“What?”
“Hot sex first thing in the morning.” He tugged at the sheet covering her breasts.
She tugged back, unaccountably shy.
“I want to see you naked in daylight.” He tossed his schedule aside. “Let me look at you, Lou.”
She had never been particularly shy about her body—and hadn’t she walked around naked last night with no self-consciousness, dazed and relaxed from sex? Mac’s sharp intake of breath told her what she needed to know.
“You’re stunning.” He reached out reverently to touch her belly.
She tugged at the drawstring on his drawers, baggy thin white cotton, and ran her fingers down the line of dark hair that ran from his navel. Her fingertips brushed against the head of his cock, which lolled, half-erect, against his belly.
He’d been so generous, so attentive to her needs. Now she would give him the same care, the same pleasure. He gave a pleased sigh when she bent to kiss where her fingers had touched and when she flicked her tongue against him. His cock stiffened, pushed against her lips. He breathed her name, his hand stroking her hair.
“Take these off.”
He complied, lifting his hips and kicking the drawers aside.
Another happy sigh as she took him into her mouth. He tasted slightly of sweat and musk, dark, exciting. She swirled her tongue over the smooth head, the strong ridges and veins, tasting, learning him and what he liked. He liked to have his balls cupped, she found, and he gasped when she ran her fingernails over the base of his cock and scratched gently at his scrotum.
“You want me to come like this?” he murmured. “Because I will, Lou. Oh, God, Lou, that’s nice.”
She stopped, only to nibble down the length of his cock and dig her fingers into the dense hair at its base.
His eyes were dark and dreamy. “Kiss me.”
She raised herself to bring her lips to his, tasting the dark and sweet, coffee and strawberries, and meeting the thrust and curl of his tongue. She gripped his cock, her hand sliding, as his body tensed against hers.
He pulled his mouth from hers to whisper that he was going to come, soon, and where did she want it?
She tongued his lip.
In her hand, his cock swelled and he made a helpless sound against her mouth, on the verge of a climax, entirely at her mercy. She bent her head to his cock again, took him deep, and his hand returned to her head, fingers knotted in her hair as his body tensed. His cock pulsed; he cried out, semen spurting against her tongue, salty and warm and vital.
She raised her head to look at him, lying spent beneath her, his cock subsiding while he sucked in air.
He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Wow. That was nice. No, nice is an understatement. That was phenomenal. Anything I can do for you, Lou?”
“I need a shower,” she said. “I think you do, too.”
“Great idea.” He grabbed a handful of condoms.
She raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t that rather ambitious?”
“I thought we’d keep some in there. Just in case, you know, some other time…” He grinned and stood, stretching, in what she thought was a deliberate display but which she appreciated anyway. She took his hand and rose from the bed.
Some other time. She didn’t want to ponder the implications of those words. Did he intend them to sleep together—to have sex together—on a regular basis for the duration of the stay? Right now, with his hand caressing her bottom, them both stumbling off balance as he bent to nuzzle her neck, that seemed like a good idea, but…
“Lou, will you stop thinking!” He lowered his head to tongue her breast.
“I’m not thinking,” she said, and now she certainly wasn’t. His cock, already half-erect again, bumped against her hip.
“You are. You’re wondering what my intentions are.”
“That’s a new name for it.” She grasped the part of him that best expressed his intentions and stroked.
“It’s better with soap. Come on.”
They crammed themselves into the small shower in the corner of what would eventually be a luxurious bathroom but which was now minimal. He eased her into the corner and turned the shower on, letting loose a feeble stream of cold water. She squealed.
He had his mind on other things than the water temperature, hands cupping her bottom and sliding between her thighs, his mouth at her breast again. She raised a lather from the bar of sandalwood-scented soap and stroked his shoulders, his belly, his cock, the dimensions of the shower cramming them together.
He reached for a washcloth and wiped some of the lather away before donning a condom. She marveled at his regenerative powers as he pushed her into the corner of the shower, issuing instructions. “Leg up, around my waist. Yeah. Oh, shit. Can’t get in you.”
“Have you ever done it in a shower before, Mac?”
“Not as such.” He mumbled something about seeing it done in movies. “Seems a pity to waste this condom. Turn around.”
Ah, that made much more sense, if sense were the word to apply to this clumsy, urgent act. His hand, slippery with soap, caressed her breasts, creating aching excitement in her nipples. His cock bounced from her thighs to her buttocks, trailed down her crease and then he was inside her and she cried out with surprise and delight at the angle and that lovely sense of fullness.
“A—nice—dirty—clean—fuck,” he said, thrusting. “Got to get these breasts clean, Lou. You’re not howling with pleasure enough.”
“I’m doing my best.”
“I’m going to play with your clit.” A dirty, leering whisper as one hand left her breast to travel down her belly. “I liked it when you got yourself off last night. But right now I’m in control and I’m going to make you come.”
His finger touched and rubbed in counterpoint with his thrusts. She wriggled against him, trying to move, trying to hit the spot, and his cock slipped out. He cursed, she laughed, and then the moment turned from comedy to need and she helped him back inside.
He gave that breathy sound she now recognized with a sense of ownership as the moment before he lost himself entirely to pleasure, but she was ahead of him—there, not so hard, slow down—she was the one issuing instructions now, riding his hand and clenching him hard as she abandoned herself. His cock jerked inside her and he groaned her name.
She turned her head to his for a long, grateful kiss, water streaming over their faces. “Clean enough?” he asked.
“We haven’t even started washing yet.”
“Here.” He withdrew from her, and a moment later a dollop of herb-scented shampoo landed on her head. His fingers were long and strong and skillful—but she knew that already, those fingers had given her so much pleasure—as he slowly massaged her scalp.
“Now that’s the sort of sound I want to hear when I’m fucking you,” he said.
“I don’t plan what sort of noises I’m going to produce,” she said. “But you are so very, very good at this.”
“I’m good at lots of things. I’m good at you, Lou. Good in you.” He tilted her head back beneath the shower.
“But I don’t know whether you’re good for me.”
“I am, baby. I am.”
In a way, he was. Her body hummed and tingled at his touch, any sort of touch. The first man since Julian, the first man to bring her back to life and touch her secret places, to make her cry aloud with pleasure. He was good for her, she enjoyed his lovemaking, his body and his touch. She liked to look at him,
lean and naked and powerful, and for the most part she enjoyed his company and conversation. But it was nothing more. It should not be anything more, not now. It was too soon.
Her turn to massage his scalp and receive a low sound of pleasure. “In the nineteenth century—Victorian, I think, not during Austen’s time—there was a science based on the shape of the skull, to determine a person’s character,” she said. “And this…yes, you’re very horny. Smart but mostly horny.” She directed the showerhead to his head, the wet hair slick against his scalp. “Why did you become a journalist?”
“It was the guys in hats.” He wiped water from his face and reached for the soap. “In the old black-and-white movies, there’s always a bunch of guys in hats with notebooks shouting out questions. I wanted to be one of those, finding out the truth, working deep into the night with a cigarette in my mouth and a green eyeshade. A fearless investigator.”
“You’re a romantic.”
His hands, creamy with soap lather, fondled her breasts.
“Are they dirty again?”
“Very. Yeah, I was a romantic, all right. Timed my graduation from journalism school with the death of print and I’ve been freelancing ever since, froufrou stuff for magazines like the piece I’m doing now. Which reminds me, I need to interview you as the history consultant.”
“Probably not here.” She took the soap and caressed his buttocks. Between them, his cock stirred and shifted against her belly. He wanted her again and she, despite the ache of little-used muscles in her thighs and belly, wanted him. She stepped away as much as she could in the tiny space and directed the showerhead to rinse off the remaining soap.
He turned off the shower and took her in his arms again. “I should shave.”
“Shave later.”
“You sure you want to ride this morning? Horses, that is?” His unshaven face scraped her neck and shoulders.
“Yes. It’ll be fun.” She pushed him away and reached for a towel.
“We can have more fun here. You can put on the pants and we’ll pretend you’re my page boy.”
“How depraved,” she said with a thrill of excitement, even though she knew he was joking. She toweled her hair, shivering in the cool air, and ran back to the bedroom, wrapped in the towel. A large chest of dark wood held a collection of linens. She pulled on a shirt and a pair of drawers, both soft linen, scented with lavender, and used her own garters to hold a pair of woolen stockings in place.
In the mirror, she saw herself change into a creature with a distinctly masculine appearance, particularly with the coat disguising her shape. Mac looked on with appreciation as he tied his neckcloth. “Amazing how sexy a woman in pants looks now,” he commented. “Ankles get me really hot, too.”
“I’ve always thought the erogenous zone of the Regency was the nape of the neck,” Lou said. She tied her own hair back as she spoke, noting the abrasions on her neck from Mac’s stubble. “Haven’t you noticed how the poses in portraiture and fashion prints emphasize softness and submission, bent heads and so on?”
“Hmm. Maybe you’re right.” He looked at her with a slow grin. “We may have to do something about that.”
“But not now.” She pulled on her boots and stood to test them. A little big, but she’d manage without extra stockings. He looked as handsome as ever—somewhat Byronic and depraved with stubble on his chin and a lustful gleam in his eye. But she could ignore that. Should ignore that.
They left the room and ran into Di the lady’s maid with an armful of gowns and linens as they walked along the corridor to the main staircase. She gave a quick grin, hastily disguised, and dropped a curtsy. “Clean clothes and your day’s activities are in your room, ma’am. Please ring if you need any help.” She regarded Lou with a critical eye. “I can take the coat in for you if you want to wear it again. And tailor the breeches.”
“Thanks, but they’re borrowed,” Lou said.
“Enjoy your ride,” Di said, and continued past them.
They left the house, feet crunching on the gravel, into a beautiful early-summer morning. Lou paused to smell a creamy pink rose dotted with drops of dew.
“You remind me of that rose,” Mac said. “You, naked.”
He sounded so serious and embarrassed by his own sentiments that Lou was touched; she couldn’t imagine such a comment from him without a degree of cynicism. “Thank you,” she said, and took his hand.
“If anyone’s watching, this won’t do my sexual identity any good at all,” he said, but continued to hold her hand as they walked around the side of the house and into the stable yard.
A black horse, bridled and saddled, stood in the yard, tethered to a ring, chewing on a bag of hay.
“My old buddy Ajax,” Mac said, patting the horse’s neck.
“My old buddy Mac!” A tall blonde woman emerged from a doorway. “I thought we’d go out by the river again today and find a… Oh, good morning.” She bowed; although she looked fairly modern for a stable setting in breeches, boots and a tweed jacket, the clothes were historical facsimiles. Lou remembered that Peter had had to hire mainly female stable staff, as they were the most qualified of the applicants, and dress them as their male counterparts of two centuries ago.
“Oh, hi, Annabelle,” Mac said. “This is Dr. Lou Connolly.”
“Oh. Yes.” Annabelle shook Lou’s hand with a distinct lack of warmth. “Peter said you were an experienced rider but maybe I should come out with you, since you don’t know the countryside.”
You jerk, you screwed her, Lou thought.
“No, that’s fine,” Mac said. “I know the trails and Lou’s good with horses.”
“I have Dr. Connolly down for sidesaddle riding tomorrow,” Annabelle said. “But it’s okay. I was just saddling up Jasper. You do know how to ride English style, do you, Dr. Connolly? We don’t have any Western saddles here.”
Lou assured her she was fine with English style and Annabelle went back inside the stables to emerge from one of the loose box doors with a tall, rangy chestnut.
“I hope you can handle him. He’s quite fresh.”
“We’ll be fine.” Lou took the reins from her. She knew Annabelle wouldn’t jeopardize her job or any of the horses, but she could feel the woman’s resentment and jealousy, and suspected she might be up to some sort of practical joke. Sure enough, when she slipped her fingers beneath the girth, it was loose enough that an attempt to mount would have deposited Lou on the cobblestones.
Lou ignored Annabelle, stroking Jasper’s neck, and getting to know the horse, who snuffed at her sleeve and coat, inquisitive and friendly. She was reminded inappropriately of Mac burying his nose in her navel, her armpit, and bit back a laugh. She lifted the saddle flap to tighten the girth, aware that Annabelle was helping Mac to mount with rather a lot of close bodily contact, as though staking her claim.
“I think you need your stirrups adjusted, Mac.” Well, that took more hand-thigh contact than Lou would have expected.
The girth tightened to her satisfaction, Lou swung herself into the saddle. With the stirrup raised higher than it would be for Western style, she hoped her extra effort in mounting wasn’t obvious, but to her annoyance Mac and Annabelle were engaged in a low-voiced exchange. Annabelle finally giggled and released the lead that tethered the horse to the ring, slapping Ajax on the rump.
As Lou had guessed, Jasper was the horse that preferred to take the lead, which was why Annabelle had chosen him for her ride with Mac. She loose
ned the rein to let him trot ahead, with only a quick squeeze of her calves to encourage him. Beneath her, he was strong and lively; not so smooth a ride as her own Morgan horse, Maisie, but pleasant enough. She turned in the saddle to smile at Mac, who sat his horse well for a beginner.
“Having fun?” Mac asked as the clatter of hooves on the cobbled stable yard gave way to a soft pounding on a bridle path and they entered a quiet, shaded area.
“Yeah. It’s good to be on a horse again. Bring Ajax forward and we’ll ride together.”
As Mac and Ajax came level with them, Jasper snorted, ears back, and Lou urged him slightly ahead. “He likes to be boss. It has nothing to do with me, but do you have some unfinished business with Annabelle?”
He shrugged. “Sort of. We made out a bit.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. I felt sorry for her. She wasn’t expecting you to turn up with someone else.”
“Look, I couldn’t very well send her a text, could I? Or call her. Should I have sent a footman? Come on, Lou.”
“You’re right. It’s a lovely morning. Let’s not spoil it by bickering.” Sunlight glinted through the trees, which thinned out to parkland, grass dotted with stately oak trees.
He reached to pat her knee. “I’m sorry. I guess I was untactful.”
She smiled. “You up for a canter? Come on, then.”
* * *
Mac
MAC WATCHED AS SHE DRUMMED HER heels against the horse’s side and rode forward. She could ride almost as well as Annabelle.
He really shouldn’t have kissed Annabelle and stuck his hand in her shirt and… Well, all the rest of it. Although there was something about Annabelle that attracted him, a blonde, horsey quality like an English upper-class Valkyrie.
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