Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (90 page)

He throws the shower curtain open and shuts off the
tap, leaving me standing in the now-dry stall still covered in soap
and shampoo. “What are you doing?” I shriek.

“Getting your attention.” Syr Phillip grabs me in a
soapy, steamy embrace, turns the tap back on long enough for me to
rinse off, and then carries me, still dripping wet, back to
bed.

“How about a quickie before work, milady?” Syr
Phillip asks, nuzzling my neck. “Or will that cramp your
style?”

I make a not-so-delicate grab for his sword as my
answer.

Chapter
16

I arrive at work three hours later with an enormous,
shit-eating grin on my face. I don’t even try to hide the fact that
I just spent approximately the last nine hours impaled upon my
knight-in-shining-satin-bedsheets’ Sword of Hot, Throbbing
Love.

Pegeen picks up on my euphoria right away. “Let me
guess,” she calls over from the worktable where she’s inspecting
the previous shift’s run of spark plugs. “That ginseng I gave you
worked.”

“And then some,” I chirp, settling in at my own
worktable and pulling out the procedures binder that I hadn’t had
the chance to work on yesterday. I notice to my delight that Brad
has already taken the liberty of filling in all the new procedures
in his backslanting, left-handed scrawl. “Pegeen, I can’t thank you
enough for dragging me to the Blood And Roses Tournament. From now
on, I’m only sleeping with SCA knights. Boy howdy, whoever oversees
the awarding of knighthoods in the SCA must have some kind of sex
test for the knight candidates, because Syr Phillip sure knows
where to stick his sword, if you know what I mean.”

Pegeen snickers. “You know, I’ve heard that about
SCA knights. But I think Arundel knows how to manage
his
sword just fine, even if he’s just a run-of-the-mill fighter.”
Pegeen sets down the spark plug she’s inspecting and saunters over
to my worktable. “Of course you understand that I will require
details. Full disclosure today at lunch. Sneak previews during our
10 am bathroom break.”

I grit my teeth. “Sorry, but my bedroom activities
are strictly confidential.”
“Hah! If I hadn’t supplied you with that ginseng, you might not
have had the guts to hook up with Syr Phillip at all, let alone
have eleven orgasms with him.”

I feel all the color drain from my face. “How the
hell did you know I had
eleven?”

At least, I’m pretty sure it was eleven big Os.
Either that, or I just lost count at eleven. With that many in such
a short timeframe, I’m surprised I’m still able to walk.

“I know by the ginseng dosage, Lees,” Pegeen
explains. “I gave you precisely enough ginseng oil for eleven
orgasms. And if you think
that’s
good, wait until your
tolerance builds enough that you can handle the dosage for
twenty
. That’s where Arundel and I are right now, you know.
The first time I took the twenty-O dose, I could barely stand up
for the next three days. But it was worth it.”

“I can believe that,” I say, spotting Brad out of
the corner of my eye. “Can the sex talk,” I whisper. “Brad
alert.”

Brad makes a beeline for us, wagging his AC
Delco-logo mechanical pencil in our direction. “No chitchat at the
beginning of shift, ladies. You know that.”

Pegeen and I give Brad our usual begrudging,
we-know-the-rules-you-asshole stare. Pegeen walks silently back to
her own worktable and resumes inspecting spark plugs.

“Nice to see you back, Lisa. Feeling better, I
assume?” Brad is wearing a fuschia-and-green Hawaiian shirt with
pale green chinos and Mork-n-Mindy rainbow suspenders that he’s
probably owned since the first time they were in fashion sometime
in the late seventies. He hooks his sausagelike fingers into the
suspenders and tweaks them a few times; they make an elastic “ping”
sound as they hit his man-titted chest.

“Yes, Brad, I’m fine,” I mutter, trying to commit
the new assembly-line procedures to memory before Brad decides to
give me an impromptu pop quiz.

“You know Lisa, it’s not usual for me to get
personal phone calls for you here at work when you are supposedly
home sick, but it happened yesterday. Some weird lady named
Baroness Barlonda called Pegeen looking for you. Would you happen
to know anything about that?”

I think about asking Brad what he was doing
listening in on Pegeen’s personal calls, but decide that would be
the same as admitting guilt myself. “No, I don’t,” I mutter.

Brad leans in close to me. I can tell that he ate
something with salami in it for breakfast. “Well, you better not,
Lisa. Because if I find out that you were faking being sick
yesterday so you could play hooky with all your weird medieval
friends, I will have to write you up. And don’t forget, you
forewomen aren’t unionized. Technically, you guys are management.
And you know what can happen to management at AC Delco. . .”

“At AC Delco, management can be fired at any time,
because management isn’t covered under the UAW contract, I know, I
know,” I moan, parroting the same words that Brad has ingrained
into my and Pegeen’s brains ever since we both started work here
six years ago.

Brad taps his mechanical pencil once on my forehead.
“As long as you remember what your status is here, Lisa, you and I
will continue to get along just fine. As we always have.” Brad
turns on his heel and disappears into his opaque-glass lair.

“Right,” I seethe. “As we always have, asshole.” I
decide that today probably isn’t the day to bring up to Brad my
possible need for extra time off to serve as Queen of the Middle
Kingdom if Syr Phillip should win Crown Tournament. I dejectedly go
back to memorizing procedures.

At precisely 10:07 a.m.—the time of my and Pegeen’s
regularly scheduled morning coffee break—my desk phone rings. I
pick it up, and find that it’s Pegeen, who thinks it’s cute to call
me from her desk less than ten feet away.

“That’s a prodigious waste of AC Delco telephone
resources, Pegeen,” I spit jokingly into the mouthpiece while
shooting her a dirty look.

“I’m just trying to help you look busy,” Pegeen
says, her voice low. “Brad’s really got it in for you right
now.”

“I noticed,” I growl, slowly dismembering a
paperclip.

“Did you know that I caught him eavesdropping in on
my phone call with Barlonda yesterday?” Pegeen whispers. Her voice
comes through the ancient rotary-dial desk phone as a tinny
crackle. “Barlonda called over here looking for you, by the way. I
told her you went home.”

“Yeah, I know,” I whisper back. “She found me at
home, too.”

“What was she doing at your house? I distinctly told
her you were ill.”

I don’t comment on the fact I know Pegeen gave
Barlonda directions to my house. “Never mind. Coffee break?”

Pegeen looks left and right for signs of Brad, or
one of his lackeys who might report our breaking official AC Delco
policy by taking our coffee breaks at the same time. Finding none,
Pegeen hangs up her receiver and motions for me to follow her to
the women’s locker room.

Once there, Pegeen opens her locker and pulls out
two cans of Red Bull. “Here. I bet after your romp with Syr Phillip
last night you’re feeling pretty tired.”

I hadn’t noticed any fatigue yet, since I was still
flying pretty high on my post-sex buzz, but I guzzle the Red Bull
anyway.

“Soooo—gimme some details, Lees!” Pegeen coos,
bopping me one in the left shoulder. “I’ve been
itching
to
know all morning.”

“What kind of details are you looking for, besides
the fact that I had eleven orgasms?”

“Oh, well, this and that. Like, how big is Syr
Phillip’s thing?”

“I don’t know.”

Pegeen’s eyes go wide. “What do you mean,
you
don’t know?”

“I just didn’t get a very good look at it,” I
explain. “The fact that it was inside me pretty much the whole time
kind of interfered with the science of penis measurement.”

“Well, did it
feel
big at least? Could you
give me a ballpark estimate?”

“I dunno—maybe six inches?”

“That’s all? I thought an SCA knight would be at
least eight.” Pegeen gulps her Red Bull with disdain. “Especially
considering Arundel’s is eight-and-a-half.”

“How do you know?” I ask. “Have you actually taken a
ruler to it?”

Pegeen doesn’t answer.

“Well, suffice to say that sex with Syr Phillip was
some of the best sex I’ve ever had,” I sigh. “And I’m looking
forward to having a lot more of it with him for a very long
time.”

Pegeen tosses her empty Red Bull can into the
garbage and sits down on the wooden locker room bench. “How exactly
would you define
a very long time?”

“Indefinitely.”

“Pshaw,” Pegeen snorts. “Not with Syr Phillip you’re
not. I’ve told you before and I’m telling you again—he has a
reputation for loving and leaving. Enjoy it while it lasts, but be
ready for it to be over pretty soon.”

I crush my own Red Bull can to a sliver with my fist
and toss it angrily at the garbage can; I miss and it ends up
skidding across the dingy floor tile. “Pegeen, it’s different with
Syr Phillip and me. He said so himself. He’s committed to me for
the long term.”

“Don’t you believe it. Lees, as your best friend of
almost twenty years, I am here to inform you that Syr Phillip is
going to dump you very soon. It’s not your fault. That’s just the
way men like Syr Phillip are. It’s an alpha-male thing. Alpha males
are hot, manly, sexy, and generally good at beating things
up—that’s why most of them end up becoming knights in shining
armor. Or at the very least, famous athletes. But alpha males are
also genetically programmed to spread their seed as widely as
possible. Roughly translated, that means that alpha males are also,
generally speaking, male whores.”

“No they’re not! Well, maybe some of them are, but
not
Syr Phillip.”

“Oh come on, Lees. Don’t get all denial-happy on me.
It’s not like there aren’t plenty of examples of alpha-male
romantic behavior out there. I mean look at Henry VIII and Kobe
Bryant, for starters.”

I fold my arms across my flat chest and cock my head
at my best friend. “Pegeen, Syr Phillip is going to fight to save
my honor at Midrealm Crown Tournament.”

Pegeen shrieks. “Are you shitting me?”

“No.”

“No, you are. You are
totally
shitting me.
Either that, or Syr Phillip is totally shitting
you.
Syr
Phillip doesn’t want to be King. Never has, never will. He’s just
leading you on to get you to sleep with him. Which isn’t
necessarily a bad thing, as long as you know that’s what he’s
doing—”

“First of all Pegeen, I am
not
shitting you.
Second of all, Syr Phillip is
not
shitting me about Crown
Tournament. I have independent verification from Baroness Barlonda.
Syr Phillip hired her to make matching royalty garb for us. He paid
her six thousand dollars, in advance.”

“Holy guacamole,” Pegeen says, stunned. “Is that why
Barlonda called here yesterday looking for you?”

“Yep,” I say, triumphant. “She came over to my place
and took measurements and showed me some fabric samples. Syr
Phillip wants her to make us super-fancy matching royalty garb to
wear when we’re King and Queen together.”

Pegeen clucks. “Really. So he’s that sure he’s going
to win?”

“He’s pretty sure. Not absolutely positive, but he
is quite confident.”

Pegeen lets out a long, slow breath. “Well, Lees,
you have my apologies. Maybe Syr Phillip really is serious about
you. Especially if he’s going to fight Crown Tournament now that he
actually has a chance to win.”

“He told me he’s had plenty of chances to win
before,” I retort, a little stung. “He said—he said he just didn’t
fight before because being king is so expensive, and now that he
finally makes enough money and has a steady girlfriend who’s
willing to be Queen, he’s—“

Pegeen holds up her hand and gives me a serious
look. “Well, that’s partially true, Lees, but there’s another,
bigger reason why he never fought in Crown—”

“Syr Phillip
did
fight in Crown once before.
Several years ago, when he lost in the second round.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Pegeen says, her tone
severe. “There’s a big reason why Syr Phillip didn’t fight in Crown
since the last time he fought and lost. And it doesn’t have
anything to do with money, or his lack of a serious girlfriend, or
anything else he may tell you. It has to do with who
beat
him in Crown Tournament the last time he fought. Did he tell you
who beat him in the second round?"

“No.”

“Remember when I told you never to bring up Syr
Phillip’s family to him, to never talk to him about his parents,
especially his dad?”

“Yes,” I say, remembering.

“Well, that’s because Syr Phillip’s dad—who is
currently the king of Aethelmarc, mind you—is the one who beat him
at the last Crown he fought in. Syr Phillip lost to his
dad
.
Not only that, his dad
won
that Crown Tournament and became
King of the Midrealm. Now Syr Phillip’s dad is a good fighter, but
he’s also well past sixty and very overweight, out of shape, and
has had at least a couple of heart attacks, so a lot of people were
surprised that Syr Phillip lost to him at all. Some people say his
dad only won because he cheated. I don’t know if that’s true, but
Syr Phillip and his dad apparently haven’t spoken since.”

“Are you sure, Pegeen?”

“It’s pretty much common SCA knowledge, Lees. I
heard that story at my second event. His dad beat his own son at
Crown, even though Syr Phillip was only 25 at the time, had just
been knighted, and was considered one of the best fighters in SCA
history even then.”