She could already feel the storm coming; that exciting, terrifying explosion of pleasure that she’d already felt under his hands that night at the Maori house, where everything had been furious and frenzied. She’d thought the intimacy of that moment, the vulnerability of it, would be unmatched—but this, with Nikau’s head beneath her skirts, was something else entirely. A moment of abandonment so intense, so total, that she could barely comprehend it.
At that moment, she felt Nikau’s hands leave her thighs. He had to be pleasuring himself, she realised with a thrill of illicit joy—this act gave him pleasure too, just as it did her. He was stroking his cock as he licked her, bringing himself to the edge… waiting, like a true gentleman, for her to finish first.
Jane clenched her fingers tight, pulling Nikau’s hair by the roots as the storm ripped through her. The gale, the tempest—she was sure she cried out, in its midst, and realised to her surprise that she didn’t much care how she’d sounded. Anything that came from such pleasure, she reasoned dimly, had to be beautiful.
She felt Nikau’s remaining hand grip her thigh suddenly, savagely tight as his own climax came. Abandonment on his part, in a moment of wild beauty… a beauty that only solidified as he stood, holding her, looking at her with his grave, dark eyes.
‘Jane Maldon.’ He smiled. ‘Goddess.’
With a trembling hand, Jane reached for her paper and pencil. She scrawled weakly, too drugged with bliss to move.
I’m not sure about that. After what you just did… are you sure you’re not a god?
As she stumbled into the frosty sunlight, hand safely in Nikau’s grip to prevent falling onto the slippery grass, Jane was struck by the unreality of the world. Nothing seemed important, or worrisome, or even interesting, compared to the private world that she and Nikau created.
The passers-by were particularly dull; practically made out of paper. They strolled along the walkways, half-hidden by trees, completely uninteresting… apart from one figure that Jane was half-sure she recognised.
She abruptly let go of Nikau’s hand. They walked onward, flashing one another guilty, excited looks, small smiles playing on their faces.
Yes. She could smile, and she would… because it probably hadn’t been Adam Barton that she’d seen, looking at the two of them, a shocked expression on his face.
Five days later, as the weak December sun made its way over the ornately patterned carpet of Nikau’s bedroom, he collapsed panting onto his pillows. Jane followed shortly afterwards, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, her body a smooth expanse of loveliness in the wintry light.
She held up her hands, signing. Nikau watched her face and hands, trying to divine the meaning. ‘Good?’
Jane shook her head, signing more emphatically. Nikau began to watch as she made letters, trying to remember the drawings she’d made for him. ‘W… O… N… D… oh.’
Wonderful. He felt a catlike smile spread over his face as he took her in; Jane, his Jane, naked and grinning beside him. Jane who had just told him, in no uncertain terms, that his mouth on her body had been wonderful.
He needed to practice the signs she had taught him. How else could he learn, really learn, how to make her feel even better?
He had Christmas to thank for his new morning routine. Christmas meant more customers in Jane’s coffee-house, and increased demand for beans—beans that their local roaster could not supply. Her father couldn’t traipse through London in the early hours, not with the morning rush… but Jane, who had spent her childhood running through London’s back-streets, could.
It took two hours to make one’s way to the roaster from the coffee-house, sign the bill of goods, and follow the cart back—but Jane could manage it in one hour and ten minutes. That left fifty minutes for running up the stairs to Nikau’s bedroom—sometimes never managing to quite arrive there—and… well…
He couldn’t decide what he loved best about their morning encounters. The way she flushed at the base of her neck when he kissed her there, his tongue lapping at her skin as she sighed. The way her thighs tensed as he gently pushed her against a wall, or onto his bed, or over a table; whichever one was closest. The way she’d started to look positively frustrated, almost annoyed, when he reminded her that they couldn’t do everything… just all the things that lay on either side of it.
Perhaps, if he thought about it enough, the best things were the sounds she made. Those small, exquisite gasps and cries of pleasure; the only times she spoke, as it were, aloud… oh, how he cherished each and every one of those sounds. How he kept them in his heart; a kind of living music.
With a lazy, bear-like stretch, he picked up one of the two pencils that lay on the bedside table. The notepad lay just a little further away—but he would have to get up. He absolutely wasn’t going to do that.
Well? He wrote on the wall, ignoring Jane’s surprised eyes. Coffee? Eggs? What we just did, two times over?
Jane shook her head, laughing. Nikau smiled; she never wanted anything more. What they did, for some reason, appeared to be enough.
Well, what did you want as a child? You have told me so much about the young Jane, but never what she wanted. Nikau wrote lightly on the filigree wallpaper, handing Jane the pencil. He watched her hesitantly scrawl on the wall with a thrill of pride; after all, who cared about the walls? He wanted everything he saw, everything he touched, to be a record of her desires.
Well… at first, my desires were simple. I wanted warmth, and adequate food, and for Mother to be alive again. That above all else. Jane looked at him with a flash of defiance. I’ve never wanted to hear, you know. Not once.
I don’t doubt it. Nikau wrote, leaning to kiss her shoulder. I’ve never wanted to be English, but people persist in acting as if it’s the pinnacle of one’s existence. He smiled, shaking his head. What man would wish to be English? They can’t grow hair.
Jane’s scandalised giggle warmed him like wine. So what do you want? What would be the pinnacle of your existence?
Nikau toyed with his pencil for a while, wondering if he could write the words that burned, white-hot, in his heart. That all he wanted was her—her in his bed, her in his arms—for as long as he had breath in his body.
No. It would only frighten her. And the thought of her being frightened of him—of refusing to see him again—was more terrifying than anything he could imagine.
There was another truth he could tell her though. One almost as intimate. He wrote slowly, considering his words carefully.
Jane, do you know the nature of my work? The precise nature of it?
I know you work at the Maori centre. You act as an unofficial ambassador, yes? Jane smiled. Trading concerns, official visits, things of that nature. When the chief came to meet Queen Victoria—that was your work.
Exactly. How very good you are at noticing. Remind me to keep important papers in a locked drawer. Nikau chuckled at Jane’s mock offence. But there is another aspect of my work that doesn’t appear in the papers—and neither would it, here, because it isn’t tremendously flattering to English interests. I am the chosen representative for our possessions here. They call me the ‘chief treasurer’.
Possessions? Jane’s brow furrowed. The objects of your people?
More than objects. They live, for us—I suppose the closest word would be ‘relic’, but they are more alive even than that. They are taonga—our ancestors, our culture, our past. And our future, if we can see and touch them. But… but as they are now, we can neither see them, nor touch them.
Your British museum keeps them locked away—examples of a savage race. A dying race, although we are strong in number. He tried to keep his letters light, even as the anger rose in him. So what I want—what I wanted as a child, and what I want now—is to hold a taonga in my hands. To feel the spirit of it, and to feel hopeful again that one day, even if many days distant, my people will truly own their treasures again.
He looked at Jane, worrying that the intensity of his wish had scared her
. But the softness in her face, the slight parting of her lips, gave him a feeling of tremulous safety.
And that’s my wish. Rather extravagant, as you can see. He leaned over to kiss her neck, smiling as a stray lock of her hair tickled his nose. And you must have something you want.
Jane wrote with a reflective slowness. Nothing as noble as you. I am privileged enough to have no such want. My wants are small, and silly, and… oh, ever so many things. A puppy. A new hat. For my father to see that Helen Mornwell doesn’t wait for him in the bakery every day to ask him questions about grounds-keeping or servant management—but that’s a miracle none of us can organise. Jane smiled, writing the next sentence And a man to ruin me, of course.
A man to ruin her? Is that—is that all she wanted from him? All she expected? It had to be a joke, a way of slyly referring to his original misunderstanding… but it stung. Nikau looked away for a moment, steadying himself, pretending to rearrange the bedclothes.
When he looked back, Jane had scribbled thick black lines over the sentence. She’d obscured it almost completely, smiling sheepishly—but Nikau knew it was still there, written indelibly onto the wall.
A misstep. But one that saddened him, all the same.
A Christmas. That’s what I really want. A real Christmas, full of abundance—full of warmth, and food, and good things. Happiness, joy… the things that I wanted as a child, but never had. The things that… that I still want. Jane looked at him, a hint of vulnerability in her smile. That I would like, very much, to have.
Misstep? Nikau could forgive every misstep in the world, as long as she looked at him like that. As if her heart were completely open to him; stunningly, gloriously open, radiating light.
When she kissed him again, her tongue eagerly glancing against his, it didn’t feel like they were beginning all over again. This was a continuation of all they had already explored together, and an acknowledgement of its meaning. An apology, of sorts, on Jane’s part… and forgiveness, complete forgiveness, on his.
How well he knew her body now. Knew where to touch, where to kiss—how hard to bite. How long to let his lips and tongue rest against her skin before she would pull his head up, her face full of pleading frustration, and guide him somewhere new. He dimly realised that he wasn’t holding back anymore, and neither was Jane. Each bold, new touch, each brazen sigh of longing, was bringing back both of them inexorably closer to the point of no return.
He moved down, roughly pulling her hips to him, buying his face between her thighs. Her fingers curled ecstatically in his hair as he licked, lavishing attention on her sex; he had to know, had to feel for himself that she was ready. The rich, honeyed taste of her only spurred him onward; he licked harder, loving her with his mouth, until with a broken gasp of pure want Jane pulled him upwards.
Her warm hand reached between their bodies, grasping his cock with easy, expert assurance. Nikau moaned as she pressed his shaft to her slick, waiting flesh, so close to her entrance that his hips tensed instinctively. God, how he wanted to thrust.
It was the one thing they couldn’t do, the one thing he’d sworn not to do, and it was happening. It was happening, and he was damned if he was going to stop himself. No mortal man could resist temptation like Jane; Jane, her eyes beseeching, her hand tight around his cock as she pressed it shamelessly to her core.
He would die before he hurt her. He knew that obeying his body would hurt her. But—but she wanted the hurt. Wanted it to be him.
He had to tell her. She had to know what this meant to him, as opposed to what it had meant to him before.
‘Before we go further, there is something I must tell you.’ He spoke slowly, precisely, holding her to him—almost frightened she would run away. ‘Something you must know.’
Jane reached for the pencil with her free hand, laughing silently as she wrote on the wall. If you are going to speak about all the women you’ve bedded, Nikau, now is definitely not the occasion.
‘No. I…’ Nikau struggled to find the words, fighting the urge to simply lose himself in her body. ‘When women came to me before, they… they wanted certain things. Wanted to—wanted to feel certain sensations. Wanted me to play certain… certain roles, that I do not want to return to. That I cannot return to, if I—’
In a sudden rush, Jane reached up to curl her arms around his neck. She leaned close, holding him for a moment; Nikau felt a faint, near-imperceptible trembling in her body as he cradled her.
When she moved away, she wrote again. I don’t know what on earth I’m supposed to do. She looked at him with vulnerability in his eyes; a weakness so open, so yielding, that it became strength. I don’t know what on earth you’re supposed to do either, apart from the—the fundamentals. So… I expect nothing. I want nothing. Nothing at all, but you.
‘Me.’ Nikau smiled, hardly believing it. ‘I don’t think anyone’s just wanted me before.’
Jane looked at him, clearly shocked at his statement, before dismissing the foolishness of all past women with an impatient shake of her head. Do you want to be with me, Nikau?
‘Yes.’ Nikau slid his hands downwards, gripping her hips with undeniable intent. ‘Never doubt it.’
Good. I won’t doubt it. So don’t doubt me when I say that I want you. Only, and completely, you. Not the man you wanted to be before, or the man that these women wanted you to—
She stopped as Nikau gently took her hand, tossing the pencil aside. It was enough. It was more than enough… it was everything.
She was already so close. All he had to do was push. Hold her to him, trying to keep his hands from quivering… and push.
He had to move slowly, oh-so-slowly, but that was no hardship. If anything, it was heaven—each inch of him slowly enveloped, hugged tightly as Jane looked at him, wide-eyed and trembling. She was so hot, wet, welcoming; infinitely welcoming as he moved deeper. As if he were returning home, after a long absence.
He stopped, his arms wrapped around Jane, breathing slowly as she adjusted to the new sensations. There was pain in her eyes, yes, and his heart broke for it—but still, behind the immediate discomfort, Nikau saw the dawning awareness in her expression. The knowledge of a deeper pleasure, waiting beyond the pain.
‘Are you well?’ He kissed the tip of Jane’s nose, surprised by her immediate nod. She tightened around him, experimentally shifting and stretching her body, accommodating Nikau as her hands clasped shyly around his waist.
She nodded again, a small, impish smile on her face. Nikau could imagine her words in his head; yes, you dolt. Now carry on.
With the smallest of thrusts, marshalling every ounce of his self-control, Nikau began to move. His hand slid down between their two bodies, finding her sex, lightly stroking over her bud as she smiled… yes, now the pleasure was breaking through, like sunlight after rain. Now the connection ran strong between them, a thread that couldn’t be broken.
As they moved as one, time suspended in the soft island of his bed, Nikau felt the woman of his past fading away. Their face, their voice, their carnal expectations—none of them mattered now, here, with her. This was quiet, vulnerable, no artifice or pretence… and perfect. Perfect beyond all measure, and all reason.
With each tiny movement, each kiss, each exploratory shift or tightening on Jane’s part, Nikau felt all the uncomfortable parts of his past softening to something different. Fertile ground, for this new joy to flower in.
It was coming, his peak, his own unravelling—and he could no more stop it than he could stop the tide. He watched Jane’s face attentively, searching for permission; her half-closed eyes, her ecstatically parted lips, were his response. Her hips were moving with his, finding the rhythm, grinding out her own sweet pleasure… finally, finally, he could let himself go.
He began to thrust harder, letting his body guide him, holding Jane tight in his arms. Her small, soft sounds of pleasure, coming from deep in her throat, let him know that his change of pace was more than welcome—as did her tightening ar
ound him, her body moving in sinuous tandem with his.
‘I love you.’ He whispered it fiercely in her ear, knowing that she couldn’t hear him, but knowing that he needed to say it anyway. He would say it a thousand times, in a thousand ways, with his tongue and hands and pen… with his body, and his overflowing heart.
‘I love you.’ Pleasure shot through him, fierce and delirious; a peak higher than all others. Nikau moaned as he thrusted harder, trembling as Jane tightened around him further, her fingers smoothing his troubled brow as she kissed him. ‘I… oh, Jane…’
He shook, crying out harshly, as bliss overwhelmed him. A wave of pleasure, of need finally satisfied, left him panting as he spent himself inside her. Once, and again, and again… but there would never be enough times, not ever. Not with her.
‘I love you.’ He whispered it again, nuzzling into her shoulder, holding her tight. ‘Oh, how I love you.’
Jane spent the rest of the day as if in a dream. A strange, exquisite dream; one that involved every nerve in her body, every thought in her head, every particle of the shining, invisible centre of her being that she’d always called her soul.
He had changed her. He had changed her so profoundly, so deeply, that she almost wanted to cry. The feel of him inside her; as if he were rooted deep in the core of her, indivisible, never to be taken away… oh, how could she think about anyone else? How could anyone think about anything else, after something like that took place—how did they live?
She went mechanically through the motions of her day; the letter-writing, the account-keeping, the cleaning of glasses and wiping of tables. The conversations with Deaf Society members who passed by the coffee-house; plans for ice-skating on the Thames, shopping at the fruit stalls… none of it, none of it mattering. Not with Nikau in the same city, in the same country, hopefully thinking of her.
Private Passions Page 11