Naughty Bits 2 (30 page)

“Fuck me,” I say, and you're only too happy to oblige.

With one hand still flat against the wall, you slide the other beneath my ass. I've got my arms around your neck, my legs wrapped around you, your prick so deep inside me I feel it in my belly. And you move, not bothering to start slow.

You fuck me so hard we rattle the bridles and bits; we shake the wall. We shake the fucking mountains.

I watch your eyes flutter. It's the look you get just before you come, and I come, too. Hard. Like splintering. I kiss you when I come, your mouth beneath mine sweet and open, and I steal your breath.

I swallow your shout.

You thrust again. Your body quakes and shudders; so does mine. We come together with small, sharp cries that drown out the faraway sound of the tractor and the soft, sweet chirpings of nested birds.

 

The first thing Eve saw when the elevator door opened on the fourth floor was Lane. Today he wore a sleek, chest-hugging black T-shirt and a pair of jeans that gave her palpitations. They wanted to ride low on his hips, those damned jeans, but Lane had belted them tight to his waist with a shiny buckled belt. He wore boots, too, scuffed and black and worn from hard work, but clean.

“Hey, cowboy.” Debbie gave Lane the slow, thorough, up-and-down appraisal Eve wished she could risk, but then
Debbie was about as subtle as a wiener dog with a sock toy. “Nice buckle.”

Lane tipped an imaginary hat and gave them both a grin of such blinding brilliance Eve had to look away. “Well, thank you, ma'am.”

He looked at Eve, who felt the weight of his gaze even though she was unable to look at his face. “See you, Eve.”

Both women stared in silence after him as he strode down the center of the pod forest and disappeared around the corner.

Debbie nudged Eve with her elbow. “I would ride him like a pony.”

“I bet you would,” Eve said,
but you couldn't handle him
is what she thought.

“Tell me you wouldn't? Lane DeMarco is ten kinds of sexy.” Debbie followed Eve to her cubicle. “He has an ass that just won't quit. Did you see those jeans? Jesus, Eve. Tell me you noticed the jeans. And the boots!”

She'd seen them, all right. She'd seen all of it. The only thing that would have made him look any better would have been a battered leather hat pulled low over his eyes, and not even Lane could get away with that at work. He had been waiting for her to get off the elevator, she was convinced of that. His look had convinced her.

It had been a challenge, but then so had what she'd written, hadn't it?

She settled into her chair, her hands moving to her keyboard automatically, though they felt too numb to actually type.

“Thank God for the casual dress code, huh? Gawd,” Debbie said with another peek around the pod wall. “Do you think he does it on purpose?”

“Does what?”

“He's a cowboy, Eve. A cowboy!”

The last word ended with a squeak that made Eve look up. “I noticed.”

It would have been impossible not to.

“I don't understand how you can be so immune to it, that's all,” Debbie said, proving she really was clueless. “The man is a god, pure and simple. A sex god.”

He was more than that, Eve thought, her fingers tap-tapping on the keys. But someone like Debbie wouldn't ever see that. “Don't you have work to do?”

Debbie sighed. “Hell, yes. And dammit, nothing's broken.” She gave a wicked chuckle. “Yet.”

Eve logged in, but her fingers fumbled too often on the keys and she made stupid typing errors. She messed up the simplest tasks, had to read the same customer replies two and three times to make sense of them and was, generally speaking, a mess.

How could she have not seen this before? He'd asked her about the monster marathon. He'd brought her coffee because he thought it was what she wanted. He was a cowboy today for the same reason.

Lane DeMarco was Tell_me.

She couldn't deny it any longer. The subtle clues she'd chosen to ignore had been cast aside. He was challenging her to admit she knew it was him.

Lane was her online lover. Tears of anger or sorrow—she couldn't tell which—clogged her throat and blurred the computer screen. How could she have been so blind? And how long had he known?

“Move over.” The grumble-growl of Lane's voice took her by surprise, but he didn't wait for her to obey. He pushed her chair gently so it rolled to the side. His fingers tapped her keyboard.

“What are you doing?” Eve kept her voice pitched low, but couldn't keep the anger from her tone. “Get out of here.”

Lane threw her a glance. “They're doing an inspection today. Too many complaints about slow or poor service. They're
checking all Internet usage. People who've been going online for personal use are going to get written up, Eve. Or fired.”

Her jaw dropped. “Can they do that?”

He nodded, mouth set in a grim line. “Haven't you been reading the memos?”

“Yes, but—”

He typed faster. Scrolling lines of files appeared and vanished just as fast. Delete. Delete. Delete. He worked swiftly, without hesitation.

“I don't need to ask how you knew I was online this week, do I?” Eve said.

Lane shook his head.

“It's the same way you knew it was me all along, wasn't it? From the time when you left the coffee.”

He nodded.

She let her gaze cover him from head to toe, every inch, and if her scrutiny made him uncomfortable he didn't show it. At last she looked him in the eyes. He was the same Lane she'd known for years, the guy with the smile, but he was more than that now.

And it wasn't what she wanted.

“Thanks,” Eve said coolly and turned back to her monitor. “I'd better get back to work.”

She sensed him hesitating in the entrance to her pod, but he said nothing, and when she looked up, he was gone.

 

Gone. All of it was gone. All the entries she'd spent so many hours crafting. All the comments, the compliments, the conversations. She'd deleted all of it with a few keystrokes, even her instant-messaging account. Eris Apparent was gone.

She hadn't been to work for the past few days. She wasn't sick, but had called in anyway, unable to face him. Unable to give him what he wanted.

“You let me down,” she scolded her computer in an
attempt at levity she didn't feel. “You were supposed to protect me.”

At least it would help her find a new job. Getting away from Digiquest couldn't be a bad thing. She'd already sent in applications to two other, larger support firms where the pay and benefits were better. It would be good to make a break, she thought as she clicked through to another job listing. Two years was a long time to be stuck in a job she didn't really like.

She'd ordered pizza, so when the doorbell rang she thought nothing of it. She should've known better, of course. Wasn't a hot pizza delivery boy one of those clichéd fantasies she'd never written?

“Can I come in?” Lane leaned in her doorway looking more deliciously edible than any pizza ever could.

“No.”

“Eve.” If he'd tried to wheedle or charm her she'd have sent him away at once, but against his quiet plea she could do nothing. “Please.”

She stepped aside, granting him entrance without saying a word. He pushed past her, looking too big for her living room. He turned to face her, his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. Damn him, the ones she liked.

“You haven't been to work,” he said.

“I took some personal time.” She didn't sit or offer him a chair.

“Because of me?”

She meant to deny it, but instead a sigh slipped from her mouth. “Yes. Because of you.”

“You deleted your blog, too.”

“You should have told me it was you!” she cried suddenly, and he stepped back.

“Would you have replied if you'd known?” Lane challenged her.

“No!”

He smiled. “I thought you'd figure it out.”

“I did,” Eve said in a low voice. “I just didn't want to believe it.”

“Why not?” He sounded curious. For an instant she saw the words on a screen as if she were reading them. How much of a difference his voice made.

“Because…” She trailed off. “The blog…it was a way for me to be someone else. And I really wanted to be someone else, Lane.”

“I like who you are, Eve.”

She laughed, scornful. “You liked Eris.”

“And you liked Tell_me.”

“It wasn't real!” she shouted. “None of it was real!”

“Is this real?” Lane demanded, and kissed her.

She melted into him. His mouth parted, and hers did, too. He tasted exactly how she'd always known he would. He felt even better than she'd ever imagined.

“This isn't going to work,” she warned, voice hoarse, but made no move to step out of his arms.

“It will,” he promised, his fingers already going to her buttons. “I promise.”

“How?” Eve gasped when his bare skin touched hers.

Lane's slow smile went straight between her thighs as usual. “Easy. Tell me what you want.”

She gulped in a breath at hearing him say it aloud. Something flickered in his gaze when she didn't respond at once; she felt the reflection of it in her own eyes, just before she took the chance and took his hand.

“This is what I want,” Eve said, and led him into the bedroom to make all their fantasies come true.

C
HARLOTTE
F
EATHERSTONE

London, 1876

IT WAS A DAY LIKE ANY OTHER. YET THERE WAS
something enchanted in the air that made Amelia think that this particular Tuesday would be very different from all the others.

Despite the real unease gripping her, Amelia looked about her surroundings, recognizing the fact that everything was just as it ought to be. There was nothing, not even a warning softy whispered through the tree branches that predicted what was to come.

Wiping away the dew on the bench, Amelia sat on the stone slab and looked around the little copse that was awakening to life after the long winter. With a sigh, she lifted her face to the cool breeze and closed her eyes, relishing the sounds of chirping birds, the rustle of the wind through the leafless tree branches and the promise of a beautiful spring day that scented the air. Even the funerary statues surrounding her seemed to glow with beauty, wonder and life.

Most would say that a cemetery in the heart of London was a macabre and disturbing place to spend a few hours of solitude. But Amelia found comfort in the quiet, in the privacy of her little spot, as if it were her very own garden.

How long it was before she heard the sound of carriage
wheels clacking against cobbles, she had no idea. Despite the dew smudging her spectacles and the black lace veil she used to cover her face, Amelia could make out a well-appointed carriage with shining black lacquered doors and an elaborate gold crest. Tassels fixed in the center of the window shades swayed gently back and forth, drawing her eye to the lavish length of gold bullion fringe that edged the scalloped contours of the cream velvet shades. She recognized the carriage and the regal crest it bore. Knew the features of the occupant as well as she knew her own.

Yes, she knew the man inside the carriage, but did he know her? Could he see her? Did he know who it was standing amid the statutes with her face veiled?

There was a flicker of darkness—a shadow—that moved across the pale interior, compelling her to look deep within the carriage. She had never seen him like this, at this time of day. It had never been just the two of them, looking at each other. And even though a lane and fence lay between them, Amelia had never felt more intimate with him than she did now.

The shadow shifted once more in the depths of the carriage interior. Then she saw him, another movement of sifting light that revealed him and his black, wild-looking hair and penetrating eyes that seemed to burn straight into her as if he could see through her lace disguise.

What she wouldn't trade in order to have him see her—to notice that she existed.

He settled back against the cushions and the carriage moved on, rolling down the cobbles. Amelia could no longer see his beautiful face, and she was glad for it. For this obsession was only one-sided. It could never be more than that—a secret, forbidden fantasy—no matter how much she wished for it to be otherwise.

Turning, Amelia walked away from the copse, toward the path that would lead her back to the gate—and the reality of her life.

HE COULD NOT RECALL THE PRECISE DATE WHEN
he had first glimpsed her through his carriage window, yet that day was still so fresh, so evocative in his mind. Time seemed to stop as she stood aglow in the center of a glittering sunbeam that had found its way through the gently waving tree limbs.

As his carriage had bounced and swayed its way down Swain's Lane, he watched the lone figure of the woman, her head bent as if she were reading, or praying, or perhaps even silently weeping. He had fancied her a mystical fairy or angel as she sat down on a bench beneath a stone seraph, the stippled sunlight dancing off her black bonnet and netted veil. He had been unable to move his gaze from her, a lone figure amidst the statues.

“Stop the coach!” he ordered his driver.

How long he had his coachman hold his team of blacks in the middle of the lane while he watched her that day, he had no idea. How long had he been waiting now, at the gates of Highgate Cemetery, desiring a glimpse of her, he knew not.

Since that fateful day when he had first discovered her, he had made the weekly trek to Highgate, hoping for another stolen glimpse of her. That was nearly a month ago.

She came only once a week. On Tuesday mornings she
arrived, dressed in a drab woolen gray gown, the skirts of which were bustled high in the back. Her long cloak was plain and unadorned, giving nothing away of her shape. Her bonnet, a simple black confection, was tied primly beneath her chin. Black satin ties whipped in the breeze beneath the long lace veil she used to cover her face.

Once a week he saw her from beyond the bars of the iron fence. Once a week he silently watched her—studied her, never allowing himself to give in to his impulse and go to her.

Once a week he allowed himself to see her. The other six days he was consumed by thoughts of her.

The sound of his mount's reins jangling in the quiet of the peaceful morning brought him abruptly back to the present. The gelding, stepping sideways, snorted and pranced, anxious to be cantering off to Hyde Park and his morning run on Rotten Row. “Just another moment,” Adrian muttered, tightening his gloved hand around the leather reins. “She has only just arrived.”

Pressing forward in the saddle, he inched to the right and saw her walking amongst the seraphim that stood sentry around the grove.
Find me beyond these black bars and see me
, he whispered to her.

Somehow she heard him from across the sunlit space that separated them. Slowly, she looked at him over her shoulder. With a small nod and tip of his hat, he acknowledged her, then pressed his knees into the gelding's sides. She was aware. He would let that awareness grow into something stronger—
need
. And when he was certain her need was at least half as strong as his, he would go to her. Only then would he learn everything there was to know about this woman who made him dream such beautiful, erotic dreams throughout the night.

 

She was playing a very dangerous game by returning to Highgate week after week. Yet she could not stop herself from
coming, from experiencing those few minutes of his undivided attention. He would never know how she clutched those memories of him to her breast. Those minutes alone with him, despite the distance, were so very dear to her—as if she were the only woman in the world to him.

Yes, but what if he were to discover what you are?
the nasty voice inside her asked. What if, contrary to her beliefs, he had recognized her? Her life would be ruined. Yet here she sat, wishing to see him, feeling her blood heat at just the thought of him.

What a fool she was to delude herself that he would feel anything for her, least of all desire. She was not a beautiful woman. She was plain. She wore spectacles. She was nobody. That was her reality.

This morning, she had neglected to wear her spectacles in hope she might actually come face-to-face with him. But he had not come today, and as a consequence she had stumbled about the grove half-blind.

Grumbling over her stupidity and unusual pride, Amelia stood up from the bench and reached for the strings of the reticule that dangled from her wrist. As she looked down, a blurred image of a gloved hand resting atop her fingers swam before her. With a gasp she looked up and faltered back a step.

“At last we have come face-to-face.”

“I didn't think you were coming today,” she whispered. As soon as she said the words, she wanted to kick herself for being so foolish—so transparently needy.

He took a step closer to her, she felt his gloved hand encase hers before he raised it to his mouth. “I have been here all morning, waiting.”

Reluctantly she turned her gaze from his face in order to watch his lips press against her gloved knuckles. “I didn't see you.”

“I did not wish for you to see me. I wanted to watch you
unseen. I wanted to discover everything I could about you before this moment.”

What had he discovered? Did he know her secret? Panic gripped her and her fingers began to tremble in his hand. She tried to pull away, to run, but his long fingers encased her palm, holding her tight.

“Tell me your name,” he asked in a silky voice that felt like a caress—a sensual, tempting touch she felt snaking along her body.

She shouldn't be doing this. He was a lord, a peer of the realm. Again, she reminded herself that she was no one, and if he were to discover her identity and expose her secret, she would be thrust back to the same horrific world she had once crawled out from.

“Your name?”

“Emmy,” she told him, using the name her father had called her when she was a small child. He cocked his head to the side and studied her with his blue-green eyes.

“I am Adrian, Emmy.”

She shuddered at the intimacy of hearing his voice murmur her name; she wished she possessed the strength to say his aloud, but she couldn't bring herself to.

“Who are you, Emmy?”

“No one,” she replied, savoring the gentle touch of his fingers running along the back of her hand.

How many nights had she dreamed of this, his touch, his large warm hands caressing her? So many nights. So many long, cold—
empty
—nights.

“Do you come here to write?” he asked. “I've seen you with pen and book.”

“No.”

“An artist, then? You study the statuary as if you were a connoisseur.”

“I am just a woman.”

“Not just. If you were just any sort of female I would not
be here. I would not have come every week for over a month just to see you and watch you from afar. No, not just any woman, Emmy.”

“I…I must leave,” she stuttered, pulling away from him, fearing her weakness. It frightened her, this unbridled response to him. It terrified her to know it was not only her body responding to this man, but her mind, her heart—
her soul
.

“Don't run, Emmy. We have both waited for this moment.”

“I…I can't.”

“Next week you will be here. You won't run and never come back to me?”

When she did not immediately answer, he brought her chest up to his and held her close. Her body absorbed the heat radiating from his broad chest, chasing away the dampness of the morning. “You will promise me now, that next week you will be here. You have to return, Emmy, because I have to see you.
I have to
.”

Her heart soared upon hearing his low, fervent words. Dazed, Amelia nodded, unable to do anything else but clasp his words to her breast and hold them tight. One more week, she told herself, just once more, and then she would never again return to Highgate.