptly wielded a sword were so eloquent when they touched her. Did he

  pay homage to her as Stephen the man or as Stephen the knight? Every young girl imagines

  somehow a knight’s touch is magical. How funny the distinction popped into her head now. She

  smiled, glad he couldn’t see the grin. If he didn’t see it, he wouldn’t ask why. She wouldn’t have to explain it didn’t matter who he made love to her as, man or knight, only that he made love to her as though she alone was the one he wished to please.

  “Thank you. They’re covered with a spray of freckles as is my nose.”

  “Freckles?”

  “Little dots of brown from the sun.”

  “Ah, I know these spots too. Go on, what color are your eyes?”

  “Hazel.” He looked a tad baffled. “A mix of brownish-green,” she explained.

  “In my eyes, they are a perfect green. You’ll not convince me otherwise,” he said and

  touched the tip of his nose to hers.

  Next, he traced the outline of her lips with a fingertip. “Nice lips, milady: A pillow for the

  lower and a well-crafted Welshman’s bow for an upper, a delight for the man parting them.”

  “A Welshman’s bow?”

  “Here is the upper and lower curve of the bow’s shaft.” With his finger, he showed how

  from the middle indent each side bent. When he pointed it out, she understood that part of the

  comparison.

  “Here.” He placed a fingertip on the indent between the curves. “This is the part where

  the bowman grips and draws back. It’s not quite flush with the rest of the bow.”

&n
bsp; “Ah, I see. Thank you.”

  “Yours is far more well-defined. A dishy dip perfect for the tip of a finger—”

  “Or the tip of a tongue.”

  “I believe you’re right but I shall test the theory.” He touched his tongue to the arrow

  shaped dip and then down to kiss her lips individually. He drew each into his mouth before parting her lips to kiss her like his life depended on how well he plundered.

  “Now milady,” he said after breaking off the kiss. “I still need a shower and I was

  promised to have my back washed.” He rolled to the other side of the bed and off, coming around to where she lay. “As I am a fair man, I shall wash the front of you,” he said, wiggling his brows and extending his hand to help her up.

  “A fair trade, milord. A fair trade indeed.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Have fun,” Esme said as she and Stephen walked to the base of the trailer’s ramp. Alex

  had come a few minutes earlier to take him for another judo lesson.

  “I wouldn’t call it fun, although I do like learning the art. When I finally master a move, I

  take pride in it, in myself,” Stephen told her and then kissed her goodbye.

  Once Alex’s car was out of sight, Esme knocked on the Lancaster’s cottage door.

  Shakira opened it and the welcoming smell of fresh baked bread wafted out. “Hi.”

  Esme took a deep breath and let the rich, warm air fill her lungs. She let the breath out

  slowly, then asked. “Are you in the middle of baking? I don’t want to interrupt.”

  In truth, she wasn’t all that concerned about interrupting. She was far more concerned

  with getting answers to her questions.

  “You’re not. I’m done. You’re smelling the shepherd’s bread I made earlier for dinner.

  Come in.”

  “Baking bread has to be one of the ten best smells in the world,” Esme said, stepping

  inside.

  “Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m not much of a cook. That’s Alex’s bailiwick.

  He’s far more creative and capable with food than me. But even I can run a bread machine.”

  Shakira closed the door and gave Esme a crooked grin. “Don’t you look exceptionally

  chipper? I don’t suppose your mood has anything to do with the fact I saw your car parked

  outside Stephen’s last night and still there this morning.”

  “It does,” Esme confirmed with a big grin of her own.