She removed his hand from her, and had him grip the table around her, asking, “More.” Then he let go. Gone was his sensible side. Out came the animal in Jake. He growled and thrust over and over again, rocking the table, moving it across the floor. Finally, he had to hold the table in place, to keep up with his desire. He pounded into her, sometimes kissing her, feeling her tongue in his mouth, driving him mad. Sweat began to drive down his face, his chest. She kissed or wiped it away, one hand holding onto his shoulder for dear life, it seemed. He dug the table into the wall, then reached for her hand, placing it down on her nub, circling her fingers for her. He wanted her to come, because at this rate, he couldn’t hold out much more. Once she started to move on her own, he griped the table again, wondering if he might tear it apart.
Oh, but it was good to be an animal. To let loose all his desire for his wee fae woman.
“Tha thu bóidheach,”
he whispered, not caring what language he spoke to relay how bonny she was. Her cheeks had taken more rosy color in them, and her brown hair fanned around her like a rebellious curling fan. He loved it, loved seeing her eyes turn into a purple fire.
She moaned. “Say it in French now.”
He thought for a moment of saying it informally, but she was his wee fae. Best to be proper.
“Vous êtes belle.”
She moaned again, tilting her head back on the table. “More.”
“Vous êtes belle. Vous êtes belle.”
She let out a long moan, rocking her hips into his. Her internal muscles squeezed him, and he let himself dive off the cliff and into insanity. Hot air swam out his lungs, out his belly, and felt as if it accumulated in his bollocks, where the pressure exploded. Oh, but Lord, he was inside her.
He pulled out quickly, trying to come on the floor, but knew he’d enjoyed himself too much and had begun inside her. Jesus.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I wanted you to.”
He bent his head beside hers, his breath coming in quick gulps, wondering at her meaning. Did she mean for him to come? Or to come inside her?
His first sexual encounter had been such an eye-opening experience, learning how to release himself outside of a woman, to try to ensure a lack of pregnancy. And he and Meredith hadn’t discussed children yet. Hell, he hadn’t even proposed. Mayhap he should.
Deep in his thoughts about her, Jake was taken aback when she wrapped her arms and legs around him. He liked that she wanted to remain close. He wanted to. He wished he were still inside her, actually.
“Maybe next time we should try this on the bed.” She giggled.
His serious thoughts vanished when she laughed. “I’m scared I’d break it. Lord, I’m sorry if that was rough. Too much so?”
He felt her shake her head. “No. I liked that. I mean, we can try different rhythms, but that was good. Really good.” She took a breath against his chest. “Good for you?”
He lifted himself on weak arms, smiling down at her. “Nay, sweetling, that was wonderful.”
The smile she gave him then broke free any kind of cynicism or pessimism he had. He wanted her, and that was that. He just had to figure out how to ask her to be his forever, to be his wife.
J
ake
moaned again, making Meredith feel warm inside.
“This is so good.” He was finishing his fourth piece of cold fried chicken Meredith had made earlier with Laura and Chen.
“Even though it’s cold?”
Jake nodded with a wide grin, flashing her his perfect white teeth.
Although many of the candles had burnt out, there was enough light from the stove and two beeswax candles close by to see him dimly. He sat on her bed, deliciously naked, yet swirled with her white sheets around his legs and hips, eating the chicken and green beans she munched on herself. She couldn’t help but love it that he was trying so hard not to leave a crumb on her bed, even though he was obviously ravenously hungry. He did eat a lot, which was an amazing feat, considering how his flat stomach contracted into six stunning bands of muscles.
“Why is fried chicken good even when it’s cold?”
She softly chuckled. “I suppose it’s the extra fat it’s cooked in.”
“How do ye cook it?”
There it was. His accent yet again popping up. When they’d been having sex, he’d even spoken in what Meredith could only guess was Gaelic. Poor Irish man, he tried so hard to hide his brogue, and she understood why, what with everyone and their cousin hating Irish immigrants currently. She wondered how she could tell him he didn’t have to hide from her; she’d accept him no matter where he’d come from. In fact, she’d always wanted to go to the Emerald Island. Maybe she’d drop hints.
She smiled. “The chicken is breaded then dropped in fat to cook.”
“How do ye bread it?”
“Bread crumbs and eggs. With all the bread I bake I had a lot of crumbs.”
He softly chuckled. “Ye like to bake?”
“Yes. Oh, that reminds me, I baked you a sweet bread today. It’s actually a dark fruit bread. I hope you like it.”
He placed his piece of chicken down on a plate, wiped his hands on a napkin, and reached over, kissing her heatedly. “Love fruit bread. Reminds me of—” He broke off from whatever he was going to say, then caressed both of her cheeks in his huge hands. “Love it.” He settled himself away, resuming munching on the chicken.
Meredith nearly laughed, loving how affectionate he was about fruit bread. To try to keep from reaching out for him again, she began talking absentmindedly. “I do love baking. It’s weird, because I’ve never baked before now.” Then she realized she sounded...anachronistic. Most women baked in this time. Shit.
“Never baked before?”
She’d learned a very hard way to not talk about the fact she’d come from the future, where women didn’t need to bake, but had grocery stores to help. She knew Laura and Tom had doubts about her sanity and didn’t blame them. If she were in either of their shoes, she probably wouldn’t believe it if someone said they’d come from another time.
Swallowing, Meredith tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t be an outright lie. “Um, yes, I guess you could call me spoiled, since I’d never learned how to bake before now.”
He swallowed slowly. “Are ye...are you...were you rich? Born into wealth?”
She’d been brought up in a middle-income family, maybe close to high middle income, but by 1880s standard, her life would have been considered prosperous with the instant ovens, air conditioning, indoor plumbing, and malls. Shrugging, she said, “I guess so. I never really thought about it that way.”
He nodded and took another bite of his fifth piece of chicken. “I was born poor.”
“Oh?” She liked when he talked about himself. No, she loved it when he shared.
He kept nodding, swallowing a bite. “Born in a dirt-floor, sod-roof home. My father hardly ever worked a day in his life.”
She could hardly imagine and had a difficult time seeing the strong man sitting across from her in such an existence. “How’d you get by?” Instantly, she chided herself for asking such a personal question. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”
He shrugged. “My ma was a heal—nurse. She bartered for most of the food we had. My older brother plowed the fields when we boys were too young. Then, when we were old enough, we started to work the fields too.”
“You were farmers then? What did you grow? How old were you when you started to work?”
“Oats and barley, we grew. I was four when I started helping my brother, Duncan.”
“Four.” She noted the sound in her voice. It sounded like pity, but that wasn’t what she felt. She was amazed. Sipping in a breath, she said, “How many brothers do you have? Any sisters?”
“No sisters. Four brothers. You have siblings?”
She shook her head. “No. I—” she laughed ruefully. “I always wanted a sister. So I imagined one when I was little. But I was an only child.”
He nodded. “Was it nice to have your parents complete attention? Or was it overwhelming?”
She looked down at the sheets that covered her hips. Oddly, she’d exposed her chest to him, talking this whole time without a bra or her hands covering her breasts. But at that moment, she felt too vulnerable and lifted a sheet’s end to cover her a bit more.
“My parents were gone a lot.” That was the only way she figured she could answer him. How could she tell him her parents were archeologists who were home twice a year? Her aunt had raised her who was also busy finishing her dissertation in feminine studies. Meredith had been raised around academics—she never said
raised by
academics, for she’d always felt she’d been a lone participant in
Lord of the Flies
, an odd experiment with how feral a child could be with no real guardian available, a freaking Nell story. Yes, the people who were supposed to have raised her were so busy. And she thought she’d understood that kind of busyness—it was for the betterment of humanity, for other people’s education. But she had been so lonely as a girl. So alone. So desperate for attention.
Surprising her, Jake had reached out and placed a hand on hers, giving her a squeeze. “That had to be rough.”
She swallowed. Her throat constricted and her heart tightened, and through it all she was amazed his sympathy had gotten to her so quickly. Nodding, she adjusted the sheet a bit higher.
He moved quickly and efficiently, covering the space between them in a nanosecond, kissing her lips tenderly and so sweetly. Oh, she liked him. She liked him so much, and knew she could get used to him, wanted to get used to him being here.
But men threw her away. She was garbage, at least in their eyes. She couldn’t rely on anyone. She knew that. Had learned that the brutally hard way.
Yett he kept kissing her softly, and something in her broke. She wanted so much to depend on him, on the kiss.
He leaned away, looking concerned, and she wanted nothing more than to dwell in his sentiment, but knew it was...well, selfish. So she changed the subject.
“How—how did you learn to speak French? Did you go to school? Have a tutor?”
He straightened a bit. “Tutors, mainly. I guess, you could call them tutors. As a lad, I wanted to learn a lot, ye ken? So I asked around. I learned how to read, write, and speak French by the time I was twelve. My brothers and I all learned it, and we’d jest in French to each other, so our father didn’t ken what we’d said. Then when I learned a bit of Latin, we had more fun at our father’s expense and at each other’s as well.”
Meredith smiled. “You speak Latin too?”
He grunted. “My older brother learned Swedish, so we all tried to learn that as well. Bits and pieces at least. Then, when we moved here, my brothers and I learned some of the Iroquois language, a little Algonquian, and the like.”
Meredith knew her mouth was ajar, but couldn’t help it. “You speak at least six languages?”
He shook his head. “As ye can tell, I hardly speak the Queen’s English. So I doubt I speak even one language very well.”
She laughed at his obvious self-effacing humor, but shook her head. “You’re amazing.”
His smile waned into something more serious. “Thank ye.”
“Are your brothers close? I’d love to meet a gaggle of men who tease each other in multiple languages.”
His smile completely vanished then.
God, why had she been so forward? Why had she asked so much? Of course, she longed to know him better, wanted to meet his family, wanted to know what it would feel like to belong to one. But she’d let her racing feelings get the better of her, instead of censoring herself the way she knew she should do. Oh, her stupid mouth.
She braced herself, getting ready for his excuse for why she couldn’t meet his family, why she needed to be pushed aside, ignored, neglected, then thrown away.
He cleared his throat, looking down at his lap. “My brother Douglas died a couple years ago, and since then my family’s been...ripped apart. I haven’t heard from any of them for over a year now.”
She lunged for him and his downcast face. Revealing her body wasn’t at all a concern. She just had to hold him. Wrapping her arms around him, she kissed him along his cheeks and forehead.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He reached around her with his strong, powerful arms, pulling her even tighter. It was intoxicating to feel his embrace, the lead-like feel of his muscles drawing her nearer, his wall of a chest pressing against her breasts, the velvety softness of his warm skin against hers, his heart beating against hers. An odd flittering thought ricocheted through her brain: she would get to know Jake better. In time they’d come to some kind of understanding, and as more time progressed she’d become his family.
Oh, wishful thinking always hurt so much.
“I’m sorry,” she choked, squeezing him a little tighter.
“Thank ye,” he mumbled in her hair.
She pulled away, still holding onto his shoulders, feeling the sinew of his capable muscles. “Is there anything I can do? Help you find them?”
He looked down again, and she wanted to suck in her stomach, hoping he didn’t look at her roundness.
“I don’t know. I hadn’t—that is to say, I’ve never thought—I—” He glanced back up at her, a shy smile occupying his chiseled and perfect features. “If I think of a way to get back to them, mayhap ye can help me? Mayhap ye’d come with me?”
She swallowed, her heart either crushing itself with hope or swallowing itself in misery. Was he making a promise to her? What if he broke that promise? What if he was saying something like that to string her along? What if he didn’t mean it, didn’t want her to meet his brothers? What if he did?
Drifting back to her side of the bed, she nodded absentmindedly. Then she noticed the Blue Willow plates, empty save for the chicken bones. Stacking the plates, she left the bed in a hurry, afraid she’d cry if she stayed close to him, wanting him so much she was scared he could see it, see right through her to how much she ached. Which would, of course, make him uncomfortable, to say the least.
Carefully placing the plates in her sink, she started to pump the water, hoping it wasn’t cold enough outside to freeze the pipe. Again. Also, she started to list off all the parts of her that waggled too much each time she moved, feeling more and more disgusted with her body, so exposed for Jake to see each and every one of her imperfections.
She couldn’t believe he’d tried to suggest he stay covered just because he had a few scars. They were rather small, but some of them were deep, making her wonder if it was measles or mumps he’d had. The two largest welts over the left side of his chest, almost looked like...well, it had looked like stitches had needed to be applied. Poor man. It had to have been painful—that’s all she’d thought when she saw his scars. His body, however, was perfection—all hard ridges, clearly defined muscles standing out. He’d worked his body hard for years, and it showed and made her want to kiss and savor every inch of his. But all she could think about was her body—cottage cheese butt. Was he cringing in disgust? Crap, what had she been thinking, walking around naked like this? He was sure to leave her now.
“Meredith,” Jake said a few inches from her.
She jumped, surprised he’d somehow snuck up on her. His gray gaze bounced down to her chest, where she tried to hold her own bouncing bits. He glanced back up into her eyes.
“If ye don’t want to meet my brothers, that’s fine.”
“I do,” she said too fast, probably sounding too eager.
He studied her eyes for a very long time, standing so naked in front of her. She wanted to stare at him, wanted to see every fiber of his body, but focused on his eyes too.
“Then...then, why’d leave the bed? Ye seem upset ‘bout something.”
She licked her lips as the pump suddenly sputtered to life, splashing icy water across the sink and on Meredith. Jumping again, she scooted back, then raced forward trying to push the pump closed. Jake leaned over, and, making it look as though he was merely pushing a feather, turned off the pump. He swiveled to her as she tried to slick away the water from her stomach and chest.
He huffed.
Glancing up, she wondered if he’d lost his patience with her and would leave at any minute. But he stepped closer, his hands grasping her waist, pulling her against him.
“Lord, I can’t think straight with ye so naked, running about, and now wet.”