Ellora's Cavemen: Jewels of the Nile III

by Anthology

  Her clit hardened in reaction. She very nearly abandoned her trip to the woman’s lounge in favor of going back to them and suggesting they return to the bungalow so she could be a part of what they shared.

  But just as her footsteps faltered, shimmers of titillated excitement slid through her, followed by a whispered female voice saying, “See those men, the ones with the tattoos on their arms? They’re Adjaran.”

  Aria needed only to feel alarm flash though Haven and Raeder to know they’d also heard the words. Panic seized her, the same heart-thundering panic that had sent her into the Iyon night.

  Adjara! Where women served only as broodmares and were killed as soon as they’d given birth.

  Her hands tightened on the flute. Her breathing was fast even before she turned the corner of the aisle leading to the washroom and began running.

  Fear gripped Raeder and he had no outlet for it, no refuge except in anger and determination. His fingers curled into fists as he looked beyond the empty woman’s lounge.

  Pain slid through his chest like the sharp edge of a knife’s blade. She’d betrayed their trust, given her body and seemingly accepted them, then run. “When we catch her, we take her to Adjara.”

  “No,” Haven said.

  The single word made Raeder’s emotions flash to fury. Primitive emotions assaulted him. Words of blame filled him in a red, blinding haze.

  It was Haven who wanted to bring her to Z’nyia, Haven who wanted to take her shopping. It was Haven who allowed her to leave their sides.

  The muscles rippled along Raeder’s arms. If Haven refused to—

  Nausea and heart-thundering pain abruptly replaced anger and blame as Raeder realized the direction of his thoughts.

  He’d looked down on those who returned without their third, seen them as less and pitied them. On Adjara he’d vowed such a thing would never happen when he and Haven were given a female to claim. But as Raeder considered the dark thoughts of blame that had lodged in his heart, the physical violence he’d been close to, and saw his pain reflected in Haven’s eyes—deepened by what had almost happened between them—he realized Aria must join with them willingly or the agony of this moment would pale in comparison to what was to come.

  “We wait for her in the bungalow?” Raeder asked, his hand curling around Haven’s arm, needing touch. Seeking comfort and forgiveness and getting it when Haven leaned forward, pressed his lips to Raeder’s.

  “We wait. We give her time. And if she doesn’t come back, we find her and ask for a chance to allay her fears. And then we allow her the choice as to whether she’ll return as our third.”

  Within minutes Aria stopped running. Thought and shame stopped her, along with the realization that she’d been a fool to let old fears and rumors, mindless panic control her actions.

  A lump formed in her throat and her heart slowed to a painful throb. She closed her eyes and relived what she’d experienced with them, what she knew of their true feelings. She shouldn’t have run away without giving voice to her fears and questions. They’d saved her from the horror of Lodur’s brothel, had done nothing to deserve her fear. And she’d repaid them with distrust, by viewing them in the same way as she did the whore-master and her father.

  Already she cared for them, felt the first stirrings of love. How could she not?

  They were a fantasy of body, an irresistible combination in personality. Haven with his tender steadiness, Raeder with his fierce dominance.

  In the past her music had always filled the hollow places in her heart and soul. She could make a life for herself on Z’nyia, but having been with Haven and Raeder so intimately, she knew the flute’s song would no longer be enough.

  Aria opened her eyes and turned back in the direction she’d come from, her feet and heart racing—not with fear, but with hope.

  * * * * *

  Raeder was pacing when she stepped through the doorway of the bungalow. Haven was sitting on the bed, hands clasped between his knees. Both came to her immediately, enfolded her in their arms and swamped her with their relief and happiness.

  “You’re Adjaran. I—”

  Haven stopped her with the touch of his fingers to her lips. “Those outside Adjara don’t know the truth of how we live. There are almost no female children born to us. Being allowed to claim a woman and bring her home as our third, our equal, is an honor. It’s a privilege males in every tribe pray they’ll be deemed worthy of as soon as they grow old enough to dream of taking a lover. When Raeder and I were given your name…”

  His emotions bombarded her, so intense that tears welled up in her eyes. She turned her head, kissed his cheeks, his mouth, tried to tell him with her actions what it meant to her to be cared about and wanted so desperately.

  “You’ll return to Adjara with us?” Raeder said and she felt the effort it took to turn a command into a question.

  “Yes.”

  They pressed against her more tightly, their feelings escalating and translating into a need for physical intimacy. But despite their happiness over her return and her agreement to go to Adjara, she felt the pain of her betrayal still lingering—sharp in Raeder, less so in Haven. Later she’d tell them about her empathic ability, just as later she’d ask them more about life on Adjara, but for now she wanted only to chase their pain away with pleasure.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said, instinct urging her to her knees. “Let me show you how much I want to be with you, how much I want to please you.”

  She rubbed her cheek over Raeder’s cloth-covered erection then did the same to Haven’s, loved the way their hips jerked and their breathing quickened.

  Aria freed their cocks one at a time. Pressed her lips to satin-smooth skin and measured their lengths with her tongue.

  Their thighs bunched. They trembled with her attention.

  The pain of her desertion disappeared under the lash of her tongue, as she took them in her mouth and sucked, separately and together, her torment driving Haven and Raeder into each other’s arms for a carnal kiss.

  Their desire fed her own. Her pulse throbbed between her thighs, filling her labia with blood. Arousal slid from her channel to coat her skin and scent the air.

  With a shuddering groans Raeder and Haven ended their kiss and pulled her to her feet. Clothing gave way. Heated skin touched heated skin, making all three of them ache for deeper contact.

  Aria went willingly to the bed. She didn’t resist when Haven pulled her on top of him and filled her with his cock.

  Her breath caught and her sheath clenched on Haven’s penis when he spread her buttocks and Raeder stroked his fingers over the tight rosette of her back entrance, prepared her with lubricant. She shivered, moaned, wanted them both at the same time and felt how much they also wanted it.

  “Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes. Please.”

  No words had ever sounded so good to Raeder. Just as nothing could rival the feel of working his way into Aria’s tight entrance and rubbing against Haven’s cock in the heated warmth of the woman who was their third, who would always share their bed and would one day bear their children.

  It was everything he had dreamed it would be. And he knew it would become even more as they lived together, as they loved together.

  Raeder met Haven’s gaze and saw his own emotions reflected there, felt a happiness and contentment that was soul deep. He pressed a kiss to Aria’s shoulder, a gentle tribute to how important she was to them. And then he began thrusting, each stroke bringing ecstasy, each stroke sounding the notes of pleasure, forming the melody that was passion’s song.

  Private Lessons

  Solange Ayre

  Dedication

  To my dear friend Laurel F., with whom I learned to write historicals.

  Chapter One

  The innocent must seek out the innocent. To this end, young men must strive to come to the marriage bed untainted. They should engage in healthy sports and pleasant, energetic pastimes to sate their animal natures. They must avoid
spirituous liquor, billiard halls and, most importantly, Scarlet Women.

  Professor Woodcock’s Guide to Success and Happiness in Marital Relations (1st edition, 1893)

  “Pour out the tea when I ring the bell, Annie—not before,” Vanessa d’Aulaire said, stepping into the kitchen. “I detest lukewarm tea. Once you’ve brought in the cucumber sandwiches and macaroons, you may take the rest of the afternoon off.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The cook wiped her hands on her apron and turned back to the stove, muttering something under her breath about “improper clothing” and “looks like an evening gown with that low neckline”.

  “It’s an afternoon dress, not the least unsuitable,” Vanessa said. “Royal purple is quite acceptable for second mourning.”

  Annie’s arms went to her hips and her lower lip pushed out truculently. “That color is red, Miss Vanessa. Scarlet-red. Your mother would be rare mortified to see you wearing such.”

  “But she isn’t here, nor will she and my stepfather return for three days,” Vanessa answered, maintaining a pleasant tone.

  “’Taint proper to entertain a man without your parents here,” the cook continued with the freedom of a longtime servant.

  “I’m a widow, not an innocent girl.” Her voice turning stern, Vanessa added, “I am expecting the professor at two o’clock. Please show him into the parlor upon his arrival.” Wishing to hear no more chastisement from Annie, she left the room with a swish of her velvet skirt.

  Entering the parlor, she seated herself on the blue settee, arranging her skirt becomingly. She glanced around the room, observing the garish hangings and ornaments with distaste. She and her mother had never seen eye to eye, either in home decoration or in her mother’s choice of second husbands.

  She plumped the pillow beside her. “Jesus Loves You,” the cross-stitched wording on it read. He was the only one who did, in this house.

  Sighing, she reflected on how much happier she had been in her own home.

  She stroked the mourning brooch on her bosom, the onyx stone surrounded by hair from her deceased husband. “Bertrand, you left me too soon,” Vanessa murmured. The thought of the handsome older man, with his loving words and kind eyes, made her blink back tears. Eighteen months had passed since his death. Although she missed him, she longed to rejoin life again.

  She remembered a day when Bertrand had said, “Life is short, ma belle,” then kissed her ear in a way that made her tremble. “We must pursue pleasure while we live, for surely it is God’s gift to us.”

  Professor Woodcock did not share her deceased husband’s admirable philosophy. Vanessa picked up the professor’s book from the marble-topped table. The poor man, she thought as she skimmed through the pages, pursing her lips at several of the professor’s more absurd statements.

  Men! Too many of them thought they knew everything in life, from her tyrannical stepfather to Professor Woodcock, with his many erroneous ideas about women.

  Would the professor be a rawboned string bean of a man with a vulgar, ranting voice, like the revival preacher who had pitched a tent at the fairgrounds last summer? Or a portly older gentleman with a rotund belly, peering at her over his spectacles?

  Well, if the man would only listen to her, she would soon sort him out.

  Annie threw open the parlor doors. “Professor Robert Woodcock, ma’am.”

  Vanessa stood to receive her guest.

  I have sorrowed to hear young men boast of “stealing kisses” from attractive maidens. Little do they know what harm they do, both to themselves and to those they debauch. Such activities excite the senses and tempt even those who have vowed to retain their precious chastity. An honorable man never dishonors the lips of his beloved until they are betrothed.

  Professor Woodcock’s Guide to Success and Happiness in Marital Relations (1st edition, 1893)

  Robert Woodcock stood rooted, gazing at the beautiful woman who had haunted his dreams since his sixteenth year. Her rippling waves of ebony hair were dressed in a more elaborate fashion than he remembered, while her stylish gown and jewelry proclaimed her matronly status. But she had the same doelike brown eyes and tender mouth he recalled from the days when she had been his teacher.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. d’Aulaire. Thank you for your kind invitation.” He bowed to her. “But surely you are Miss Hartley who taught at Bram’s Crossing school?” Quickly stripping off his leather driving gloves, he stepped forward and took the hand she offered in his. The gentle touch of her long fingers made him tremble.

  “How delightful of you to remember.” Her smile was like a caress. “And I recall you as well. Robert Shelby—do I have that right? What made you change your name to Woodcock?”

  “I needed a pseudonym when I wrote my book. I chose Woodcock because that is my favorite of all birds.”

  “Truly? I thought perhaps you had another reason for your choice.”

  He shook his head, unsure of her meaning. “No, indeed. When I informed my parents of my plans to publish such a work, they begged me to take a false name. Respecting their wishes, I did so.”

  He realized he was still holding her hand. Hastily, he let go.

  “I hope you’ll take tea with me this afternoon,” she said. Stepping to the corner, she pulled the cord. “Cook will bring it shortly.” She led him to a small table set with teacups and plates.

  He hurried to pull out her chair for her, taking the opportunity to inhale her lovely fragrance. She smelled of violets still, an aroma that transported him back to his schooldays. He remembered how she would seat herself beside him and show him how to work his mathematics problems. Although only four years older than him, her brilliant intellect had made it easy for her to demonstrate the equations that puzzled him.

  Ten years had passed since those long-ago schooldays, yet her proximity was having the same embarrassing effect. His unruly member had awakened. Quickly he sat and spread his napkin over his lap.

  “So your family does not approve of your book?” she asked.

  “My mother was shocked by its intimate nature.”

  “I never thought you would become a writer.” Her movements were as graceful as a ballet dancer’s when she unfolded her napkin and laid it over her knees. “You always said you wished to farm with your father.”

  “He promised me two hundred acres of my own after I graduated,” Robert answered, suppressing a sigh. “I had so many ideas—new techniques, new crops—but alas, the bank that held my father’s money failed in the Panic of 1893. He lost the farm.”

  A singular look crossed her face, as though she recalled an unpleasant memory. But all she said was, “Writing a book is a far cry from agriculture.” She tilted her head questioningly. “What made you wish to write about the marital bond?”

  He leaned forward across the table, hoping she would understand. “As a devout follower of science, I feel that no subject is immune from the gaze of rationality. At the university, I was shocked by the ignorance I encountered regarding the secrets of marriage. How can young men be expected to guide their wives properly if they know nothing themselves?”

  “How indeed?” she murmured with a tiny smile.

  “So I wrote my book, had it printed and took to the road. I lecture in the larger towns—unless the good citizens object. And I sell the book at my lectures. You would be surprised, perhaps, at how many ladies purchase it.”

  Mrs. d’Aulaire turned her head as the cook entered the room with a silver tray. Rob looked eagerly at the teapot and plate of sandwiches. Life on the road was uncertain and meals were not always as regular as one would wish.

  “I’ll be going then, ma’am,” the cook said. She turned a look on Rob that made him wonder what he’d done to offend her. Had she possibly read his book?

  “Certainly, Annie,” Mrs. d’Aulaire answered. “Have a pleasant evening.”

  “The sandwiches look delicious,” Rob said, smiling at the cook. “Did you make them?”

  “Who else?” the cook answered pe
rtly.

  “Annie!” Mrs. d’Aulaire gave her a reproving look, but the servant left the room so quickly it was doubtful that she saw it.

  As soon as the servant left the room, Rob said, “Your Annie seems to disapprove of me.”

  Mrs. d’Aulaire poured the tea. “She thinks it improper for me to entertain you while my parents are out of town. However, I feel sure you will control your animal urges and not ravish me.”

  Across the table, her dark eyes met his. Rob wondered if he was blushing. Her words had conjured up the most extraordinary picture in his mind. He saw her lying back on the settee, her nakedness exposed as he pushed up her skirt and petticoat. Her quivering sex was revealed to his gaze. He unbuttoned his trousers and his stiff member sprang forth, eager to plunge into her…

  “Mrs. d’Aulaire!” he exclaimed. “Of course, I-I mean, of course not. Surely two old friends can meet without anyone finding it improper.”

  She laughed, a sound that made him think of fairy bells. “‘Evil to him who evil thinks,’” she quoted. “Although it can’t be denied that you felt a great affection for me ten years ago. Did you not?”

  He had always wondered if she’d been aware of his adoration. Recalling how often he’d stayed late to fill the schoolhouse’s woodbox or draw water to clean the floors, he realized his youthful passion must have been obvious.

  “How could I help it?” he answered. “You were the most lovely and intelligent woman I’d ever met. I must tell you, Mrs. d’Au—”

  “Vanessa,” she interrupted. “I make you free of my Christian name. And I shall call you Rob, as I always did.”

  “Thank you,” he said. The liberty she was allowing warmed him. “Vanessa, even when I attended Ohio State University, you remained the pattern card for my ideal woman. Your image has never left my mind in the intervening years.”

  “Ten years.” Her expression clouded with melancholy. “How much has changed since then!”