With single-minded focus, Atuk moved through the museum’s halls. He weaved through the groups of gawkers, making his way to the display case he knew so well. Past the shrunken heads and witch-bottles, left at the sarcophagus… there.
‘Hello.’ He murmured his greeting to the skeleton, who stared back at him with hollow eyes. ‘Hello, great-aunt. Or great-grandmother.’
It was very unlikely, of course. Damn near impossible to prove, at any rate. But his mother, the elegant tribal princess who had deigned to bear a single son before vanishing into the night, had come from a noble family of shamans—or so Atuk’s father had told him, years ago, when he’d still cared about his son. Powerful shamans, the most gifted of whom were women, who when they came to die were wrapped in purple wool, stones of lapis lazuli resting in their palms…
… Very unlikely. But Atuk looked at the shreds of purple fibre clinging to the bones, the fine dusting of blue on the skeleton’s withered palms, and wondered.
He never normally lingered like this. A brief glance and a nod of kinship were usually all that sufficed. But looking at the only link to his mother he’d ever found, Atuk felt completely and utterly lost.
God, he was lonely. Carefree, unattached, and lonely; lonely enough to lose himself in drink and pleasures of the flesh, trying to make some bodily connection that never reached his mind. But it was safer to be lonely; lonely meant no-one could hurt you, or abandon you.
But he’d let someone in. Under the guise of friendship, pretending that it was nothing more than a cerebral meeting of minds. Someone who had seen all of him, even the parts he tried to hide from himself. Someone he missed quite desperately, even though he had only seen her the day before.
Someone who he wished was with him now, looking at his one tenuous link to a past that had forsaken him.
The experiment had been educational in all the wrong ways. It was trouble—and Atuk couldn’t abide trouble, not at all. Trouble was mess, and life was messy enough. Only with frank, open honesty could things fall back into their safe, proper places.
He would go to Violet, and explain with as much kindness as possible that the experiment was over—that she really had nothing at all to worry about. That she could marry, and move away, and cleave in two the tender thing they had grown together, without so much as a backward glance.
Yes. He could do that. He would have to do it, if it meant protecting himself. Atuk took his palm away from the glass, nodding in silent homage to the skeleton, before exiting the Ashmolean as quickly as he had arrived.
He pictured Violet’s face, silently practising the speech he’d prepared. Yes, he could absolutely say it… unless she became sad about it, or cried, or was anything less than perfectly content. If that happened, Atuk thought with a frown, he would have to fold her into his arms and keep her there.
Violet, as it happened, was much less than perfectly content. Instead of crying, however, she was genteelly resisting the urge to slap her Ancient Greek lecturer in the face.
‘Forgive me.’ She smiled sweetly, wishing she could set fire to the pompous room, its pompous furnishings, and the pompous man occupying them. ‘I know we have had this conversation more than once, Professor Sloan. But if my work has received the highest marks among all the students here, and my research has been recognised as excellent… why can I not simply graduate with the rest of my peers?’
‘Miss Belgrave.’ Professor Sloan smiled indulgently, his hands forming a steeple under his chin. ‘My goodness, how you rage against this bureaucratic quirk! They are your male peers, Miss Belgrave. They need those tiresome letters after their names to go out and make the world spin. You, as the fairer sex, need nothing more than a sweet disposition to fulfil your higher duties.’
‘My higher duties.’ Violet tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Those would be running a household and bearing children, yes?’
‘Well.’ Professor Sloan coughed in a slightly disapproving manner. ‘Perhaps one could phrase it a little more delicately, but yes. These are the sacred works of the truly fulfilled female.’
‘Quite. Of course.’ Violet paused, knowing it was a pointless exercise to press the issue. Still, she could not keep silent. ‘But if it is such a very small bureaucratic quirk, perhaps it could be altered—or even removed, in a case of—’
‘No. No, Miss Belgrave, it cannot. Come now—do not spoil a perfectly pleasant meeting with troublesome questions.’ Professor Sloan’s smile hardened a little. ‘And while I pride myself on being the most modern of gentlemen, perhaps it would be best not to hound my fellow faculty members with such unusual ideas.’ He looked pointedly at her bloomers. ‘Especially in such… unconventional garb.’
Violet abruptly stood, inclining her head, hardly trusting herself not to scream. Even as the meeting ended, Professor Sloan obsequiously bowing to her as she left the room, she felt a howl of pure injustice trapped in her throat. Only as she was walking back to her lodgings, afternoon dwindling into evening as she deliberately took the longest route, could she finally give free reign to her rage and frustration.
Damn Professor Sloan! Damn the university! Damn anyone who had the temerity to tell her that an Oxford degree would be worth nothing to her, if marriage and children were in her future! Damn every single stuffed-shirt Oxford student who could take their degree as easily as buying a new suit—those men, those hideous, thoughtless, arrogant men…
… Of course, only one man would understand how she felt. The man she had been trying to avoid thinking about all day. Only Atuk Morothwaite, with his easy smile and open admiration of her intellectual gifts, could succeed in reassuring her that her work here wasn’t for naught. Just as he was the only one who could call Hercules, or remember how her bookshelves were organised, or bring Thomasina plant cuttings from his weekends in the country—
‘Stop.’ She paused on the path that led to her lodgings, breathing hard, trying to banish the rush of feeling that assailed her. ‘Stop, you silly woman. He isn’t feeling an ounce of this. Not one ounce.’
When she saw Atuk later—and she would see him, she was sure of that—she would have to be as bright and brisk as possible. It was ridiculous to assume that what they had shared lingered with him somehow, as it did with her. He was used to such… experiments, after all. Even when discussing the indignity of her meeting with the professor, she would have to maintain her usual detachment.
Bright. Brisk. Those words had never felt so far away. Violet, wishing she had never listened to Thomasina, trudged back to her lodgings with a heavy heart.
Walking across the quad in the fading light, she caught sight of a figure by the Tudor door. Her heart leapt at the Atuk’s familiar frame; the careless elegance that always became him, no matter what season.
Bright. Brisk. No leaping hearts allowed. Even as Atuk turned, smiling, Violet forced herself to act normally.
‘I despise Professor Sloan.’ She shrugged. ‘Come up and have tea, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
Bright. Brisk. It seemed to be working through the first cup of tea, at least. Atuk listened attentively to her story, shaking his head in weary anger at Professor Sloan’s words, his reply striking the perfect balance of gravity and levity.
‘I would speak to Sloan on your behalf, if I thought my words would do any good—but we both know they won’t. He’s frightened enough of my face, and no-one of your intellectual stature needs a foolish knight-errant charging in to defend you.’ He chuckled humourlessly. ‘If nothing else, your case proves the uselessness of an Oxford degree. If they won’t award the best, it’s damn near pointless giving it to anyone else.’
‘I look forward to a life of grumbling that to anyone who will listen.’ Violet sighed, setting down her teacup. It’s such a bitter feeling—knowing you deserve something, and being denied it all the same.
‘Oh, young warrior. Besieged by the woes of her sex.’ Atuk’s words managed to soothe without being patronising. ‘A new day will dawn, and you will claim wh
at you deserve. Every last piece.’
‘Thank you. I look forward to it. And I fear I’ve been monopolising the conversation.’ Violet poured a little more tea. ‘Was there anything you wished to tell me?’
‘... No.’ Atuk shook his head, a brief flash of something indefinable in his gaze. ‘No. Nothing at all.’
Violet leaned over, resting her head against his shoulder. It was a movement they’d perfected over three years of friendship; a brief, honest moment of comfort for whichever one of them needed consoling. A perfectly platonic action—a hand on the shoulder, a chin on the forehead, a murmur of something soothing to cheer the other’s heart. Not entirely proper conduct in the eyes of wider society, but Violet had never minded defying convention. What was a brief moment of brotherly, human contact, between such excellent friends?
Everything. That was what she felt this time, leaning against Atuk’s shoulder; a bone-deep awareness of the man. Atuk the man, not Atuk the friend. Atuk, the tall, well-made man, his body full of power and grace in equal measure, his face turned towards hers.
Violet’s skin thrilled with new, secret knowledge. A shiver passed through her, the rustle of her silks against his suit acquiring the intimacy of a whispered conversation. This was why such contact was forbidden between ladies and gentlemen… because all she could think about, as she nestled against his shoulder, were the kisses they had shared the day before.
Intellectual exploration. Emotional education. Hadn’t those been the reasons? She didn’t feel intellectual, now, or educated, or even reasonable. She felt famished; hungry for something she had never tasted. Thirsty for something she craved beyond all logic.
Atuk’s body was tense against hers. Violet felt his fingers tighten around her arm by slow degrees, his lips touching her hair. The scent of him washed over her; Oxford cobblestones, rain, the tweed of his suit. Scents that had always clung to him, unnoticed, until this very moment.
How close his face was. How easy it would be to tilt her head upwards, run a finger along the sculpted line of his jaw, and coax his lips to hers.
‘Must you go to the Reading Room?’ Atuk’s voice jolted her out of her reverie; he sounded strange. Pained, almost. ‘At this very moment?’
‘No.’ Yes. ‘No, I don’t have to. Not at this very moment.’
‘I see.’ Violet thought she felt, for the briefest of moments, his lips press to her hair. ‘Because… if you have no reading, or writing, or other commitments… that is to say, if you are free…’
She had never heard him sound so unsure about anything. ‘Yes?’
‘We could continue your—your particular course of study. Perhaps it would be restorative.’ Atuk looked down, his eyes burning with a heat that Violet could almost feel. ‘Of course, if you don’t wish to, please forget that I ever said—’
‘No, no. I—I think it a fine suggestion.’ Violet realised she was nodding frantically, and abruptly stopped. ‘I mean to say, well… yes. A fine suggestion, and a productive one, because a good scholar should always make the best use of their time. We have so little time, after all and—’
She stopped, her unfinished sentence dying in her throat, as Atuk’s lips met hers.
This was no first kiss, or exploratory kiss. This, Violet knew without a doubt, was a hungry kiss—the exact same kiss they had been sharing before Atuk had ended it, brought into this new moment with no loss of fire. They had fallen into the exact same position; entwined in one another’s arms, only on a sofa instead of standing. Even Atuk’s mouth was following the same path as before, moving from her lips to her neck with the same sustained, passionate attention that sent fireworks through her nerves.
These thoughts were no doubt useful, from a scholarly perspective—but she didn’t feel like interrupting things to note her observations. There was momentum here, a rhythm building between the two of them, that she knew would feel atrocious to interrupt. All she could do was surrender to the sensation; the feeling of bottled lightning in her veins, flowing to her breasts and thighs and fingertips as she sank further into his arms. The sofa cushions were soft against her back as he lowered her down, his mouth still hot on her neck, his body covering hers as she found herself sighing with pleasure.
‘This kiss makes demands of one. Demands that should be satisfied, if both partners are willing.’ Atuk’s voice was lower, an elemental growl running through it that Violet realised she enjoyed. ‘Tell me if you're not willing.’
‘I’m willing.’ Violet couldn't say the words fast enough. She paused, embarrassed at her eagerness, before Atuk’s smile washed away her shame. ‘I am. Very.’
‘Such courage of intellect.’ Atuk’s smile grew wider, a rueful twist to his mouth that Violet couldn’t quite interpret. ‘No wonder you’re the better scholar.’
‘You’d be a better scholar if you didn’t prevaricate. Continue the experiment.’ Violet realised she was gripping the linen of Atuk’s shirt; she forced herself to relax her hands. ‘Carry on. Please.’
‘You... you kill me.’ Atuk’s whisper thrilled through her, an edge of something dangerous in his tone. But before she could question him as to his meaning, his mouth fell upon hers in a kiss that felt hungrier than any that preceded it.
Yes. If killing him meant feeling his tongue on her neck, his body wrapped tightly around hers, then she would carry on exactly as she was. His movements were bolder now, a barely restrained heat in his dark gaze that left her trembling, waiting, desperate for each new touch. She had a hunger of her own, now; a nameless, shifting mass of desires that grew wilder and wilder as Atuk’s body pressed tighter against hers, his hands gripping her hips, his mouth drawing sighs and whimpers from her throat that she hadn’t even known she could express.
She needed more of him. Was this what such kisses led to; were their results in line with similar experiments, or something unique to them both? She didn’t know, and neither did she particularly care. The only thing she cared about was pulling Atuk’s shirt away from his body with hasty, trembling fingers, unbuttoning it as quickly as she could. Atuk’s gasp as her fingers touched his bare skin felt like fireworks; hot, vivid fireworks at her very core.
‘I—I felt compelled.’ She spoke hastily, his skin smooth and somehow familiar against her palms. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Compelled. Good. Very good.’ The hitch in Atuk’s breath, the hint of anguish in his voice, was unimaginably exciting. ‘It does mean, however, that I’m compelled to do the same thing.’
‘Oh.’ Violet looked down at her shirt and waistcoat, her clothes suddenly heavy on her body. ‘Yes... I suppose it would work like that.’
‘Yes.’ Atuk’s hands tightened around her hips. ‘As I said before—are you willing?’
‘Of course.’ No need to even think about it; any other man would require a moment of consideration, but not Atuk. Not her friend. ‘Very willing.’
It seemed like the work of a single moment; Atuk’s hands moving over her body, her waistcoat and shirt effortlessly falling away as he gently pulled away the fabric. Violet was suddenly, excruciatingly exposed; she put up her hands, reflexively protecting herself, Atuk’s mouth covering hers in a reassuring kiss.
‘I'm sorry.’ She rested her forehead against his. ‘I... please don't look.’
‘Alright.’ Atuk kissed her again, his eyes full of effortless understanding. ‘Just... come here.’
Violet nodded. She gasped as Atuk’s bare chest came to rest against hers; her breasts pressed tightly against him, her nipples hardening. She could feel his heart beating in time with hers, rapid, his warmth slowly dissolving her shame moment by moment.
‘Is that better?’ Atuk's lips pressed to her forehead.
‘Yes.’ It was better; incomparably better. ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘Now trust that what I do next will feel better still.’
Violet nodded. Not trusting Atuk was as unfamiliar a concept as she could imagine. ‘Of course.’
She sighed again as h
is mouth met hers, his kiss touching something deep in her. First her lips, then the corner of her mouth, then along the line of her neck as he trailed downward... then, as she cried out in astonishment, a slow circle of kisses over her breast. Lingering, his tongue sending shivers through her as the circles grew tighter, he reached her nipple and covered it with his mouth.
‘Oh…’ Violet closed her eyes, crying out again, shocked at the wave of intense sensation that flooded her. Again and again she writhed, near-overwhelmed, Atuk’s tongue making her flesh sing as he sucked, the slow, deep rhythm melting her core.
She dimly realised that she was pressing herself against his mouth, her body moving with his. Such movements had to be the next logical step of the experiment; her body was aching for his, her breasts and hands and the hot, wet meeting of her thighs. It made all the sense in the world to move those trembling, needy parts against Atuk’s own body; the thrilling, alien hardness that she could feel rigid against her thigh, demanding something of her that she couldn’t conceptualize, but wanted so very much to give. Yes, this was the only thing she could do; move against him, her breasts alive to his mouth, arching her hips to pull that thick, intriguing hardness even closer…
‘Mister Morothwaite?’
A young man's voice.There was a sudden, ferocious banging at the door; Violet almost cried out, covering her mouth.
‘The porter said you might be here. You’re late.’ More banging. ‘Come on. The party’s ready to start.’
Violet stared at Atuk in complete incomprehension. For a few, crucial moments Atuk’s expression reflected her own; blank, not understanding… and then, like cold water washing over him, he frowned.
Private Passions Page 17