Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  You lack respect. Respect for yourself, in that you would risk ruin by a stranger—and respect for me, in assuming that I would do it without a second thought. He wrote delicately, precisely, even as he clenched the pencil in his fist. Forgive me for misleading you in this regard. Although—and it bears saying—I doubt you would have asked the same thing of an Englishman.

  It hurt to write. It hurt even more to watch her read it; to watch her look up, her eyes full of agony, her mouth falling open.

  I take my leave of you. Nikau let the notepaper fall to the sofa, turning away. He made his way out of the back room with undue haste, not wanting to see her reply.

  He didn’t think he could bear it. Not because it would be some weak, flimsy excuse— He half-expected that. What terrified him, beyond all measure, was the thought that she could write the truth.

  I don’t think of you like that. I like you. But you’re scared.

  Jane lay on the sofa, her eyes filling with tears. Tears of pain, of surprise—and shame, a wave of shame, that she fought with every fibre of her being.

  She would not be ashamed. Nothing had fuelled her behaviour apart from pure feeling; no base, animal curiosity, or hunger that made a person a mere object. It had been an impetuous, heart-led choice—one that she was not going to punish herself for.

  She absent-mindedly wiped away a tear with her injured hand, wincing as the saltwater soaked through to the wound. She wasn’t going to punish herself… but oh, how she was going to punish him.

  She didn’t know his name, but that wouldn’t stop her. Nothing did, when she tried hard enough.

  Two days later, by the light of a guttering candle, Nikau worked late. He worked hard enough, and long enough, to cancel out at least a tenth of his intrusive thoughts—even if the rest of them were shouting, loudly, about what a fool he was.

  He scribbled furiously, blotting every tenth word, unaware of the darkening sky outside. Christmas was blanketing London with merriment, joy, frosty cheer, but not in his office. Numbers had no holidays, and needed adding up whatever his mood.

  Trade relations between the tribes and English businessmen had to be maintained. Maori interests had to be promoted; in a country where the public were ignorant and best and hostile at worst, the Maori Centre and Meeting House had to be both welcoming and unimpeachable. And if there was time left over after those two impossible tasks, he had to write yet another appeal to the British Museum… the taonga, the lifeblood of his people, lay languishing in the Ethnographical Room. Reduced to mere objects, instead of living links to his ancestors.

  So many things to think of. Even worse, then, that all he could think about was her.

  He shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have fallen for it; Jane’s wide eyes, her seeming innocence. She was looking for nothing but adventure, a literal taste of the exotic—and he was not going to be the man who provided it.

  However much he wanted to provide it. However much he ached to; however much his body sparked into life whenever he thought about her. Her kiss. Her face. The way she’d pulled him to her, hungrily searching for pleasures she couldn’t give herself…

  No. He had to protect his heart.

  A soft patter of snowflakes against the window pulled him out of his reverie. Nikau moved to the window, making sure it was shut—and jumped as he saw the slim, staring figure in the twilit street.

  Jane. Jane dressed for the outdoors, but not for the snow beginning to fall. Jane, her eyes full of hurt and annoyance, looking furtively from side to side to make sure no-one was approaching.

  Jane, raising up her arm, throwing a pebble.

  Crack! Nikau jumped backward as the stone flew through the air, hitting the window. He stared at the tiny splinter left by the flying rock, astonished, before looking down at Jane.

  Jane’s hands covered her mouth. She looked as shocked as Nikau did. As the snow began falling in earnest, she looked up at Nikau in terrified apology.

  Oh, for goodness’ sake. Nikau beckoned behind the closed window as snow began to flurry, beginning to walk downstairs as soon as he was sure the woman really was approaching. Exasperating. Wilful. Absurd.

  But here. He couldn’t deny it; the rush of excitement that ran through him. Here, for me.

  Perhaps, for her, he was at least a little more than an exotic novelty.

  As soon as he opened the door she rushed into his arms, cold and trembling. For a moment he simply held her, letting the heat of his body warm her, marvelling at the strength she seemed to exude even at her most fragile moments. It was only when she pulled away, tears glistening in her eyes, that he even realised she was crying.

  For a moment, he felt a stab of pity. A pity that ended abruptly when she raised a freezing hand, giving him the hardest slap she’d ever felt in his life.

  Jane opened her mouth, as if about to speak, then paused. She held her hands up, making a firecracker-fast patten of signs in the air—and stopped, looking at Nikau with rage-fuelled annoyance. Her fingers twitched, as if urging to tell him exactly what each digit thought of him.

  After an excruciatingly uncomfortable ten seconds, Nikau remembered the paper and pencil he kept in the desk close to the front door. He retrieved them, holding them out, jumping as she pulled them from his hands.

  Jane rested the paper against the wall, scribbling so hard the lead of the pencil almost snapped. Nikau leaned in to read.

  How DARE you, you pompous nitwit big-headed you BASTARD!

  Ah. Not the most promising of starts.

  Do you really think I would offer—offer what I offered so freely to anyone? Have you never been swept away by—by feeling before, by the promise of a moment? Men are allowed to exercise their every base instinct! Is my moment of weakness to be judged so harshly by someone who, unless I am very much mistaken, appeared to be enjoying it IMMENSELY—

  Irritated beyond measure, Nikau grabbed the pencil out of Jane’s hand. He wrote underneath, ignoring her shocked gasp.

  How on earth did you manage to arrive here? How do you know where I work? Most importantly, what on earth are you doing walking unaccompanied on a public street?

  Jane rolled her eyes, taking the pencil back. I walked. You are Maori—this seemed logical in an attempt to find you. And I am not a lady, or anyone of enough birth and breeding for people to concern themselves with. Servants and wastrels such as I have to walk unaccompanied for any number of reasons—how do you think things get done in London? And none of this is in any way related to—

  She stamped her foot as Nikau wrestled the pencil out of her hand once more. How did you know I’m Maori? We’re hardly common here.

  Jane’s death-grip almost snapped the pencil in half. NOT! IMPORTANT!

  She was technically correct, of course. But… but she knew who he was. Knew his people, at least by sight. That seemed very important indeed.

  Important enough to look at her, at least for a moment, and lose himself for a little in her loveliness. He took the pencil back, gently this time, surprised when she didn’t stop him.

  I’m not going to apologise to you for thinking something completely logical.

  Jane pulled the paper towards her with an impatient huff. It isn’t logical to assume I would do something so hurtful.

  Again… technically correct. Very correct. Nikau felt a wave of shame wash over him as Jane continued writing.

  I don’t expect you to apologise. I don’t want you to.

  Nikau wrote underneath her, too impatient to pull the paper back. Then what do you want? You don’t know me, you don’t wish to hurt me—why are you here?

  Jane looked at him for a moment, her shadowed eyes full of what looked like indecision. Finally she wrote, quickly, heavily, as if determined not to change her mind.

  I want you to kiss me, Nikau Roera, until I forget your mistake.

  Nikau blinked. He turned, staring, Jane’s grey eyes staring through to the very core of him.

  Eagerly, ardently, her mouth moved to his. N
ikau pulled her to him, knocking paper and pencil to the ground as he took Jane in his arms. The warmth of her skin, the scent of her, the weight of her body… it all came flooding back to him, twice as vivid, twice as erotic as before.

  This wasn’t the shy, introductory kiss they’d shared on the sofa. There was heat in her; a fire in her movements, an edge of anger in the movement of her mouth. A challenge, perhaps; take me as seriously as I take you… a challenge that Nikau, with every particle of his being, wanted to meet and win.

  Damn her for being so obstinate. Damn her for being so wilful. Damn her for being a thousand times better than he’d imagined her, again, and again, and again.

  She wanted to be kissed hard enough to forget her mistake? He’d kiss her hard to enough to make her forget her own name. With an easy burst of strength he lifted her onto the desk, briefly lost in the soft froth of her petticoats—and hungry, oh-so-hungry, for the woman that lay at their centre.

  God, it was good to have her at his height. He could kiss her more deeply, coaxing small sighs and gasps from her full lips as he stroked along her cheekbones, marvelling at how well her features seemed to fit his own. She huddled close to him, his hands curled around his biceps—not pushing him away, but pulling him closer as he kissed along her jawline.

  Each kiss he’d given her that first meeting still lay burning on her skin; a map for him to follow once again… follow all the way down to her breasts, this time uninhibited by guilt or false assumptions. This time aided by Jane, seemingly more eager even than himself, taking his hands tightly in his.

  She pulled his hand to her breasts, trembling as Nikau undid the multitude of tiny buttons at the front of her dark grey dress. He could feel her impatience, her need for him to go faster… but he had been dreaming of this moment for so long, so very long, that he was going to take as much time as he could. He was going to fill her with the same heat that plagued him.

  Finally, with a sigh of pure relief, he looked at her chemise-clad body as Jane arched her back, slipping her arms free of her sleeves. Her bare shoulders, her cotton-clad chest, the dark peaks of her nipples clearly visible through the cotton—all revealed. All for him.

  Biting his lip, a stab of pure desire making his core throb almost painfully, he reached for her. Her skin was even softer than he’d imagined it; he slowly stroked downward, cupping her breasts with light, needful fingers as Jane quivered in his hands.

  Oh, but she was beautiful. So beautiful as he took the weight of her breasts, running his fingers over her flesh, teasing her nipples with his thumbs until they were deliciously flushed and stiff. So beautiful as he brought his mouth to her shoulder, roughly pulling down her chemise with his teeth as he took all that she offered him.

  Her shoulder, her collarbone, the nape of her neck… her smooth, abundant curves, finally exposed, ready to be kissed.

  He kissed his way over her breasts, his hands moving to her hips, keeping her in place as he covered her bare flesh with his tongue. When his mouth found her nipples she cried out, a small, quiet sound of unmistakeable pleasure; Nikau heard it, redoubling his efforts. Focused, moving from peak to peak with slow, unhurried concentration, he let the intensity build as her gasps grew more frequent. More uncontrolled.

  He’d always prided himself on being a patient man, but this had to be the greatest test of his self-control he’d ever willingly undergone. Every part of him ached to free his cock, bring her hand to it, have her stroke and tease him the way he was teasing her. But this was Jane, finally, impossibly Jane—and her pleasure came first. He would be a rock, a mountain through and through, until bliss was evident on her face.

  Slowly, slowly, she was coming apart in his arms. Her urgency was becoming more apparent; her fingers were knotted deep in his hair, moving him from one stiff nipple to the other as her back arched. Nikau bit back a gasp as she moved forward, her thighs open, her centre pressed shamelessly against his body.

  She pulled his face up to hers. Nikau couldn’t hold back a quiet sigh of need as she pressed herself more tightly against him, her intent unmistakeably clear, her bare skin so very lovely as she spread her legs wider.

  Alright. Perhaps the mountain could crumble a little.

  Kissing her softly, trying to control the rapid beating of his heart, he gently placed his hands on her thighs. Jane’s slow smiled of pleasure let him know his touch was welcome; Nikau let his fingers move higher, pushing aside the frilled white mass of petticoats, slowly but surely making his way to the dark, intimate tangle of curls that lay at the meeting of her thighs.

  Jane’s body tensed as he stroked her; Nikau paused, ready to remove his hand, but she eagerly gripped his wrist and held him there. She nodded, her grey eyes fixed on him, her lips parting in a soft, near-silent cry of pleasure as he gently ran his fingers over her waiting flesh.

  Now, thank god, he didn’t need to be patient. He could feel how wet she was—how excited, how ready she was for his touch. He curled his fingers against her, running a shivering line along her sex until he found her small, swollen bud of pleasure.

  She clung to him, shaking, as he massaged her with his thumb. Nikau rested his head against her shoulder, kissing her neck, wishing he could feel with the same intensity the firework shudders of joy running through Jane’s body. She kissed him back, feverish, her fingers digging hard into Nikau’s wrist as she guided him to what felt best, where felt best… and oh, her peak was coming. All he could do was hold on.

  With a few more slow strokes of his thumb, kisses peppering her neck and shoulders, he heard her broken gasp of pleasure. Nikau’s surge of triumph almost overwhelmed him as he moved faster, feeling her quiver under his hand, his palm flooded with her desire as her climax came. He held his hand still as soon as he felt her pleasure break; tight on her sex, warm, comforting, as Jane shook. A rock, a mountain, in her storm.

  He stayed motionless as Jane relaxed, her breathing slowing, her heartbeat slowly returning to normal as it sounded against his chest. How warm she was, how vital. How present.

  Present, and soon to be gone. Even as he adjusted her petticoats, gently lifting her down from the table, Nikau felt her future absence haunting him like a shadow.

  Stay. He wrote it on the paper before he could think better of it; before he could worry about scaring her. Stay with me.

  I can’t. My father would have bloodhounds out within the hour. She smiled. Women like me walk unchaperoned, but within limits.

  Then when? Nikau wasn’t going to let her go—not now he’d had her in his arms. Daylight. He scribbled quickly, too distracted to care about his penmanship. I want to see you in daylight.

  She looked at him for a long moment, her brow furrowed. For an instant Nikau thought he had scared her; it was a bold declaration, after all. Even a stupid one. But as she absent-mindedly tapped her finger against the table, he realised she was forming a plan.

  Vauxhall Gardens. Wednesday—seven o’clock in the morning. She wrote boldly, the pencil almost breaking through the paper. Come.

  Before Nikau could question—before he could pull her to him, and kiss her one last time—she opened the door, stepping into the street. With a radiant smile, the light of the gas-lamps making a halo around her head, she vanished into the London night.

  Nikau stood by the open door, barely even feeling the chill as he watched her walk away. His body felt threaded to her, connected by a deep, powerful longing—a longing that only seemed to increase the more steps she took. By the time she disappeared around a corner, his need for her was strong enough to be painful.

  He closed the door, leaning against it, breathing hard. His cock was uncomfortably stiff, his head whirling; he looked around his entrance hall, not quite believing that she’d ever been there.

  But she had been there. And there was her piece of paper, her handwriting, proving it.

  Vauxhall Gardens. Wednesday—seven o’clock in the morning. Come.

  Nikau wouldn’t miss it for the world.

&nb
sp; Being scandalous had seemed a spontaneous exercise, before Jane had actually tried it. Now that she was in the thick of scandal, it required much more planning than she had previously assumed.

  A small but fundamental part of her rebelled against the need for scandal at all. She could ask Nikau to come to the coffee house, and speak to her father, and begin a very long, dull process of courtship involving small gifts and bloodless conversations. Small gifts, bloodless conversations, and the possibility of failure.

  Failure wasn’t a word that came to mind when Nikau’s lips were on hers—or when his fingers were sliding up her thighs, resting on the hot, secret place that burned so beautifully whenever he was near. Words of any kind were the last thing on her mind, when he was close… so why force words between them? Why not keep it sweetly, divinely wordless?

  And maybe… maybe he didn’t want to court her properly. That was the small, biting thought that burrowed into her dreams, her subconscious thoughts. The thing she tried to keep away at all costs.

  He had wanted to see her in daylight. That seemed promising—but it could be nothing more than a gentleman’s whim. She had needed a daylight place, suitable for walking, that she could visit as a matter of course—and a place where no-one she knew was likely to find her.

  Vauxhall Gardens had seemed the obvious answer. It was on the other side of the city, which meant much less chance of meeting casual acquaintances. It had a temple; a hidden temple, which few people knew of… and perhaps more importantly than anything else, she wanted to see Nikau surrounded by festive decorations.

  There was something about the man that made her feel warm, and safe. The same feelings that Christmas gave her now, in fact. The idea of seeing him surrounded by holly and ivy, sturdy and broad-shouldered and dependable, made her quiver.

  She would carry a basket of filberts, as if she were running an errand. That would be her last line of defence against prying eyes—and her own desire to kiss Nikau in the middle of the street.