TemptressofTime (21 page)

Mirroring her quirked brow, he said, “Meaning, what? I am
autocratic? Uncaring of your feelings or desires?”

“Well, yes. Not so much when we’re…having sex. But at other
times, you are very autocratic and appear uncaring.”

He snorted. “In short, I am a boor.”

A smile twitched the corners of her lips. “In short…yes.”

“Then why do you want to watch me masturbate?”

“It isn’t that so much as it is…” She shrugged. He waited
for her to continue. “I want to see you lose control.”

“You have witnessed my loss of control numerous times. Each
time we
have sex
.”

“That’s different! And I don’t really see it happen. I…” She
flashed him an accusatory glare. “I’m too caught up in my own release to notice
yours. At least not as much as I’d like.”

“Imagine a volcano erupting.” That’s how it felt when his
hot cum spewed into her even hotter cunt. And pleasing her pleased him more
than he could or would admit.

“It’s not the same,” she insisted. “I want to see your
expression when it happens. I want to watch how your body trembles and see if
your skin tone changes and…all that.”

“I am an experiment? Like a butterfly pinned to a board so
you may examine me at your leisure?”

Her beguiling half-smile reappeared. “If you wish, yes. The
leisurely examination might please us both.”

Which was the exact point he’d intended to reach. He just
hadn’t expected her to lead them there.

“Very well,” he said. She sprang to her feet, a wide smile
puffing out her cheeks like an adorable chipmunk. “On one condition.”

“What?”

She sounded delightfully out of sorts. Just as he wanted
her—off balance, him in control.

“You shall watch from start to finish without saying a
word.” After she examined him from head to toes and back again, she nodded.
“But first, you’ll let me bathe you.”

“For what purpose? Do you intend to make me lose control?
Will you refuse to let me watch you? No! No, I won’t allow you to bathe me.”

“Then will you bathe me and do everything I ask you to do?
Without questioning me at every step?”

The tip of her tongue darted over her lips. His shaft
twitched, wanting that moist appendage running all over its length and breadth.
He squashed the image and squelched a groan.

“So long as you promise not to pull me into the tub with
you,” she cautioned.

“I promise. So long as you promise not to speak.”

Looking at him askance, she nodded.

Standing, his hand outstretched, he said, “You must sit,
milady.”

“Sit?”

“Sit,” he repeated, permitting himself a small smile,
“whilst I disrobe for milady’s pleasure.”

Her rosy lips formed an O before settling into that
enchanting half-smile. Settling against the back of the chaise, she crossed her
ankles and folded her hands in her lap. Her expression hovered somewhere
between excitement and ennui. He preferred the former. He made a bet with
himself as to how soon he could make excitement drown her obviously feigned
boredom.

Whatever she’d imagined he might do to disrobe, a
tantalizing striptease worthy of male exotic dancers was not among those
images. She had no idea a man could look so intriguing while slowly removing
his hose and garters. Or that sliding his breeches off his buttocks, then
letting them drift down his powerful thighs to his now-bare feet could turn her
innards to a quivering blob of anticipation. True, his shirttails hid his ass,
but she remembered how round and firm those half-moons felt when she held each
cheek in her hands and urged him to thrust harder, faster, deeper. When he
turned to face her and she saw smallclothes covering his engorged shaft and
testicles, she groaned in frustration. He winked, then—like a lad fearing he
wouldn’t measure up to his friends—turned his back on her once more. A
shimmy-shimmy and a bump and grind sent his underpants to the floor. Removing
his cufflinks, he tossed them in the direction of her dressing table, his hips
moving in time to music only he could hear. What
she
heard was a tune
and drumbeat that had become synonymous with strippers in the twentieth
century. Rolling his cuffs up his muscular forearms, he faced her once more.
His expression puzzled, he muttered, “Front or back? Pecs or glutes? Which does
my lady want to see first?”

“Shaft—” she began, stopping when his sharp glance warned
her to silence.

Jutting his chin, he motioned her toward the bathroom. Since
she hadn’t asked Margaret for heated bathing water, she shivered in dread of
the icy tub and having to endure freezing water while she bathed him. When he
opened the bathroom door, steam plumed out, enveloping her in warmth and the
scent of jasmine. Votive candles flickered throughout the small chamber, adding
to the secretive, sensual setting.

His light touch on her shoulder beckoned her deeper into the
room.

“Can you see me?” She nodded, trusting he could see her, as
well. “Help me out of my shirt.”

His fingertips over her lips warned her not to say a word.
She growled instead, earning an amused chuckle from him as he guided her hands
to his shoulders. Then he just stood there, his arms at his sides, making no
effort at all to help.

So, getting his shirt off fell to her. No sweat. Except…his
chest hair sparkled from the steam and his skin looked so warm, she wanted to
snuggle against him. Since she couldn’t ask, she assumed she could do whatever
she wished and pressed her body to his. His heat flowed into her, lessened by
the few articles of clothing between their flesh.

Damnation!
She needed to know what he wanted.

Duh.
He wanted her to remove his shirt so he could
take a bath. She, however, wanted him naked for the sole pleasure of looking at
him. On the other hand, were he naked and in the tub, she could fondle him to
her heart’s content. Which wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind when she
started, but would do until she could tell him what to do.

Sliding his shirt over his head, she just had to lean
against him. Since he wasn’t helping, she just had to wrap her arms around him
so she could pull his shirt down his back. How could he blame her for her
breasts rubbing his chest and her nipples pearling? ‘Twas all his fault for not
removing the damn garment for himself. Was it her fault that his shaft had
gotten so hard and long it pushed at her mons? Just when she stood on tiptoes
to kiss him, he eased away then stepped into the tub. When he sat, water
sloshed over the rim, drenching her bare feet and the hem of her gown.

His expression unreadable, he picked up a large sponge.
“I’ll show you how to do this, then let you have at me.” Dipping the sponge, he
held it a little above his left shoulder then slowly squeezed out the water.
She followed the droplets as they meandered from his trapezius, down his pecs
to rejoin its own kind in the general population of scented bathwater. The
luckiest drops of all surrounded his still-hard shaft as it floated and bobbed
along his thighs.

“Think you can manage?” he said, his voice a little
rougher—kind of gravelly. He extended the sopping sponge as she leaned over to
take it.

Warm, silky water flowed over her chest and soaked the front
of her gown. His gaze arrowed to her rigid nipples. His tongue swept his
parting lips. That was all the invitation her body needed.

Her feet tangled in her damp hem. Losing her balance, she
tumbled forward, trying to brace her hands on the tub rim to prevent falling.
But the tub edges were slippery and wet. She fell, somehow landing
face-to-face, pelvis-to-pelvis with the object of her lust under her, his shaft
pressed firmly to her mons.

“This isn’t precisely what I had in mind, but since we’re
both here…”

Instead of shrieking, she kissed him senseless.

Chapter Fifteen

Time stopped while he stripped off her sodden gown—no easy
feat since the water had shrunk her sash’s bow into a knot and the sash
wouldn’t slide up over her breasts or down over her hips. Moreover, he couldn’t
decide if she intended her wiggles to aid in his efforts to undress her or to
seat his shaft in her cunt. Suspecting the latter, he managed to wrestle them
both out of the tub, her out of her gown then both of them back into the tub,
naked.

“I like it better when we’re both in the tub together,” she
told him.

“I’m certain you do. However,” he hastened to say before she
got out another word, “the purpose of the bath is to relax you. Make you—”

“Then why were
you
in the tub while I wasn’t?”

“An object lesson. I relax while you bathe me. Later, you
relax while I bathe you.”

“We could as easily bathe each other,” she said with a coy
smile that had his shaft pulsing like a dog begging for a treat.

“The primary objective being relaxation. Now, not another
word. Lean back. Inhale through your nose and enjoy the scent.” Trying not to
drool over her luscious breasts, he leaned back and folded his arms over his
chest. With his hands tucked into his armpits, the craving to touch her
lessened.
Somewhat
, he amended, knowing any move on her part would
destroy his restraint.

“Lavender works better than jasmine. For me, anyway. To help
me relax, I mean.”

“Next time,” he grated out from between clenched teeth.
“Inhale. Relax as you exhale through your mouth. Again.”

Moments later her eyelashes drifted down and she gave a soft
sigh. “Nice.”

Opening a tap, hot water splashed into the tub. He wrung out
the sponge over her neck, shoulders and breasts. He did the same over her legs
and feet, her hands and arms, creating a symphony from sound and scent and
flickering candlelight.

He left her long enough to spread warm toweling over the
chaise longue in her bedroom. Returning to the bathroom, he could tell by her
even breathing that she’d fallen asleep. Were it not for the cooling water,
he’d let her nap. But the next step in teaching her to open her senses to all sorts
of ways to enhance pleasure was equally as important as the one just learned.
Her trust enabled him to continue teaching her.

Bending over her, laying his hand on her shoulder, he gave
her a gentle shake. “Wake up, dearling. Just enough for me to help you stand.”

Her eyes drifted halfway open. A soft half-smile made him
wish to see her awaken every morning. Holding up her arms, she wreathed them
around his neck. Together, they stood then he carried her to the chaise and
wrapped the toweling around her. Gentle pats and rubs had her making pleasure
noises that made his shaft stand at attention.

Not now!
As if that appendage had ever obeyed an
order from his mind.

“Walker? I think…that is, I want to…bed you.”

“Believe me, Diane, I want that too. But in good conscience,
I must give Adrian and Jason the opportunity to woo you. If we proceed now,
they will claim I cheated.”

“Woo?” she echoed. “Is that what fornication is called in
this time?” She wanted to rant about
cheating
and the blasted British
sense of honor but still hoped to seduce him to her way of thinking. Sex, here
and now, captured her mind and body.

Ignoring her sarcasm, he pulled her to her feet and held her
facing the cheval mirror. “In a moment I am going to remove your towel. I want
you to describe your body without using any negative terms. Understand?”

She glared as she gave him a curt nod. “This…ritual is
vaguely familiar. I think I used it in one of my novels.”

“Then you should have no difficulty following the rules.”
Unwrapping her reminded him of birthdays and Christmases. He already knew what
the packages contained—he peeked—but his parents always managed to slip in
something new. A shiny railroad car that wasn’t part of the original set and he
hadn’t seen before. A top that spun so fast the colors blurred. A kaleidoscope
in addition to a microscope.

“Ready?” Not that it mattered. He’d stay in control until
she quit fighting and did as bidden. Not that she was fighting now, but she
would. At some point. Most likely sooner than later.

A careless shrug her sole response, she looked down at her
bare feet—oblivious to him and her nakedness. “Sorry to break the rules so
early in the game, but there’s no other word for my toes. They are ug-ly!”

“Find something nice to say about them.” She looked up at
his reflection, her expression saying,
Are you nuts?
“Imagine them
immediately after a pedicure.”

“Ah. When my toenails are polished, I—still wear closed-toe
shoes and avoid toe rings. I think my feet are so…unattractive I won’t even
wear an ankle bracelet. Despite having rather shapely ankles and very shapely
calves.”

Her grin invited him to laugh with her and he did. “Since
you have started at the bottom—”

“I am not describing my ass.”

“Let us continue in a northerly direction. Your thighs…”

She shifted, yet said nothing until he cleared his throat.
“Funny. They look thinner. Firmer. Especially the inner part. Must be due to
all that stretching wider I’ve been doing lately. Along with all that clamping
around your hips and thighs.”

Responding to her sultry voice and darkening eyes, his shaft
throbbed. He shifted his hips, bringing his erection between her ass cheeks.

“Belly?”

“Still flat.” Mischief fading from her expression, she
turned her head to say, “Are you sorry about that? My belly being flat, I mean?
Do you want a baby, Walker?”

Sensing that a deeper meaning, a greater need, underlay her
question, he weighed his words. “At present, making—er, having—an heir does not
seem so pressing an issue.”

“Is that all a child means to you? An heir?”

Seeming to have a will of their own, his fingers splayed
between her hipbones as if calculating the space between, the room for a child
to grow in her womb. “In this time and place…one marries to produce an heir.
Because disease is not as rampant as it was in our pasts—” His nod told her he
meant
their
pasts, not anyone else’s. “It seems one needn’t rush to
produce a passel of poppets.” His attempts at alliteration made her frown and
pull away. “We have not finished.”

“
I
have. If one wants to continue this Tantric sex
exercise, one has only to stare at one’s own genitalia for the next twenty or
thirty minutes. I’m certain one will find one’s manly equipment admirably
suitable to one’s needs for an heir. Or two,” she added, stalking into her
bathroom and gently closing the door. He’d have preferred she slam it. At least
then he’d have an idea about her feelings. He had no idea what she was angry
about or even if she
was
angry.

He used her absence as an opportunity to don his robe. A few
moments later the door opened again. Diane strolled across the room like a
runway model wearing what looked like gossamer and lace. That same damn
provocative walk had captivated him all those centuries ago. All right, there
weren’t any clothing models in medieval or 1820s England, but if there were…

Since when had his medieval and more modern personas started
merging and emerging where they had no business being?

“I’m glad you stayed,” she said, lighting a candle then
putting out the match between her moistened thumb and forefinger. A Wiccan
practice he would have to ask her about. Later.

“Are you? Why?” Suspicion threaded through his voice, but he
refused to apologize. Not yet. Before Tuesday morning arrived he would, no
doubt, rack up more transgressions. He’d apologize for them all in one fell
swoop.

“Because I’ve taken out my frustrations on you and Adrian.”
She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Perhaps more on you. Because I may owe you
both an apology.”

“Care to elucidate?” Her blank expression prompted him to
add, “About your frustrations?”

“In truth, I consider them our frustrations. Perhaps not
Jason’s, although I can’t imagine why he’s here if he’s not involved in some
way. Do you know?”

“No,” he said with some asperity. “I intend to talk with him
while you and Adrian are together on Wednesday.”

“Won’t Adrian have already done that?”

“Not if he values his life.” He ground his teeth, but forced
a smile to his lips.

“Ah. There’s the
liege lord
who behaved as if he
could have me whenever and wherever he wished. I confess, Walker, I did not
care much for him.” Her tone implied she now didn’t care for him at all.

“You cared for his—my—lovemaking well enough.” Knowing how
well he had satisfied her in their Tudor lives, he excused his smug tone as his
due.

“Is that how you think of it? Lovemaking?”

“What would you call it? Rape, I suppose.” He canted his
head back and glared at her over the end of his nose.

A bitter laugh came first. “I’m more honest than you credit
me, Your Grace. No, I think of it as more like…an enforced discovery.”

“About?” Rising, he strode to a nearby table, then filled
two snifters with brandy.

She took one snifter on her way to the chaise, her light yet
mysterious fragrance wrapping around his senses, her nightgown—if that scrap of
lace and sensuality could be called that—billowing around her legs. Revealing.
Concealing. Raising lust in his blood, a craving her resistance fed.

“A question I shall answer later…on Sunday when we are all
together. All of us confessing our roles in this strange journey.” She raised
her glass in a silent toast.

“Roles? Do you know yours?”

A wry smile curved her lips and lit her eyes—their
dark-green depths like occlusions in the rarest emeralds. “To teach all you men
a lesson. Or so the Gypsy fortuneteller said. The problem being, the fortuneteller
sent me here before I learned what that lesson might be.” Sitting, she crossed
her legs and sipped her brandy. Her gaze focused on his face, a challenge for
him to ignore her parted gown and not stare at her naked legs.

“Where do we go from here, Diane?” Mirroring her, he sat in
a wingback chair and crossed his left ankle over his right knee.

She laughed. He scowled.

“Jason struck the same pose a few days ago when he visited
me here. In my sitting room.” As if she’d apologize for having a male visitor
in her rooms, she rushed on. “When I go home…” He heard
if
. “I really
need to get out more. See if men in the twenty-first century display themselves
as they do here.” She glanced at the snifter before setting it aside. “Those
tailored breeches must get uncomfortable when you…”

“Arouse? Have a boner? Get a hard-on, as I have now?”

She smiled at her hands folded in her lap. “How did you
intend for us to spend the day? Not,” she held up a cautionary finger, “that
folderol of reading or—” She gulped a quick breath.

“Staring at each other’s genitals?” he suggested, his tone
wry. She still surprised him when she turned shy miss. Not that he thought she
faked modesty. Perhaps that modesty was why they’d landed in this time, when
maidenly reticence was valued and seeing to one’s womanly needs was considered
whorish.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I saw Jason? Or what transpired
between us?”

“If you wish to tell me.”

She emitted an inelegant snort. “Odd. In our medieval
life—when I was married to Adrian—you seemed jealous of him. What is different
that you aren’t jealous of Jason?”

“Perhaps I have mellowed.”

Both her eyebrows shot up. “Perhaps you simply have learned
how to disguise it better.”

He’d played the gentleman far too long. Standing, he strode
to the chaise then scooped her into his arms. She yelped, clearly startled, but
wreathed her arms around his neck as he sat with her on his lap.

“Have I told you how grateful I am you donned this
particular piece of feminine frippery?”

“Now I know what you truly think of me, Your Grace.” He
quirked a brow, encouraging her to explain. “Frippery. Like an overly adorned
building. I admit I’m taller than many women and am proportionately wider,
but—”

He kissed her, sighing into her mouth as she parted her lips
and kissed him back. “Where has your clever seamstress hidden your initials
this time?” he asked, his lips still on hers, his fingers exploring the
delicate yet plentiful lace that formed the collar of her gown, then flowed
into lapels and continued down to her hem.

“You’ll need to find more than my initials, Your Grace. This
time you must locate all the letters in my entire name.”

“And when I
do
find them?”

“When next we meet alone, you must spell out my title, as
well.”

His laugh matched the feral blaze in his dark eyes. Her
breath caught and her heart stalled. Everything slowed as he raised his hands
to cup her face His fingers stroked her eyebrows and temples, the pads more
suited to the warrior lord of his past than the pampered duke of this time.
Perhaps that was due to him being the same man now as he’d been then. But she
didn’t like that man nearly as much as she liked this one.

“You think too much,” he murmured, his hands drifting down
her neck.

“Do…I?”

He made a humming sound against her ear, his breath hot and
moist even before his tongue traced the whorls and made her gasp for air.
Gooseflesh dotted her skin, a contradiction to the warmth flowing through her
body.

“Must I find the letters in order?” His tongue caressed the
underside of her chin, yet another new erogenous zone.

“H-how else can I keep track?” she managed to say before she
lost her breath once again.

“Two Ds, two Es. All the others only one.” He fingered the
lace on her lapels, grazing her nipples as well. “One D over each sweet peak.”
He stroked until each rose higher still, then sucked each in turn through sheer
gossamer lawn and delicate yet rougher lace.