Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures
JULY 21
10:11 p.m.
Room 438 of local motel
Well, I’m freakin’ exhausted. Who knew that driving from New York City to Buffalo would be so tiring, but holy hellballs was it!
Getting ahead of myself. Let me do this in proper order.
“Don’t you look sharp!” Angela said at six forty-five a.m., when we were gathering in Times Square to set off on our great adventure. There were a few local news crews in attendance, most of whom were talking to Roger. Kell, in his attempt to increase his importance, stood next to Roger and could be seen posturing and mouthing inanities. I wished I’d remembered to ask Dixon what he’d thought of his carmate and made a note to do so at a later time.
“How pretty those dresses are,” Angela added.
“Do you like it?” I did a twirl. “I have to admit the lace top is pretty, although I’m not sure how much I’m going to like being in an ankle-length skirt all day. Did you see my cool boots? They’re very steampunk.” I lifted the navy blue twill skirt, which bore twin lines of brass buttons down the front, and showed Angela my lace-up boots.
“Very nice, dear. You look so elegant. Doesn’t she, Peter?”
Daddy growled something. “You take this. You stay safe.”
“If that’s a gun,” I said, pointing at the small leather pouch he tried to press into my hands, “then I absolutely will not take it. Dad, I am not in any danger. The film crew will be with us, and I’ll have Melody and Louise with me all day long, and Melody says she has a black belt.”
“What about night?” he asked, his scowl black with suspicion. “English stays with you?”
“I’m sure he’ll be at the same hotel, but if you are asking if we’ll be spending the night together, then you can just stop being so worried. I have no intention of hooking up with him. He’s just a nice man.”
“Hooking up? What is?”
“Sex! As in, having sex with Dixon! Which I won’t be doing!” I said loudly, slapping my hands on my skirt-covered thighs. Lucky me, right at that moment not only did Sam and Tabby come over to film us getting into the suffragette car, but so did the local news station.
Everyone stared at me for the count of four.
Tabby raised her eyebrows and looked at Sam, who had lowered the camera. “Five bucks says they’re shacked up before we get to the other coast.”
“Ten says they won’t even make it that far,” Sam answered.
I pointed a finger at them, saying, “Don’t you start with me! I’m in a corset with my internal organs smooshed together and have a deranged father to deal with.”
Tabby laughed.
“You take,” Dad said, and shoved the leather pouch at me.
“No!” I kissed Angela on the cheek, then turned to repeat the gesture with my father. “Go home. I’ll e-mail and text you periodically and let you know I’m alive, have all my fingers, and haven’t been kidnapped. I love you both. Good-bye.”
Dad started making a fuss, but Angela pulled him back. Sam resumed filming and caught about a minute of Melody and me posing next to our gleaming white car, which now had a huge decal on the hood announcing we were part of the New York to Paris race. The car itself was heavily laden with various boxes strapped to the running boards containing things like tools, spare water and oil, a tiny bit of gas in case we ran out in an inhospitable place, a first aid kit, some emergency food and drinking water, and a waterproof map. Onto the back were strapped six spare tires and a small American flag.
Louise, who had been posing with her father while the news crew interviewed him, hurried over when she saw Sam and Tabby and immediately began telling them what an honor it was for her, the leader of this team, to be the person to start the race.
“Think she’ll lighten up any during the trip?” I asked Melody in an undertone. She was wearing a cute black-and-white shirt and skirt, with a straw boater hat bearing the purple and green colors of the suffragettes. My hat was a big cream affair with lashings of white net veil and a pair of goggles in cream and brass.
Melody wrapped her own modest bit of net around her hat, anchoring it to her head with a long hat pin. “We can hope, but I rather doubt she’s going to let any chance in front of the camera escape her. Does it bother you much?”
“Not really. I don’t mind being in the background. It gives me a chance to watch everyone and take notes.”
“Goggles on, ladies!” Roger announced, marching over to us. “It’s almost seven, and we need to get you all on your way by eight when the street is reopened.”
Our goggles had buckles at the back, so I slipped mine on and got them buckled up underneath the veil. Then, with a wave at my parents, I climbed into the backseat with my notebook in hand. Melody took the navigator’s seat while Louise made a great show of getting behind the wheel, her enormous pink-and-cream hat with flowers, feathers, and a couple of fake birds now swathed in veil.
I waved to the crowd and crew members and caught a glimpse of Dixon when he emerged from behind a group of tourists. He was dressed in a dark brown suit with vest and coat and had a derby hat on his head. He looked absolutely at ease in his Edwardian clothes, and I had the worst urge to ask him if they made him wear period underwear, too.
OK. I admit that ever since that kiss last night, visions of him parading around without clothes, Edwardian or otherwise, occupied my mind. I banished those thoughts, knowing full well that although Dixon might be a little flirty, it didn’t mean anything. He’d made it quite clear that he was still mourning his lost love.
“Such a shame, too,” I said to myself as I strapped on very nonperiod seat belts that the insurance people had insisted be installed in all the cars.
“What’s that?” Melody turned around, yelling over the sound of the engine. Although the people who made the cars had used more modern engines so that it wouldn’t take us six months to make the journey, there was no room for things like mufflers (or, as I found out a few hours later, shocks), so the motor was quite loud.
“Go!” Roger said, consulting his watch.
With a cheer from the crowd and a grinding from the gearbox as Louise did the clutch/acceleration dance, we set off, Tabby and Sam right behind us in an open convertible. Clipped to the front of the flat windscreen was a black video camera that caught our conversation and actions in the car. Louise started a stream-of-consciousness talk to the camera, telling it all about herself and how she loved driving, simply loved driving, and was very competitive, and just hoped that the rest of her team would be up for the long hours she planned to spend driving so that we would win the race and all the glory.
Cars honked as we proceeded out of the city. Almost immediately, we were sucked up in New York City traffic and came to a standstill, hemmed in on all sides by taxis, cars, delivery trucks, and lots and lots of people.
“Well, this is disappointing,” Louise complained as we crawled our way toward one of the tunnels out of the city. “You’d think they would have cleared a path for us since we’re filming a show.”
“Reality TV at its best,” I yelled from the backseat, and made a few notes on just what my thoughts were at this exciting moment. Somehow, they ended up being mostly focused on Dixon’s clothes, what he looked like without them, and a speculation of just how long it took a person to stop grieving over a dead fiancée.
The openness of our Thomas Flyer made it a bit difficult to write when we were actually moving, so once we had cleared the city I tucked away my journal, only to find the leather pouch that my father had evidently slipped down beside the seat without me seeing.
“Dammit, Daddy . . .” I opened up the pouch and saw, as I had expected, a small gun. My father had made sure I knew how to shoot most firearms early on in my life, so I just rolled my eyes at this one, made sure to remove the clip from it, and stuffed it down between the two red leather seats at the same time I made a mental note to hand it over to Roger later.
We had made it out of the city (just) when all hell broke loose. We’d been driving along at the speed limit, waving when passing cars honked at us and making sure to make some comments to the in-car camera (when Louise wasn’t soliloquizing), but all of a sudden there was an ugly metal sound and the car swerved violently to the right, almost sending us through a guardrail. Louise screamed and started pumping what she thought was the brake but later determined was the clutch. Melody, with presence of mind, grabbed the wheel when Louise covered her face, screaming, “We’re going to crash! We’re going to crash!”
She must have hit the brake in her frenzy of pedal-pushing, because we slowed down almost instantly and Melody got us pulled over onto the shoulder.
“What the hell happened?” I asked, unbuckling my seat belt. Behind us, the convertible with Tabby and Sam pulled up.
“I don’t know, but I suspect it was something to do with the tires or suspension,” Melody said, and looked meaningfully at me.
“Oh. Mechanical stuff. That’s me, huh?” I got to my feet, grabbed the small notebook I’d used to take notes on how to do things on the car, and hopped over the side to the ground. Sure enough, the right back tire looked like an alien had exploded from it.
“We blew a tire!” I yelled over the sound of traffic as it raced past us.
“Well, get busy with the repair,” Louise demanded in a bossy sort of tone that I could tell was going to jangle my nerves.
“Do you need help?” Melody asked, crawling over the front seat to the back.
“No, no, I have this under control,” I said, propping open my notebook and reading the tire changing instructions. “Let’s see, wrench, jack, grease pot . . . got it.” I opened up one of the boxes strapped to the running board and dug around until I found the wrench and grease pot. The next box gave up the jack and a long light olive green apron that I was told to put on so as not to get my costumes dirty. I set my hat, veil, and goggles on the seat, smiled at Sam and the camera, donned the apron, and tried out another wrench twirl. “Right! Suffragette power time, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Oh, get on with it!” Louise snapped.
“Sheesh,” I said, kneeling painfully on the gravel. “Hold your girdle on, lady. Er . . . corset.” I grinned for the camera and, using the hand pump, got the jack under the side of the car nearest the tire. Another car pulled up behind us while I was wrestling with the bolts in the center of the tire.
“Need a hand?”
I glanced up to see Dixon. “Oh, hi.”
“Hello.” He glanced at Sam and Tabby. “That looks like difficult work. Might I lend some assistance?”
I couldn’t hold back a little giggle, saying softly, “That sounded very Edwardian.”
“Thank you. I tried.” He cleared his throat and said louder, “Would you like me to try my hand on those bolts?”
“Sure thing,” I said, handing him the wrench. “These clincher tires are a pain in the butt, if you want to know the truth.”
“I’m sure they are.”
“What the hell is going on?” Kell stormed over, saw the cameras, and immediately ratcheted up his anger a few notches. “Do you have any idea of how much time we are losing, Ainslie? Not to mention the fact that you are helping the competition.” He turned to face the camera dead-on. “I’d like to formally complain that my teammate is trying to sabotage our team!”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Dixon said, grunting when he put his weight on the wrench. One of the bolts was being obstinate, but he got it loosened just as Kell was demanding to see Roger to have Dixon thrown out of the race.
“Look, buster,” I said, getting to my feet. Louise, who realized that a scene was being enacted and wanted to be a part of it, had climbed out of the car and was twirling her veil while standing next to Kell. “I realize this is a race, but it doesn’t mean that people have to act like asshats.”
Tabby snickered. Sam raised an eyebrow.
“Can I say asshat on TV?” I asked them.
Sam shrugged.
“You stay out of this, you . . . suffragette,” Kell said, hissing the word.
I straightened up. “Dude. This is my tire that Dixon kindly—because he’s a gentleman, not a poseur—is helping me with. So take your drama elsewhere, preferably out of hearing because I have things to do.”
Kell sputtered a few choice phrases. Louise nodded and preened for the camera. Melody, looking over the edge of the car, smothered a laugh.
“Where’s the spare?” Dixon asked, having successfully removed the offending bolt. He pulled the tire off and looked up expectantly.
“Right here, but I can put it on. You guys had better get on your way, so Mr. Antsy-Pants there doesn’t have a stroke because you were being thoughtful and nice.”
“Are you sure? I can—”
“We are leaving,” Kell announced, and stalked back to the car. “With or without you!”
“Go,” I said, shooing him after Kell. “It’s way too early to encounter this sort of trouble.”
He smiled and took himself off.
I picked up one of the spares I’d removed from the rear of the car and called after him, “Thanks for your help, Mr. Ainslie. Good manners and sportsmanship are always pleasing to witness!”
“Nice touch,” Melody pronounced, nodding her approval.
“Is this going to take much longer?” Louise asked, frowning when Dixon’s car rolled past us. “I don’t want us to get behind. We have something to prove, after all.”
“Not long,” I said, forcing the wheel onto the plate. “Just have to tighten the bolts a few times . . .”
The “few times” took five minutes before I was convinced the wheel wouldn’t fall off while we drove at high speeds, but at last we were on our way, Tabby and Sam in their convertible zooming on ahead to catch up with some of the other racers.
“That was just annoying as hell,” Louise said, gritting her teeth as she ground the gears together trying to shift up. “Just my luck, I get saddled with the lame car.”
“It’s not lame,” I said loudly, winding my veil around my head a few times before tucking it into itself. “It’s a gorgeous car, and incidentally it’s the same kind that won the original race.”
“Hrmph,” she said, and spent the remainder of the day telling the windscreen camera her every little thought, from what it was like to have all the responsibility of success on her shoulders to how stupid Thomas Flyers drove and how she wanted to race in a sixties sports car and call her team Vlad the Impala.
With a brief stop at a Starbucks for some much-needed caffeine (and a potty break), Melody took over driving a few hours later, and I took my turn late in the afternoon.
“Hey,” I said about an hour into my stint at being the driver. “That looks like one of us ahead.”
“Where?” Louise, who had been reclining on the backseat with her phone, sat up straight.
I pointed to the side of the road about an eighth of a mile ahead and began to slow down.
“What are you doing? You can’t stop!” Louise shrieked, pounding me on the shoulder.
“Are you kidding? Did you forget that Dixon stopped to help us just a few hours ago?” I pulled up behind them, putting on the massive hand brake. “I’m not going to just blaze past them.”
“That was the English team’s choice. Our team is going for the win. Don’t you dare leave this car! Paulie! Dammit! Melody, stop her!”
“Sorry. I’m with Paulie on this,” Melody said, following me. She had the presence of mind to snag the big flat metal key that was used to trigger the ignition mechanism.
“You guys need some help?” I asked, approaching the car ahead of us. The three Italians, dressed in sporty white Edwardian motoring suits, each embroidered with their names, turned, their goggles glinting in the afternoon sun.
“The radiator, she is not happy,” the one named Luca said, flashing me a brief smile.
“It’s not the radiator—it’s the gas. We are out,” said Carlo.
“We have some extra gas—” I started to say.
“No! We do not!” Louise stomped over to us. She punched me painfully on the arm. “You are not giving away our gas. What if we need it? Then we’d be stuck and would lose the race, and all because you want to play hide the Italian salami with Rico here.”
“The name is Carlo—” he started to protest.
“You are seriously offensive—do you know that?” I told Louise. “I just hope the cameras didn’t get any of that, because you’ll be hearing from the Italian-American community if it did.”
“It is not petrol,” the third member, Francesco, said. They all spoke English very well, but had thick Italian accents that, had I not preferred a nice crisp English accent, might have melted my knees. “We have petrol.”
“I thought we all had extra emergency petrol?” Melody asked, glancing at their car.
“We have, yes,” Francesco said. “It is something with the engine.”
“Oh. Well, I’m not going to be much help with that,” I said.
“It’s all right,” he said, giving his car a rueful look.
“I wish there was something we could do to help you. I have a cell phone if you need to call Roger—”
“Speak of the devil,” Melody said, looking behind us. “There’re the Germans, and Roger is right behind them.”
Indeed, at that moment the German ladies drove by with a blast of their horn and friendly waves. Behind them drove the sedan bearing Roger and an assistant. Their car pulled up in front of the Italians, and Roger emerged with Graham the mechanic.
“Oh, good. The cavalry has arrived, gentlemen.”
Immediately they went to consult with Roger and Graham, and with nothing more to do, we returned to our car. Louise said nothing more about the incident, but I felt her glaring daggers into the back of my head as we drove along.
Driving the Thomas Flyer was kind of a mixed bag: it was a fun old car, and people honked and waved and gave us thumbs-up signs, but the actual act of steering, not to mention shifting into other gears, was a huge strain on the shoulders and arms. We agreed to limit our driving time to just two hours before switching to eliminate fatigue.
“All right, but if the cameraman is with us, then I drive,” Louise said, punching viciously at her phone. “After all, I am supposed to be the driver.”
“I’ll be happy to let you have my shift if you’re so anxious to be seen driving,” I said sweetly, pulling into the parking lot of the hotel we were to stay at that night. At the far end of the lot, a station had been set up for the racers to check in. I glanced at Melody as we rolled over to the waiting crew. “How bad is it?”
She consulted her watch and a clipboard holding the race information. “Well, we’re twenty minutes late. That’s two infractions. But given that we had a blowout, I don’t think that’s too bad.”
“Two infractions?” Louise’s voice went up a whole octave as I pulled up. “Two effing infractions? This is bullshit! Where’s my dad? I am not going to stay with a team that can’t be bothered to try to adhere to the rules. Two infractions on the first effing day!”
“Team Sufferin’ Suffragettes,” the crew member said, checking us in. “I’m afraid that you are twenty minutes past your allotted time.”
“I know. We had a tire issue.”
“And then she—” Louise scrambled out of the car and pointed dramatically at me. “She made us lose time by stopping to help another team. I shouldn’t be punished for that! I wanted to keep going, but she made us stop. I want those infractions taken off of my name. I refuse to be a victim!”
Melody rolled her eyes and made a note of our score on the car’s logbook.
“I’m afraid the scoring is based on teams, not individuals,” the poor crew person tried to explain, but Louise was in full drama mode and stormed around insisting that someone get ahold of her father, who would straighten everything out.
“If you would pull over to the section of the parking lot that is secured,” another crew person told me, pointing to the far end where a couple of RVs had been set up. I remembered vaguely hearing that the crew people would be watching the cars for us while we were in the U.S., but it would be up to us to keep the cars safe when we were abroad.
“Looks like we’re the last people,” I said, noting the cars already parked.
“Second to last. I think the Italian team is still behind us. At least, I haven’t seen them pass us.” Melody collected her things and left the car.
I stretched, greeted the woman who came over to take the car’s flat key, and asked if we were second to last.
“I’m afraid so,” the crew member said, giving me a cheerful smile. “But don’t worry—it’s only the first day, and you have a long way to go. You can make it up.”
“True that.” I chatted for a few minutes more, then went to find my hotel room. On my way there, a white car pulled into a parking spot ahead of me. I wouldn’t have noticed it except for the fact that, as I approached, the person inside the car ducked down. I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye as I was about to round the corner to the hotel’s lobby and paused to glance back.
A bald head bobbed up, saw me standing still, and disappeared again.
“He didn’t! Dad, this time you have gone too far!” Anger fired inside me at the sight of that bald head. Quickly, I walked to the car and wrenched the door open, saying as I did, “Boris, so help me god, if you think I was kidding when I said I’d tell the producers you were stalking—oh. Uh . . .”
A man sat up, a bald man to be true, but this one was most definitely not my father’s henchman.
One of his black eyebrows rose in question.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I said, stammering a little when my words tumbled over one another in their haste to apologize. “I thought you were someone else. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll just shut your door now, all right? You can go back to . . . er . . . whatever it is you were doing bent over like that.”
I closed the car door and, with flaming cheeks, marched into the lobby, cursing myself under my breath, which continued mentally while I collected my room key, was informed that there would be a meeting the following morning at seven a.m. before the day’s racing started, and took the elevator to the fourth floor, where the production company had reserved the entire floor for racers and crew.
“What room are you in?” Melody asked, an empty ice bucket in her hand as she came toward me, clearly on her way to the ice machine.
I looked at the plastic key card in my hand. “Four thirty-eight.”
“Oh, good. I’m across the hall from you. Take a left at the end of this hallway. I’m just getting some ice for some cold drinks with the French team. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Sounds awesome, but first I’m going to get out of this corset and then take a long, cool shower. I may join you later, if that’s OK.”
“Absolutely. I’m going to hop in the shower as well. I feel all gritty from the open car.” She gave me a smile and tapped her chest. “There’s one benefit to being the bluestocking character, and that’s the fact that my corset is the Rational style, and not at all bad to wear.”
I wiggled my shoulders uncomfortably and continued my way down the corridor, saying as I left, “I sure wish I’d had the presence of mind to claim that character. This thing is ghastly.”
“I’ll lace you up tomorrow if you like,” she called after me. “And I’ll do it looser than wardrobe did for you this morning.”
“Just so I fit into the pretty clothes.” I toddled on to my room, immediately switching on the air-conditioning, pleased to see that my suitcase had been delivered by the production company. In addition, a wicker basket sat on the bed, as well as a large round hatbox. One of the production assistants handled mending and spot cleaning as needed, but for the most part we were expected to take care of our outfits ourselves. With the exception of our underclothes, which were collected every three days and returned to us laundered.
I removed the lace shirt and tried desperately to reach the cords of my corset, tied in such a way that I was supposed to be able to undo it myself (Melody and I had already agreed to be corset buddies and lace each other up in the morning), but I couldn’t get my arms twisted around to untie the laces.
“Dammit,” I muttered, spinning around to try to get at them. After five frustrating minutes, I gave up and peeked out into the hallway. It was empty, but there were two doors across from me, neither of which was directly opposite me. I frowned at them, hesitated, then figured that, even if I got the room that wasn’t inhabited by Melody, whoever was there would be able to help me.
I tapped at the door just as a man came around the corner. It was the bald man from the car. He stopped, gave me a hard stare, then did an about-face and returned the way he came.
“Well, that’s odd,” I said aloud.
“What is? It couldn’t be the fact that you’re all but baring your breasts to me, could it?”
The door had opened while I was staring after the odd man, revealing Dixon in a pair of jeans and an open shirt. I stared at his naked chest for a moment, all thoughts fleeing my brain except for the wonder and awe at how gorgeous his chest was.
“Paulie?” he asked.
“Hmm?” Really, he had the nicest chest I’d ever seen on a man. He wasn’t smooth shaved, but wasn’t hugely hairy, either. He had a nice light dusting of reddish brown hair across his pectorals, sweeping down in a line to his belly button. He had the faintest hint of a six-pack, not ripped like someone who spent hours at a gym but enough definition that my fingers itched to stroke down the silky line of hair. I took a deep breath, curling my fingers into fists in order to keep from reaching out and touching his chest.
“Don’t do that,” he said, his voice kind of rough.
“Do what?” I asked, wrenching my gaze from his chest to his face.
“Take deep breaths.” He closed his eyes for a second. “It . . . does things.”
“It does?” I wondered if he’d gotten too much sun while driving.
“Yes. To your . . .” He waved a hand toward my chest and opened his eyes. “Did you want something in particular, or did you just drop by to flaunt your breasts at me?”
I looked down. I’d forgotten what the corset did to them, presenting them front and center. “No, actually. I was hoping you were Melody so I could get help taking off the corset.”
His eyes seemed to glaze over for a few seconds. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, gave a little cough, then said, “Can I be of assistance?”
I was in his room before my brain could even alert my mouth that there were words coming. “Sure! That would be awesome. I’d appreciate it a lot. You have no idea how rib-crushing these things are.”
His eyebrows rose a little, but after hesitating a second he closed the door and followed me into the room. “Not that I’m not happy to help you, but aren’t there hooks on the front you can undo? My sister used to be part of a reenactors group, and her corset had hooks she used to get in and out of it.”
“This isn’t one of those kinds of corsets, unfortunately.” I spun around so that he could have access to my back. “The laces seem to be knotted. I can’t get them undone. If you can take care of the knot, I can probably do the rest.”
“No need,” he said in a rather breathless voice as he started to work on the knot. “I’m happy to help.”
All sorts of smutty thoughts passed through my head while he tugged on the laces, everything from licking that wonderful chest to flinging him onto the bed and rubbing myself all over him. I was a little shocked at such thoughts, because I hadn’t at all intended on pursuing a romance with anyone, let alone the men in the race, but there was something about Dixon that caused my brain to override my common sense.
“I think—yes, I think this will do it.”
“Ahhh,” I said, sighing in relief as he got the laces undone and pulled the corset open wide. It sagged down in the front, revealing the skimpy fine-lawn camisole I wore underneath it. I scratched at my front beneath my boobs and took a couple of experimental deep breaths. “You have no idea how good this feels.”
“You have . . . erm . . . some red marks on your back.”
“Red marks?” I tried to see over my shoulder. “What sort of red marks? Oh god, they aren’t pimples, are they?”
“No, marks made by the corset, I believe. They’re above the line of your vest.”
“My vest . . . oh, undershirt. It’s a camisole, actually. Where are the marks? I can’t see them. Can you put a finger next to them so I can tell Roger where the corset is rubbing?”
“Just here.” His fingers swept along a spot on my left shoulder blade. I shivered. “And here.”
It was as if his fingers were made of molten gold, making my skin tingle where he touched.
“And . . . here.” His hand brushed a line down my spine, inside the camisole. I shivered again.
“Really? My whole back?” My breath seemed to be somewhat sparse, not enough of it filling my lungs.
“No. I just wanted to touch you.”
I turned around at that, pulling the loosened corset off over my head. We stared at each other for the count of seven, he with his bare chest and I almost bare with what was tantamount to a see-through camisole.
His eyes dilated. My breath caught even more, and suddenly I reached out with both hands and slid them up his chest to his shoulders.
He made an inarticulate noise, and that’s all it took. I knew I shouldn’t give in to the sudden rush of desire that seemed to grip me with burning fingers, but sanity—or even forethought—didn’t matter at that moment. What did matter was Dixon, specifically the ways and means his body was applied to mine. Without warning, I was against him, the camisole doing nothing to keep the heat of his chest from soaking into my breasts. His hands slid underneath my camisole to stroke my back while his mouth—oh lordy, his mouth! He tasted hot and spicy and slightly sweet, and did I mention hot? Hoo! We’re talking steaming-the-drapes sort of hot, and when his tongue got into the action, it went from steam to an inferno in a flash.
I pushed off his shirt, trying to touch all of him that I could reach, even while he kissed the very thoughts out of my head.
A noise in the hallway had us parting, but thankfully only briefly. I stared at him, one hand on my lips. “Wow,” I finally managed to say. My brain was too befuddled to come up with any other words.
“Indeed,” he said, and then we were smooshed together again and he was kissing me the way I’d secretly been wanting to be kissed ever since I’d set eyes on him.
“This is wrong,” he murmured at one point. I had paused stroking his chest and arms long enough for him to pull my camisole off, his hands instantly taking possession of my breasts.
“On the contrary,” I said with a little moan of happiness when his head dipped down so he could swirl his tongue over nipples that suddenly demanded that very act. “It’s so, so right. And left. Do the left.”
He did the left nipple, warm waves of pleasure rippling out from my breasts to pool deep in my stomach. My girl parts were tingling for all they were worth, demanding equal time with Dixon’s mouth and complaining that the breasts got all the fun.
“You’re right. I’m wrong. This is good. Very good,” he said, his breath hot when he kissed a path back up to my neck. He hit the spot behind my ear and I swear my legs turned to pudding. His hands left my breasts and went around to the back of me, fumbling with the skirt hooks.
“I’m so glad you agree. Shoes?” I had managed to get his fly unzipped and was sliding his jeans down, hooking my fingers into his underwear at the same time, but paused when I realized he was still wearing a pair of brogues.
“Yes, shoes,” he said, gently biting on my earlobe.
“Shoes are so good,” I said, squirming when my skirt sagged and slithered down to the floor with a rustle. Beneath it were a petticoat and bloomers, both of which Dixon handily dealt with.
I shoved his pants down over his hips, too caught up with the overwhelming surge of need topped with a huge dollop of lust to even think about the words that my mouth was babbling. All I knew was that I wanted him, and wanted him right then. Not a second later.
We stumbled our way over to the bed, half tripping over clothing, until I tumbled onto the bed, Dixon pausing only to shuck his shoes, pants, and underwear before joining me. I used the time to hastily fight at the laces of one of my boots. He obliged with the other one, and then we were both naked on the bed together, his body half covering mine as his mouth returned to pepper me with kisses of fire.
“This . . . To the left a little, please. Yes, right there . . . This escalated quickly,” I said in between pants.
Dixon lifted his head from where he was once again tormenting my breasts. He froze, confusion and some other emotion filling his face. “It did, didn’t it? Does that make you uncomfortable?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.” A wee bit of common sense returned to me, or at least if not common sense, then thoughts of what Dixon might be feeling.
He stared at me for a moment. “You mean because of Rose?”
I nodded, feeling more naked than I ever had in my life, the sort of naked that went beyond a mere removal of clothing.
His expression was shuttered.
I didn’t want to press him if he truly wasn’t ready for a physical relationship, but I also didn’t want him thinking that a little sheet tangoing meant we’d be spending the rest of our lives together. “The way I see it is that we’re both adults, neither one of us is in a relationship, and we’re doing, for lack of a better term, a little mutual itch-scratching. That’s all. There’s no commitment on either side.”
“That sounds . . . reasonable.” His face cleared.
“That’s how I see it, at least.” I slid my hand up his arm. “Not that I intended on doing this at all, because despite what you overheard me saying at the welcome meeting, I really wasn’t planning on getting involved with anyone. But I like you. I like the way you talk, and you look really good in Edwardian clothing.”
He smiled, and I felt as if my body was bathed in sunshine. “I like you as well. I never know what you’re going to say.”
“I get that from my dad, unfortunately.” I made a little face. “I’m never going to hear the end of it if he hears that after all my protesting we ended up in bed together. If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep it quiet.”
“I have no objection,” he said, dipping his head now to gently nibble on my neck. “I’m not keen on everyone knowing my private business.”
I giggled and slid my hands down his chest to his belly. “I notice you seem to have dropped your personal boundary limit.”
“I do that sometimes.” He waggled his eyebrows, then kissed me again, setting my tingly parts alive with desire. My breasts felt heavy and needy, and I wiggled against him in silent protest.
“What?” he asked after a minute of me tugging at his arms and back.
“What what?” I asked, my brain wholly focused on the sensations he was stirring within me.
“You’re squirming around like you are uncomfortable. Am I too heavy? Should I move off you?”
I blinked at him a couple of times, trying to process his words. Was he saying he wanted to stop? “Don’t stop. Oh hell, that sounds like I’m begging. Dammit, I don’t care—I’ll beg. Don’t stop. Do more. Much, much more.”
“You are the oddest woman . . .” The rest of his words were lost when he moved down my body, kissing a path.
My inner bits sent up a cheer when they realized where he was headed, and although I’d never been entirely comfortable with oral sex—while knowing it was foolish to worry whether someone else thought the view was scenic or not—none of those thoughts even broached my mind. Instead I stopped him because I didn’t want to lie around being passive—I had a burning need to touch and taste him.
“My turn!” I said loudly, and pushed him over onto his back. “Dear god, you’re gorgeous. Just look at you! Your chest is awesome, and you have muscles, but not muscles, and you’re not so hairy that I want to break out a razor, and your legs are really nice, too.”
“Not as nice as yours,” he said, doing some sort of wrestling move that ended up with me on my back and him over me again. “Your legs, that is. You don’t have any hair that I see, other than your . . . er . . .”
“Tingle-bits is what I’m calling them now,” I said, breathless, and bit his shoulder before shoving him again and following him so that I straddled his hips. “Stay put, will you?”
“But I want to give you pleasure,” he said, his hands instantly taking hold of my breasts.
“Oh, you’re already doing that. You’re not giving me time to do the same.”
“On the contrary, I’m enjoying myself immensely.”
“Good.” I smiled. “Then you’re going to love this.”
“You’re not doing this right,” he complained. “You should let me have my turn first; then I will allow you to molest me, and after that we will work together and—”
I slid backward and grasped his penis with a firm but gentle grip and licked the underside.
He sucked in a huge quantity of air and with both hands gripped the sheets beneath him.
“What was that about not doing it right?” I asked.
“I was wrong. So wrong. Very wrong. I’ve never been this wrong in my life,” he babbled, his eyes full of hope.
I smiled again, a very womanly smile, one chock-full of the power that women held over men, and then applied myself to make him babble even more. By the time I was done fully investigating his genitals, he was almost incoherent.
“I like how you thrash around when I do this,” I commented at one point, and gently squeezed his testicles while running my tongue the length of his penis.
He groaned and his hips bucked.
“Now, how about I do this—” Before I could finish my sentence and put action to (unspoken) word, he sat up and said loudly, “No! It’s my turn now.”
“But—”
I was on my back before I realized what was happening. He spread my legs and swung them over his shoulder, grinning wickedly at me over my pubic mound. “No buts, my fair little temptress. Now it’s your turn to thrash around and moan and groan and not be able to think straight. We shall commence thusly.”
“I love how you talk,” I said, my eyes rolling back in my head when he stuck a finger into my depths at the same time his tongue started investigated the outer tingly bits. And that pretty much was the last thing I said that made any sense. Dixon curled another finger into me, which sent me lurching upward. I grabbed his arm and said, the words tumbling over one another, “Oh my god, that’s good! That’s really good! Stop doing that right now because if you don’t—”
“Stay there,” he said and, to my intense sadness, rolled off and disappeared into the bathroom. He returned almost instantly with a strip of condoms, one of which he was trying to roll onto himself as he ran back to the bed.
“Hurry!” I said, my body rife with demands for his body to return to its right and proper place.
“I’m trying. I’m trying, but the blasted thing . . . Got it.”
“Thank god.” I almost sobbed, and welcomed him back onto me with little cries of happiness. He sank into me with a move that seemed so right, and yet not nearly enough. I moved with him as he let his hips go wild, my mouth busy with nibbling along his collarbone, the feel and scent and taste of him wrapping me up in a haze of purest pleasure. I bit his ear when he made a little swiveling move and dug my fingers into his shoulders, wanting to yell and sing and dance and never move from the spot all at the same time.
“I hope,” he said, panting into my ear, “I hope you’re . . . I hope . . .”
“Oh yes,” I said, wrapping my legs around his and thrusting upward, my back arching as my orgasm spiraled out in ripples of sensation. My muscles tightened and spasmed around him, forcing him to thrust hard a couple of times, murmuring something into my neck as he shuddered his own pleasure.
“Well, that,” I said a few minutes later, when Dixon rolled off me, “was seriously awesome.”
He lifted his head and squinted at me. “How is it you can talk when I can barely catch my breath?”
“I’m a woman,” I said, turning to my side so I could trace a finger down his lovely chest. “We are superior that way.”
“I think you’re cheating somehow,” he said, closing his eyes again.
“That’s because your poor man’s brain can’t cope with a life-changing orgasm and still be able to indulge in pillow talk.”
“Life-changing, eh?” he asked.
“That’s right.” I poked him in the side until he opened his eyes. “Can I say again that this was totally unexpected? I don’t want you thinking I’ve been laying a trap for you just because you’re a handsome Englishman.”
He stared at me for a minute. “You think I’m handsome?”
“Of course I do. You’re all yummy and you have pretty gray-blue eyes with black lashes that I can tell you make me intensely jealous.”
“My eyes are plain hazel, not pretty gray and blue.”
I pinched his arm. “You are supposed to accept compliments nicely, not argue.”
“Ah. I apologize, then. Thank you for thinking that I’m handsome when everyone else tells me I’m barely passable.”
“Now you’re going to make me think you’re fishing for compliments.” I bit his shoulder gently.
“On the contrary, I’m trying to be honest.” A little smile quirked up one side of his mouth. “I do think that, of the two of us, you are the more attractive. You have lovely brown eyes with perfectly suited eyelashes, so you have no need to be jealous of mine. And your hair is like liquid silk. I won’t go into how your legs leave me weak with desire, or what the sight of your breasts does to me, because I wouldn’t want you getting a fat head.”
I laughed, and pinched him again. “Thank you for that, and thank you for also not mentioning the fact that there is an overabundance of me. Not that I think you would do any body shaming, but I appreciate that you didn’t feel the need to swing to the opposite and tell me how much you like chunky women.”
“You’re not chunky in the least, and I do happen to like the fact that you aren’t one of those rail-thin women who are obsessed with their appearances.”
“And that gets you a gold star for the day,” I said, glancing at the clock radio next to the bed. “Crap. The dinner is supposed to start in half an hour. I suppose I should go get my shower at last.”
“We could stay here instead,” he offered, and for a moment I was tempted.
“Sounds lovely, but I think it would be pretty obvious if we were both missing. I’m not a super-private person, but I really don’t like the idea of the cameras catching us together, and they’d be bound to if they noticed we were off on our own. I know how these reality shows work, you know. They love to film any fights, general drama, or couples who try to sneak off together.”
I got up while I was speaking and slipped the petticoat over my head, followed by the camisole, collecting the other garments and my boots.
“I understand,” Dixon said, watching me with avid eyes. “I am not looking for any attention, either. Kell is welcome to it.”
“And I thought Louise was bad—you definitely got the worst carmate of the two.” I opened the door and peered out into the hallway. With my card key in hand for a speedy entrance, I blew Dixon a kiss and hurried across to my room.