Finding Bess

by Victoria Gordon

  “Of course you must,” he said, and gently turned her away from the mirror, holding her tightly as he guided her to the staircase, then up the stairs to the doorway of her room.

  “I think a shot of liqueur wouldn’t go astray either,” he added, releasing her on the threshold. “I’ll bring it up and leave it on the dresser for when you’re ready. Are you certain you’re all right, Bess? Bloody oath but you’re white as a sheet. I don’t want to come back and find you collapsed in the damn shower.”

  “I’m fine, really,” she lied. “But yes, a drink would be wonderful. And maybe some food, later. I feel like I...” The rest was too much to bother trying to say. She turned away and stumbled into her room, vaguely aware of Geoff closing the door.

  Whereupon, she flung off her stained clothes, heedless of where they landed, brushed her teeth until her gums practically bled, and gargled with peppermint mouthwash. Then she luxuriated beneath the warmth of the shower's flowing water, leaning back to let it stream across her breasts and stomach. Even the sting of the water against her still sunburned thighs was something to be relished, as was the rich smell of the shampoo she quickly worked into her tangled hair, then used as a general cleanser as she patiently and gingerly washed herself from top to toe and back again.

  The bloodstains fled down the drain, but the mental stains were harder to erase, and Bess found herself scrubbing at her thighs and between her thighs, refreshing the shampoo over and over again with quick swipes at her hair. When the tears began, she hardly even noticed, and the shower rinsed them from her face as quickly as they fell. At first. But then her soft weeping matured, strengthened, and suddenly she was shaking like a leaf, her voice howling in pain and shock, and the entire shower cubicle was moving, distorted by her blurred vision, and she had to reach out to try and steady the walls, steady herself against collapse.

  And then other arms were there to steady her, and Geoff’s voice, tense with alarm, sounded in her ears. “My God, Bess.” And his moan echoed her own as he gathered her into his arms, heedless of the water that soaked his clothing, heedless, it seemed, of anything but her need to be held, to be comforted.

  “Your clothes,” she managed to say, only to feel his chest expand against her cheek as his unsteady laughter boomed into her ears.

  “I’m not made of sugar, you silly American wench,” he said, his voice too loud and also, strangely, as shaky as she felt herself to be. There were peculiar tremors in that voice, even more peculiar ones in the arms which held her so closely against him.

  “Turn around,” he ordered, after what seemed like an hour in which her own tremors eased and her breathing steadied. She obeyed, bracing herself between Geoff and the wall of the shower cubicle as he worked his fingers gently through her hair, rinsing away the remaining shampoo and easing the tangles as he slowly, patiently, combed her hair with his fingers.

  It was a strange, almost magical sensation, not only vividly erotic, but comforting. Then his strong fingers gathered round her waist, lifting her, moving her into the furthest corner of the cubicle, where she still faced the wall.

  “There has to be a limit to ridiculousness,” he said, his voice huskier now. “Can you stand up by yourself? Just a nod will do.”

  Bess could manage the nod, but wouldn’t have trusted herself to speak. And then simply could not speak as her ears recorded the unmistakable sound of sodden clothing striking the bathroom floor.

  “Better,” he said, voice soft in her ear. “And since I’m here, and wet already, might as well finish the job, I reckon. Hand me the soap, would you?”

  Bess groped in the soap dish, and somehow contrived to reach behind her and give the scented soap to Geoff. Then she shut her eyes in acceptance of this madness, this unbelievable situation, as she felt his fingers gently begin working the suds across her shoulders. He used increasingly intricate patterns and designs, his hands roaming across her fevered skin with the gentleness of a mother bathing a child.

  But the skills in those hands were anything but motherly. They seemed to find every erotic, tender, sensitive place that existed beneath their touch, and…it seemed to Bess as she swayed against Geoff’s manipulations…places she had never realized were so sensitive.

  She shivered with delight as his fingers caressed the dimples above her rump, shivered with anticipation as his hands slid almost casually across the swell of her behind, then down her legs to pause momentarily at her ankles before beginning a return journey upward that had her gasping with surprise and expectation.

  “Clean enough?” He didn’t wait for a reply, didn’t even seem to expect one. His voice crooned on, soft as thistle-down, soft as his touch on her skin. “Reckon you’d better be, because I expect we’ll be out of hot water pretty soon. So, my little foreign collaborator, it must be time to get dry, but first... “

  Bess found herself being gently turned around, and despite her still-closed eyes was aware of him replacing the soap in its dish, then flicking across the taps so that the curtain of water ceased. One of his blessedly tender hands touched lightly at her waist, tugging her slightly closer to him, as the other hand reached out to touch beneath her chin, lifting her face, somehow daring her to open her eyes and look at him.

  “Bess... oh, God... Bess...” It was half sigh, half caress, never completed because his lips were closing it off against her own, both of his hands behind her now, feather-light against the swell of her hips, iron-strong as they drew her closer and closer against the muscular strength of him.

  His lips were undemanding. They touched and probed and teased, but didn’t seek to overwhelm her. His kiss was the least of her distractions anyway. His fingertips played a lover’s waltz along the nubbles of her spine and his erection, throbbing a counter-tempo against her belly, managed to be in tune with his kisses, in tune with his fingers, in tune with Bess herself, all at the same time.

  She yearned to take her arms from around his neck, to reach down and feel that throbbing against her own fingers, to feel the size of him and the sheer maleness of him with her hands. But she didn’t, because suddenly he was holding her away from him, shifting her so he could turn and lift her through the shower cubicle doorway, stepping carefully as he moved toward the bed. Her bed.

  She looked into his eyes then, and saw lights that held all the devilment of the buccaneer image she had always given him, but also lights so warm, so gentle, so totally magical that she had to close her eyes again for fear of being blinded. And then, a single kiss and she was being gently placed upon the counterpane of the bed. Opening her eyes, she looked up to see him standing there, gazing down at her with a soft smile on his lips.

  “Lie still a moment and try not to go to sleep,” he said, his smile widening. “I want to pat you dry and get some more of Ida's sunburn oil on you. And then...”

  The grin said it all. and Bess couldn’t contain a timid grin of her own, which stayed with her the entire ninety seconds he was out of the room, having strode away so natural, so comfortable in his nudity that she almost forgot about her own. By the time she remembered, that, too, was far too late to worry about.

  “Turn over on your face,” he said, kneeling by her bed. “This shouldn’t take long, although if I get to enjoying it too much...” And, again, his smile was infectious. Bess rolled over on her tummy and let herself be drowned in the magic of his hands as he carefully applied the oil, rubbing it in gently but thoroughly from her ankles upward, driving her crazy with desire.

  In some place, like the sensitive skin behind her knees, he prepared her for his touch with kisses and flickering caresses of his tongue. Yet when he reached the inner tops of her thighs, he was fastidious about applying the oil delicately but precisely, without even a hint of the erotic elements she expected.

  His kisses returned to those dimples at the base of her spine, before his fingers began to play with the nape of her neck. His lips were warm, but she shivered briefly before the purring began. He massaged her neck with fingers and lips u
ntil she was literally boneless, could only sprawl like a rag doll and luxuriate in it.

  “Turn over.” His lips brushed at her ear as he spoke, but the choice was left to her because suddenly he wasn't touching her at all. Bess lay still, her drugged mind fighting to make sense of it. Then she let instinct guide her, and she rolled over onto her back and met his eyes. This was now, this was the moment, and he was going to let her choose. So she did.

  And positively glowed at the smile which greeted her, more than glowed as his gaze wandered from her eyes to her sunburned shins and back again, each look a touch, each touch a caress. And then he was pouring sunburn oil into his hands and reaching down to her ankles, shifting onto the bed until he knelt between her feet, holding her with his gaze as he began all over to touch her into insensibility with his fingers, his lips, his very being.

  Bess could only lie back and wonder as his hands worked their way upward, sometimes following his lips, sometimes tracking alone into unknown territory with the surety of a frontiersman. Once again, he managed to bypass the core of her, at least with his touch. Yet his avid gaze devoured her, and the quick flit of his tongue across his lips brought a gasp of longing to her own lips.

  He had no need to put sunburn oil on her breasts, but his lips revealed a need of their own, as did his slick, gentle fingers, and now Bess had to close her eyes, to let the sensations flow over her, into her, as he kissed and licked and sucked each nipple to a throbbing mound of delight. Then he shifted from his position above her, leaning over to lay down the sunburn oil as he lowered himself beside her and sought her mouth with his own, sighing her name as he kissed her, between the kisses, through the kisses. At the same time, his hand moved to explore her body.

  His kisses became firmer, his tongue searching now through her mouth as his slick fingers continued, teasing, tantalizing, thrilling her body into spasms that were not yet orgasm, but hovered on the edge as he brought her nearer and nearer to the edge, before retreating and giving her respite but no release.

  Bess couldn't hold back any more. Her hand managed to find some vestiges of sunburn oil before sliding down the muscles of his chest, searching carefully until his erection was within her grasp.

  “Bess,” he moaned. “Don’t start that, but don’t stop. Don’t...”

  The small amount of oil she'd captured lubricated as she instinctively grasped him harder, fighting his own instincts, suddenly desperate to keep him from exploding then and there.

  “Please, Geoff,” she sighed, feeling her success and an unexpected pleasure. She released him, only to reach out again, touching him with wonder, letting her fingers trace along the strength of his erection, letting her ears delight in his ragged breathing, her eyes delight in his body. “Now ... please...”

  “Oh... yes... now...”

  He came into her slowly, gently, lovingly, his eyes locked on her own as if he could read through her eyes any possible problem. Bess felt a tinge of uneasiness as some remote part of her mind floundered over the size of him, then forgot it in her body’s quick, delightful surge of acceptance.

  She heard herself gasp, saw the fierce pleasure in his eyes, then gave herself entirely to the sensation of his movements, the running buildup to the crescendo that trilled through her entire being. Her legs locked around him and her muscles clenched and unclenched, beyond her thoughts, beyond all control as she tried to squeeze the magic, tried, it seemed, to absorb him into her piece by piece, and then, after the explosion of his climax had matched her own, drop by drop.

  He made no attempt to leave her when it was done, but stayed inside her, letting the fingers of one hand trace magic as he stroked the hair away from her eyes, kissed away the tears she couldn’t keep back. Happy tears.

  “Ah, Bess,” he whispered, and lapsed into silence, seemingly content just to look at her, to touch her so terribly gently, and occasionally to twitch within her.

  Then he kissed her, and it was such a slow, languid kiss it seemed destined to send her purring. Until there was another twitch within, and suddenly the kiss was roused and rousing, and her breath shortened as she responded, and she panted with surprise and exultation as he released her mouth to dip his lips and tongue to the peak of one breast, then the other.

  Bess let her own hands roam along his back, into the hair at his nape.

  Then she clutched at the muscles of his buttocks as she felt him growing again within her, twitching, throbbing, but growing, filling her with sensation after sensation.

  Without warning, he rolled over, taking her with him, keeping her with him, steadying her with his hands until she was sitting upright, now in total control, able to use her own muscles to soften or strengthen the effect of him.

  She closed her eyes and gave herself to that power, letting herself rise and fall slightly as she tested it.

  Until...

  She heard, clear as if someone had turned on a stereo, the “tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot,” the “horse-hoofs ringing clear” from the Noyes poem, and her eyes flew open, half expecting to see Geoff’s eyes behind a highwayman’s mask, a cocked hat on his thick hair.

  But all she saw was that fierce, buccaneer’s grin, and the flash of pure pleasure in his pale green eyes. Except she was more than half-sure he had heard the hoof music too, and the sheer absurdity of the thought forced laughter into her throat and a quicker, more savage rhythm into her movements. And then he was laughing with her, and she bared her teeth and let herself go, abandoning herself totally to the rhythm within her, riding him to the tune of their shared laughter until both cried out in ecstasy and she sagged to the circle of his waiting arms.

  “I knew you’d be a laughing lover,” he said a lifetime later, as they lay in each other’s arms, replete, passion-spent, both nearly asleep.

  “I’m glad one of us did,” Bess managed to reply, suddenly shy. Not in any way ashamed…that, she thought, might come later…but no longer feeling brazen, either. It was shaping up for Cinderella time, she thought, and laughing or not, a pumpkin is a pumpkin is a pumpkin when midnight comes.

  “You had to be a laughing lover; it’s the only kind worth having,” he continued, eyes closed, thankfully not looking at her although one arm cradled her against him. “But now I have to remind you, dearest Bess, that there is a time for everything, and I suspect we’re well past the time for feeding you. Your tummy’s been telling me stories for the last half-hour.”

  And he howled with joy when she pulled away from him in not-entirely phony embarrassment, and he laughed louder when she flung a pillow at his back as he grabbed up his still-sopping clothes and departed the room, shouting that he’d have his own shower now, in his own room. And if she was damned lucky, he might then condescend to fry some water.

  Frying water, Bess thought fondly, was his intimate but sometimes annoying way of describing her cooking skills, or lack thereof, as opposed to his own, which were awesome. She knew she should move, but remained where she was, unwilling to abandon the scene of such wondrous, unbelievable pleasure. Bad enough that she would eventually have to leave it all behind, but for now...

  “Tucker time!”

  Slipping into her cut-offs and Broncos sweatshirt, she tripped downstairs just as Geoff slid perfectly baked potatoes onto their plates, followed by huge rounds of choice filet, not only wrapped in bacon but pocketed with oysters as well.

  They ate together in a silence that wasn’t strained, but seemed from her viewpoint to be too comfortable. It would be too easy to get used to, and there was no sense in that. Geoff needed more than she could ever provide, although he mightn’t realize it for the moment. But Bess knew it, and dared not make more of this than there already had been.

  He'd even gone so far as to make proper, percolated coffee, and was pouring it when Lady barked to announce a visitor. Geoff strolled to the door in time to admit Ida, who stalked into the room like an avenging angel. She curtly accepted Geoff’s offer of coffee, her attention focused on Bess.

  “Well, Colorad
o, your Tom Rossiter will live, but only because he’s too damned stubborn and stupid not to. Still, I think you can take it as a given that he won’t be going back to work for your father again.”

  “I should certainly hope not,” Bess started to reply, only to have Geoff interrupt in a voice that demanded attention.

  “I thought you told me your father was dead.”

  “If I ever get within gun range of the bastard, he will be,” Ida raged, her voice icy with an anger Bess had never seen in her. “If Rossiter is right, then Dover Warren Cornwall is as mad as a cut snake and rich enough to be just as bloody dangerous. He kidnapped his own daughter, Geoffrey, just to force you into selling out to him. And putting the job in the hands of a mob of slime that came too damned close for comfort to raping her, or worse. That's why I totally mean it when I say...”

  She got no further. Even Ida, woman of stone, wouldn’t have dared continue in the face of the astonished ferocity that blazed from Geoff’s eyes. He glared at Ida, enforcing silence, ensuring silence, then turned his gaze on Bess, who felt as if he lashed her with whips of ice.

  “You’re Warren Cornwall’s daughter?” he asked, as if he still didn’t believe it.

  Bess tried to meet his eyes, but couldn’t hold it together. She had to drop her glance, had to try and find some words, any words, but couldn’t do that either. She could only sit there in shattered silence.

  “Well, hell, Bess,” he said, his voice dripping with despair and contempt and betrayal. “Doesn't that just about say it all?” Then he marched to the door, his anger pounding out through his feet. “Damn all women! Fickle, lying, cheating bitches, the lot of you! Damn it!” And his voice seemed to echo every step. “Dammit... dammit... dammit...”

  Even after the sound of the door slamming, even after the faint trill of his whistle for Lady, Bess could hear Geoff's words, and they burned into her brain with the cadence of Noyes' poem... tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, dammit, dammit, dammit.