Sanctuary fic -- Assignation
It's a lot easier to sneak out at night when your boyfriend is a teleporter.
Helen/John, with reference to past John/James, back in the early days of The Five. NC-17 for sex.
It is a well known fact that in any group of friends when two people become rather closer than previously, it is devilishly hard for them to engage in social activity together without others taking a third, fourth and fifth hand. Add to that the detraction of one of them being an unmarried lady, who needs must be chaperoned at all times, and the continual presence of said third, fourth and fifth hands becomes intolerable, no matter how dear the friends in question.
The concert of Beethoven's Eroica symphony was joined by Nigel, who of course also had tickets and was delighted to trade his better seat for a lesser in order to join his friends. The picnic on the banks of the river was crashed by Nigel and James both, bearing a large basket containing most of a turkey. And for some reason an evening stroll through the botanical gardens involved Nikola.
On the seventh occasion of being unable to have Helen to himself for more than ten minutes, John Druitt knew he must take decisive action. To that end he rented a cottage in the Outer Hebrides.
A poet, he explained to the dubious crofter who owned it, must have solitude. He must have suitably Gothic surroundings consisting of windswept headlands and lonely landscapes, peat fires that burn picturesquely, scouring winds and a view of storm tossed seas. These are the things that allow genius to burn!
"South Uist's got that," the crofter allowed in his barely comprehensible English. "If ye want to be left alone at the back end 'o beyond, here's the place."
There was no neighbor for three miles, and the little cottage was snug, containing little more than a brass bed heaped with quilts, a hearth and its accoutrements, and a table and chair suitable for a poet to fill with half-composed verse while listening to the wind howl about the tiny windows. It would do quite nicely once supplied with some creature comforts from home. Of course, no one could imagine how Mr. Druitt had transported eiderdown quilts, enormous pillows, fine candles, a woolen carpet, and an entire featherbed onto the island without apparently using anyone's boat, but since it was unlikely that anyone local would see inside the cottage, the question was immaterial. So there was no reason not to also bring an enormous basket from Fortnum and Mason. A starving poet needs must be well supplied with smoked pheasant, French cheeses, water crackers, and tinned tomato aspic!
Of course these accoutrements cost most of his allowance for the quarter, leaving him with only the paltry income from his part time teaching job. This was especially true of the hamper from Fortnum and Mason, which unlike the rest could not be borrowed and returned. It was a considerable investment, given that the young lady in question had not consented to any such plan, and would in all propriety object. Kidnapping would be quite easy, but hardly contributory to domestic happiness. Helen hit hard.
However, he had noticed telltale signs. Her enthusiasm upon seeing Nigel at the theater had seemed rather less than it might be, while her delight at being joined on the picnic had seemed feigned. When Nikola had appeared in the botanical garden, he was quite certain he'd heard Helen swearing under her breath. In fact, her nose seemed distinctly out of joint when it came to constantly making a party of five.
Thus, he thought it best to broach the question openly, in the ten minutes between when they arrived at Helen's father's house to put their heads together over a fascinating ancient manuscript and when Nikola stalked through the French doors proclaiming that he was here to "haunt the night" while wearing an opera cloak. The doors swung closed behind him without assistance, latching neatly.
"Hello, Nikola. Hello, Nigel," Helen said. "I hope Nikola's brought a satchel for you."
Nikola lifted what appeared to be a rather worn carpet bag. "Yes, and do you have any idea how it looks? A vampire stalking around with someone else's suitcase?"
"Well, I can't well carry it myself," thin air replied, taking the bag so that it hung in midair. "Completely defeats the purpose."
"Why are you here?" John asked.
"To go over the Bhoddistani manuscript, of course," Nikola said. At the front of the house the bell rang. "That will be James. He uses the door."
John said nothing, only looked at the radiant woman he had been in the midst of offering an unspeakable proposition.
"I would be delighted," Helen said tightly.
And thus it was arranged. Three evenings later Miss Helen retired early, barely past teatime, pleading a terrible headache. Her father was solicitous, and fussed about deciding whether or not he should continue with his evening's plans, a Lodge Dinner that, with subsequent toasts and roasts, should continue into the wee hours.
"I shall be quite all right, Father," Helen replied, tucking herself into bed in a voluminous nightgown of three yards of white lawn ornamented with pintucks, pearl buttons, and a superfluity of white ribbons, all beneath an old velveteen dressing gown. "I'm just overtired. I'm certain a good night's sleep will set me right as rain."
"Well, if you insist…" the good doctor dithered.
"I do." His daughter reached up and kissed him on the nose. "Go on and enjoy your old cronies. I'm simply going to bed early."
The doctor left at ten minutes until nine. At five past the hour an observer might have heard a distinct pair of pops from Miss Helen's room, as though someone had appeared out of thin air and disappeared again. Of course there was no observer, as the servants were downstairs in the kitchen.
"Honestly, you could have let me get my slippers!" Helen stood barefooted on the woolen carpet before the roaring fire, her bronze curls cascading prettily over her shoulders, her hands resting lightly on John's lapels as though they were partners in a dance.
"I'm sorry. Shall I go back for them?" She was, he thought, the most radiant thing he had ever seen. It made his stomach clench in not entirely comfortable ways -- Helen standing so close to him in her nightclothes, her hands against his chest.
"Don't bother," she said, and smiled a gamine and daring smile that made other things begin to clench as well. "I'm famished. I had to send supper back to seem sufficiently wan."
"Fortunately, I've planned for that," John said, gesturing to the repast presented on the crofter's table, wine and proper crystal to drink it in, Scottish eggs and Stilton, fresh crusty bread and hothouse grapes, and a positive bounty of previously tinned delights.
"It's beautiful," Helen said, and smiled at him again. "But there's only one chair." He was about to offer to teleport to Buckingham Palace and acquire her a throne when she bounced onto the featherbed, tucking her feet under her for all the world like a schoolboy. "I suppose we could eat in bed."
Yes, a definite clenching where one ought not be. "I suppose we could," he said.
He loaded up much of the food and brought it over, setting it out in a way certain to get breadcrumbs in the sheets, and Helen tucked in hungrily. "Much better than supper at home," she said, her eyes meeting his over a morsel of cheese.
"And no interruptions," John said.
"I love our friends dearly, but…."
"Not twenty four hours a day," John said. "You'd think they had no homes to go to."
"Well, they don't, really," Helen replied. "After all, Nikola and Nigel live in rented rooms, and James lives alone. I suppose when we're married they'll invite themselves to dinner at our house every night."
And that was an idea that was unfailing in its promise -- a reasonable sum of money saved to begin an establishment, and then he and Helen would have their own house, with neither the good doctor or their friends in residence. "We can leave them with the decanter," John said, "And retire and lock the door!"
She looked up, a faint flush beginning in her cheeks. "When we are married, we can simply bid them goodnight."
"Yes."
"And go upstairs." She bit her lower lip. "And you can play the ladies' maid and undo my buttons and help with my stays."
"I shouldn't mind," he said. It made his throat dry. Imagining undoing all those buttons down her back, exposing her shoulders and the line of her corset….
Helen shifted, looking up at him with the expression she usually reserved for a particularly fascinating specimen on a slide. "I suppose I could make a decent valet."
"Yes."
She put a hand to his lapel again, sliding it up to his collar, the tips of her fingers resting on his throat just above it. "Collars and studs and all that. Cufflinks."
"Er," he said, which was perhaps not the most profound thing he'd ever uttered. But the way she had shifted, leaning forward, he could see straight down the thin white lawn gown she wore, see the curve of pale breasts beneath. "What are you…wearing?"
An innocent expression, innocent as a cat in cream. "Beneath my gown?" Helen's eyes were bright. "Absolutely nothing."
He might have said something as profound as 'er', but forward movement met forward movement. It was not their first kiss. There had been many of those, from tentative and awkward beginnings to the more recent ones, so practiced and passionate that he felt at any moment he might incandesce, burst into spontaneous flames and be consumed.
And yet never in her nightclothes. Never in a bed. Never in a situation so fraught with temptation, so much to be desired and so perilous.
Her hands were on his shoulders, then slipping under his coat, easing it back over his arms. He struggled out of the sleeves, their mouths still locked together, devouring. She tasted like cheese. Which was abruptly funny.
And then they were laughing, falling together in the sheets and mounded pillows, their limbs entwining, raining kisses on one another. Her bare legs hooked around his, pressing tight against him, and John groaned.
Her hands found the buttons at his waist. "Take them off," she said breathlessly. "I'm at a disadvantage here."
"So you are." There was a momentary thought of what the crofter might think, should he come by his cottage, but why he should do so at nine in the evening on a windy night…. Also, there was not a person within a hundred miles who might identify Helen Magnus if they saw her. Damage to her reputation was unlikely, and a gentleman might well keep a love nest….
"We could always disappear in a breath," she said practically. Helen could read his thoughts on his face. She put her head against his shoulder. "I thought you brought me here to seduce me."
"Of course," he said. "I mean, I had hoped…. It's only that…" He stopped short, hoist on the petard of his inadequacy. "I've never precisely seduced someone before."
Helen blinked. "You mean you've never…."
"No, I have. That." There was a serious lack of nouns about. "But it was rather less seduction and more…. " He swallowed. There was no nice way to put this. "An exchange."
"Ah." Her mouth opened and closed, and she got that quizzical expression. "I thought that you…. As a schoolboy, I mean…. That James…."
"Oh that." A furious blush was rising in his face. "That's entirely different. I mean, one doesn't…. It's a rather different…. And one doesn't…."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Of course not!" he said indignantly. "How would you?"
"I thought we were discussing male vices and prostitution," Helen said, and that was Helen to a t. "But if you're talking about something else?"
"No, I was," he said hurriedly. "Male vices and prostitution. That's what we were talking about."
"And that you and James, when you were schoolboys…."
"Schoolboys do," John said. "It's one of those things. But not at all like seducing young ladies." There was something distinctly wrong in this entire conversation, with Helen half dressed lying on his shoulder talking about things that she ought not even imagine. But of course she did, as she was Helen, and it was one of the things he loved about her.
"Besides, I expect James seduced you," she said contemplatively, and that was a bit close to the mark. "I've no objection to James, but I won't stand for other women. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly." John swallowed. "Absolutely."
"Good." Helen twined her leg about his. "Let's be on with it then. I've steeled myself to bite the bullet and think of England and all that. So no more delays." She unbuttoned the first three buttons of her gown decisively.
"Um," John said, with what he thought was distinctively less than a suave demeanor. "I'd hoped you might find it a bit more pleasant than that?" Helen had her going into battle face on, trepidation masked by grim determination.
"Well, the first time's supposed to be terrible for women. Everyone says so. All the horrible stories about blood and incontinence and not being able to walk for a week." Helen looked a bit pale beneath her bravado. "And then of course the ones who are driven into insane hysteria and cry and waste away, or become nymphomaniacs and wind up in Bedlam. They say it gets somewhat better later on, so forward the Light Brigade and all that. Swiftest begun, swiftest ended."
John opened his mouth and closed it again. "I don't think it's supposed to work that way," he managed. But of course it did. Everyone knew decent women hated it. At best it was a duty managed for love, like picking up and doing laundry, at worst a terrible ordeal. "I never want to hurt you."
"Don't you?" Her eyes were bright, and she shifted against him again. She must feel his arousal, must know through his clothes. "Don't you want to…to have me?"
"Yes, but…." He swallowed again. "I thought you wanted me too." At that her eyes slid away. "I thought you liked it when I kissed you."
"I do," she said quietly. "I like it a great deal."
"And that you liked it when I touched you."
"I like that too." She leaned back on his arm, her cheek almost against his. "I'm just…."
"Afraid?"
"Never." There was that steel in her voice again. "I am not weak and hysterical."
"Not in the slightest." He brushed his lips across her brow, an idea taking shape. "It's too dangerous anyway. You might get pregnant."
"And then we'd move the wedding up…."
"And then your father would hate me forever, which would be very awkward, and everyone would talk about you and your seven months' child, and we haven't the money yet for a house so we'd have to stay with your father when he was barely speaking…."
"I do see the drawbacks," Helen said. She patted one of the feather pillows. "But is all this wasted?"
"We could just…enjoy one another's company," he said carefully. "In private. Without interruptions. Only we'd have to be careful not to actually…."
"Consummate anything…." Her eyes were suspiciously bright. "I imagine we could do that. With a great deal of self discipline."
"With that," he said, and kissed her as though his whole soul depended upon it. How not, as she was Helen, indomitable and bright and brave as a tiger?
And now that they couldn't, it was sweeter. He felt her yield into him, warm and willing and passionate now that they weren't going to finish, weren't going through with it. There was a sweetness in the torture of going right to the edge and not going over, not technically, not exactly ruining her. She was wet against his seeking hand, the rough curls of her pubic hair hiding lips swollen and purpled with her arousal. Her head rolled back against his arm, her eyes closed.
"There," he said, sliding his fingers between them and feeling her arch. "Like that?"
"Firmer," she said breathlessly, and he knew he was right. She'd done this to herself, engaged in the self abuse that drives women insane. She'd already courted Bedlam on her own account. "Harder."
"Harder, then." He sped his fingers. It was hard to keep his hips still against the outside of her leg, to not surge against her thigh the way he wanted to. But if he did it wouldn't last long. Not this way. Not with her like this, her thighs spread and his fingers exploring every fold.
And there. More carefully, dipping his finger into the source of her wetness. Helen moaned, thrusting up against him, pushing it in a little farther.
"Careful," he said, withdrawing just a little, his thumb making slow circles on her pearl. "Does that hurt?"
Her face flushed, her hand clutching at him. "It does. It's good."
Pleasure and pain at once, his thumb stroking her, hard and firm as she'd wanted, his middle finger clenched tight in her virgin muscles. So tight, so strong.
"More." She arched her back, pushing another quarter of an inch. "Bloody hell."
"Like that." His thumb stroking more urgently, slick and hard against her, her whole face contorting. She screamed and snapped her hips, muscles contracting tight around his finger, thrusting hard against it and he felt the barrier give in a sudden warm rush, as though her whole body were the orifice, as though she were nothing else. She screamed again, still rocking on it, her head flung back as the tremors chased through, strong enough for him to feel each one.
And then she lay against him, breath heaving in her chest, half turning toward him, his hand still trapped between her legs.
"Just breathe," he said, his face against her hair, holding his hips still. He wanted…. Oh he wanted. But he could breathe too. He could wait. "Breathe, Helen."
She made a small sound in her throat, buried her face against his chest for a long moment before she looked up. Her eyes were bright and dazed with the intensity of it. "Good Lord."
"Did you…" he began.
"I liked that. Yes." She closed her eyes and leaned against him. "Oh yes."
With his trapped hand he could feel her pulse throbbing in her most private parts. It was enough to drive a man mad. "May I…" he said breathlessly.
"Oh, of course." That was more Helen, more her expression, just sated and shaken.
She opened her legs for him to retrieve his hand. He withdrew it, streaked with blood and mucous. They both looked at it, the bright streaks on his skin, beneath the nail of his middle finger.
"Helen, I never…." His pulse was pounding, every sense shrieking.
She reached down and touched, only a smear on her hand when she raised it. "It's nothing," she said. "Spotting from a surface capillary." Her eyes met his.
"I swear I meant to leave you virgin," he said. And yet his pulse was still pounding, his member aching.
"Well, I don't suppose my future husband will object," she said. Helen smiled. "That was extraordinary."
"Not bad?"
"No." There was the devil in her eyes again, that daring look Helen got when she was proud of her own bravado, of passing beyond the pale in one way or another, the way she looked when she'd scaled a gate or picked herself up out of a cold river or shot the onrushing megamultipede that was attacking Nigel. She looked at him, and he wondered what she could see -- too much. There was too much naked need. "Your turn," she said.
"What?"
"Your turn." She put her hand against his trouser front, against the hardness inside. "You do it. I want to watch you."
"Oh my God." And yet he did it, unfastening the buttons and stroking, almost unbearable, so close already, closing his eyes and….
And there were her hands parting cloth, the kiss of air on his member. "Fascinating," she said.
"I need…."
"Do it."
He had to, his own hand on himself as so many times before, moving in swift time, still wet from her body and that thought, that thought enough was almost overwhelming.
Her hand, sudden and unexpected, pressing against his lower belly just above, pressing firmly on his bladder so that he was suddenly caught between, sensation and sensation, wrong and desperate and sweet…. John moaned, and it took him, bright and sharp as falling off a cliff, dizzying as teleporting, feeling himself come in his own hand (oh God right in front of her!), desperate and embarrassed and transported at once.
Over the edge, and then down.
She was curled against his side, her bare knee against his thigh, white lawn bunched against his belly. "There, my dear. There."
The world revolved. Small surprise, that it should all revolve around her. His world did. It always would.
He didn't open his eyes, just turned and gathered her against him, basking in the scent that was Helen.
"Here." She had snagged the eiderdown quilt and pulled it over them, quilt and blanket and heavy warm duvet, pulling them around them and casting shadows across his face, drawing them into a nest of warmth. "John."
"Please don't be angry," he whispered.
"Never, my dear." She put her head against his shoulder.
He ducked his face to hers, tasted her lips again. "I am yours."
"Yes." She nosed his chin, and he opened his eyes. She looked none the worse for wear, and rather the opposite of horrified. "When we're married," she said, the devil's quirk at the corner of her mouth, "We can do this every night."
"Oh, can we?" And that was more than a man could hope, and far more than he deserved.
"I don't see why not," she said, and laid her head against his breast. "We're us."
Helen/John, with reference to past John/James, back in the early days of The Five. NC-17 for sex.
It is a well known fact that in any group of friends when two people become rather closer than previously, it is devilishly hard for them to engage in social activity together without others taking a third, fourth and fifth hand. Add to that the detraction of one of them being an unmarried lady, who needs must be chaperoned at all times, and the continual presence of said third, fourth and fifth hands becomes intolerable, no matter how dear the friends in question.
The concert of Beethoven's Eroica symphony was joined by Nigel, who of course also had tickets and was delighted to trade his better seat for a lesser in order to join his friends. The picnic on the banks of the river was crashed by Nigel and James both, bearing a large basket containing most of a turkey. And for some reason an evening stroll through the botanical gardens involved Nikola.
On the seventh occasion of being unable to have Helen to himself for more than ten minutes, John Druitt knew he must take decisive action. To that end he rented a cottage in the Outer Hebrides.
A poet, he explained to the dubious crofter who owned it, must have solitude. He must have suitably Gothic surroundings consisting of windswept headlands and lonely landscapes, peat fires that burn picturesquely, scouring winds and a view of storm tossed seas. These are the things that allow genius to burn!
"South Uist's got that," the crofter allowed in his barely comprehensible English. "If ye want to be left alone at the back end 'o beyond, here's the place."
There was no neighbor for three miles, and the little cottage was snug, containing little more than a brass bed heaped with quilts, a hearth and its accoutrements, and a table and chair suitable for a poet to fill with half-composed verse while listening to the wind howl about the tiny windows. It would do quite nicely once supplied with some creature comforts from home. Of course, no one could imagine how Mr. Druitt had transported eiderdown quilts, enormous pillows, fine candles, a woolen carpet, and an entire featherbed onto the island without apparently using anyone's boat, but since it was unlikely that anyone local would see inside the cottage, the question was immaterial. So there was no reason not to also bring an enormous basket from Fortnum and Mason. A starving poet needs must be well supplied with smoked pheasant, French cheeses, water crackers, and tinned tomato aspic!
Of course these accoutrements cost most of his allowance for the quarter, leaving him with only the paltry income from his part time teaching job. This was especially true of the hamper from Fortnum and Mason, which unlike the rest could not be borrowed and returned. It was a considerable investment, given that the young lady in question had not consented to any such plan, and would in all propriety object. Kidnapping would be quite easy, but hardly contributory to domestic happiness. Helen hit hard.
However, he had noticed telltale signs. Her enthusiasm upon seeing Nigel at the theater had seemed rather less than it might be, while her delight at being joined on the picnic had seemed feigned. When Nikola had appeared in the botanical garden, he was quite certain he'd heard Helen swearing under her breath. In fact, her nose seemed distinctly out of joint when it came to constantly making a party of five.
Thus, he thought it best to broach the question openly, in the ten minutes between when they arrived at Helen's father's house to put their heads together over a fascinating ancient manuscript and when Nikola stalked through the French doors proclaiming that he was here to "haunt the night" while wearing an opera cloak. The doors swung closed behind him without assistance, latching neatly.
"Hello, Nikola. Hello, Nigel," Helen said. "I hope Nikola's brought a satchel for you."
Nikola lifted what appeared to be a rather worn carpet bag. "Yes, and do you have any idea how it looks? A vampire stalking around with someone else's suitcase?"
"Well, I can't well carry it myself," thin air replied, taking the bag so that it hung in midair. "Completely defeats the purpose."
"Why are you here?" John asked.
"To go over the Bhoddistani manuscript, of course," Nikola said. At the front of the house the bell rang. "That will be James. He uses the door."
John said nothing, only looked at the radiant woman he had been in the midst of offering an unspeakable proposition.
"I would be delighted," Helen said tightly.
And thus it was arranged. Three evenings later Miss Helen retired early, barely past teatime, pleading a terrible headache. Her father was solicitous, and fussed about deciding whether or not he should continue with his evening's plans, a Lodge Dinner that, with subsequent toasts and roasts, should continue into the wee hours.
"I shall be quite all right, Father," Helen replied, tucking herself into bed in a voluminous nightgown of three yards of white lawn ornamented with pintucks, pearl buttons, and a superfluity of white ribbons, all beneath an old velveteen dressing gown. "I'm just overtired. I'm certain a good night's sleep will set me right as rain."
"Well, if you insist…" the good doctor dithered.
"I do." His daughter reached up and kissed him on the nose. "Go on and enjoy your old cronies. I'm simply going to bed early."
The doctor left at ten minutes until nine. At five past the hour an observer might have heard a distinct pair of pops from Miss Helen's room, as though someone had appeared out of thin air and disappeared again. Of course there was no observer, as the servants were downstairs in the kitchen.
"Honestly, you could have let me get my slippers!" Helen stood barefooted on the woolen carpet before the roaring fire, her bronze curls cascading prettily over her shoulders, her hands resting lightly on John's lapels as though they were partners in a dance.
"I'm sorry. Shall I go back for them?" She was, he thought, the most radiant thing he had ever seen. It made his stomach clench in not entirely comfortable ways -- Helen standing so close to him in her nightclothes, her hands against his chest.
"Don't bother," she said, and smiled a gamine and daring smile that made other things begin to clench as well. "I'm famished. I had to send supper back to seem sufficiently wan."
"Fortunately, I've planned for that," John said, gesturing to the repast presented on the crofter's table, wine and proper crystal to drink it in, Scottish eggs and Stilton, fresh crusty bread and hothouse grapes, and a positive bounty of previously tinned delights.
"It's beautiful," Helen said, and smiled at him again. "But there's only one chair." He was about to offer to teleport to Buckingham Palace and acquire her a throne when she bounced onto the featherbed, tucking her feet under her for all the world like a schoolboy. "I suppose we could eat in bed."
Yes, a definite clenching where one ought not be. "I suppose we could," he said.
He loaded up much of the food and brought it over, setting it out in a way certain to get breadcrumbs in the sheets, and Helen tucked in hungrily. "Much better than supper at home," she said, her eyes meeting his over a morsel of cheese.
"And no interruptions," John said.
"I love our friends dearly, but…."
"Not twenty four hours a day," John said. "You'd think they had no homes to go to."
"Well, they don't, really," Helen replied. "After all, Nikola and Nigel live in rented rooms, and James lives alone. I suppose when we're married they'll invite themselves to dinner at our house every night."
And that was an idea that was unfailing in its promise -- a reasonable sum of money saved to begin an establishment, and then he and Helen would have their own house, with neither the good doctor or their friends in residence. "We can leave them with the decanter," John said, "And retire and lock the door!"
She looked up, a faint flush beginning in her cheeks. "When we are married, we can simply bid them goodnight."
"Yes."
"And go upstairs." She bit her lower lip. "And you can play the ladies' maid and undo my buttons and help with my stays."
"I shouldn't mind," he said. It made his throat dry. Imagining undoing all those buttons down her back, exposing her shoulders and the line of her corset….
Helen shifted, looking up at him with the expression she usually reserved for a particularly fascinating specimen on a slide. "I suppose I could make a decent valet."
"Yes."
She put a hand to his lapel again, sliding it up to his collar, the tips of her fingers resting on his throat just above it. "Collars and studs and all that. Cufflinks."
"Er," he said, which was perhaps not the most profound thing he'd ever uttered. But the way she had shifted, leaning forward, he could see straight down the thin white lawn gown she wore, see the curve of pale breasts beneath. "What are you…wearing?"
An innocent expression, innocent as a cat in cream. "Beneath my gown?" Helen's eyes were bright. "Absolutely nothing."
He might have said something as profound as 'er', but forward movement met forward movement. It was not their first kiss. There had been many of those, from tentative and awkward beginnings to the more recent ones, so practiced and passionate that he felt at any moment he might incandesce, burst into spontaneous flames and be consumed.
And yet never in her nightclothes. Never in a bed. Never in a situation so fraught with temptation, so much to be desired and so perilous.
Her hands were on his shoulders, then slipping under his coat, easing it back over his arms. He struggled out of the sleeves, their mouths still locked together, devouring. She tasted like cheese. Which was abruptly funny.
And then they were laughing, falling together in the sheets and mounded pillows, their limbs entwining, raining kisses on one another. Her bare legs hooked around his, pressing tight against him, and John groaned.
Her hands found the buttons at his waist. "Take them off," she said breathlessly. "I'm at a disadvantage here."
"So you are." There was a momentary thought of what the crofter might think, should he come by his cottage, but why he should do so at nine in the evening on a windy night…. Also, there was not a person within a hundred miles who might identify Helen Magnus if they saw her. Damage to her reputation was unlikely, and a gentleman might well keep a love nest….
"We could always disappear in a breath," she said practically. Helen could read his thoughts on his face. She put her head against his shoulder. "I thought you brought me here to seduce me."
"Of course," he said. "I mean, I had hoped…. It's only that…" He stopped short, hoist on the petard of his inadequacy. "I've never precisely seduced someone before."
Helen blinked. "You mean you've never…."
"No, I have. That." There was a serious lack of nouns about. "But it was rather less seduction and more…. " He swallowed. There was no nice way to put this. "An exchange."
"Ah." Her mouth opened and closed, and she got that quizzical expression. "I thought that you…. As a schoolboy, I mean…. That James…."
"Oh that." A furious blush was rising in his face. "That's entirely different. I mean, one doesn't…. It's a rather different…. And one doesn't…."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Of course not!" he said indignantly. "How would you?"
"I thought we were discussing male vices and prostitution," Helen said, and that was Helen to a t. "But if you're talking about something else?"
"No, I was," he said hurriedly. "Male vices and prostitution. That's what we were talking about."
"And that you and James, when you were schoolboys…."
"Schoolboys do," John said. "It's one of those things. But not at all like seducing young ladies." There was something distinctly wrong in this entire conversation, with Helen half dressed lying on his shoulder talking about things that she ought not even imagine. But of course she did, as she was Helen, and it was one of the things he loved about her.
"Besides, I expect James seduced you," she said contemplatively, and that was a bit close to the mark. "I've no objection to James, but I won't stand for other women. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly." John swallowed. "Absolutely."
"Good." Helen twined her leg about his. "Let's be on with it then. I've steeled myself to bite the bullet and think of England and all that. So no more delays." She unbuttoned the first three buttons of her gown decisively.
"Um," John said, with what he thought was distinctively less than a suave demeanor. "I'd hoped you might find it a bit more pleasant than that?" Helen had her going into battle face on, trepidation masked by grim determination.
"Well, the first time's supposed to be terrible for women. Everyone says so. All the horrible stories about blood and incontinence and not being able to walk for a week." Helen looked a bit pale beneath her bravado. "And then of course the ones who are driven into insane hysteria and cry and waste away, or become nymphomaniacs and wind up in Bedlam. They say it gets somewhat better later on, so forward the Light Brigade and all that. Swiftest begun, swiftest ended."
John opened his mouth and closed it again. "I don't think it's supposed to work that way," he managed. But of course it did. Everyone knew decent women hated it. At best it was a duty managed for love, like picking up and doing laundry, at worst a terrible ordeal. "I never want to hurt you."
"Don't you?" Her eyes were bright, and she shifted against him again. She must feel his arousal, must know through his clothes. "Don't you want to…to have me?"
"Yes, but…." He swallowed again. "I thought you wanted me too." At that her eyes slid away. "I thought you liked it when I kissed you."
"I do," she said quietly. "I like it a great deal."
"And that you liked it when I touched you."
"I like that too." She leaned back on his arm, her cheek almost against his. "I'm just…."
"Afraid?"
"Never." There was that steel in her voice again. "I am not weak and hysterical."
"Not in the slightest." He brushed his lips across her brow, an idea taking shape. "It's too dangerous anyway. You might get pregnant."
"And then we'd move the wedding up…."
"And then your father would hate me forever, which would be very awkward, and everyone would talk about you and your seven months' child, and we haven't the money yet for a house so we'd have to stay with your father when he was barely speaking…."
"I do see the drawbacks," Helen said. She patted one of the feather pillows. "But is all this wasted?"
"We could just…enjoy one another's company," he said carefully. "In private. Without interruptions. Only we'd have to be careful not to actually…."
"Consummate anything…." Her eyes were suspiciously bright. "I imagine we could do that. With a great deal of self discipline."
"With that," he said, and kissed her as though his whole soul depended upon it. How not, as she was Helen, indomitable and bright and brave as a tiger?
And now that they couldn't, it was sweeter. He felt her yield into him, warm and willing and passionate now that they weren't going to finish, weren't going through with it. There was a sweetness in the torture of going right to the edge and not going over, not technically, not exactly ruining her. She was wet against his seeking hand, the rough curls of her pubic hair hiding lips swollen and purpled with her arousal. Her head rolled back against his arm, her eyes closed.
"There," he said, sliding his fingers between them and feeling her arch. "Like that?"
"Firmer," she said breathlessly, and he knew he was right. She'd done this to herself, engaged in the self abuse that drives women insane. She'd already courted Bedlam on her own account. "Harder."
"Harder, then." He sped his fingers. It was hard to keep his hips still against the outside of her leg, to not surge against her thigh the way he wanted to. But if he did it wouldn't last long. Not this way. Not with her like this, her thighs spread and his fingers exploring every fold.
And there. More carefully, dipping his finger into the source of her wetness. Helen moaned, thrusting up against him, pushing it in a little farther.
"Careful," he said, withdrawing just a little, his thumb making slow circles on her pearl. "Does that hurt?"
Her face flushed, her hand clutching at him. "It does. It's good."
Pleasure and pain at once, his thumb stroking her, hard and firm as she'd wanted, his middle finger clenched tight in her virgin muscles. So tight, so strong.
"More." She arched her back, pushing another quarter of an inch. "Bloody hell."
"Like that." His thumb stroking more urgently, slick and hard against her, her whole face contorting. She screamed and snapped her hips, muscles contracting tight around his finger, thrusting hard against it and he felt the barrier give in a sudden warm rush, as though her whole body were the orifice, as though she were nothing else. She screamed again, still rocking on it, her head flung back as the tremors chased through, strong enough for him to feel each one.
And then she lay against him, breath heaving in her chest, half turning toward him, his hand still trapped between her legs.
"Just breathe," he said, his face against her hair, holding his hips still. He wanted…. Oh he wanted. But he could breathe too. He could wait. "Breathe, Helen."
She made a small sound in her throat, buried her face against his chest for a long moment before she looked up. Her eyes were bright and dazed with the intensity of it. "Good Lord."
"Did you…" he began.
"I liked that. Yes." She closed her eyes and leaned against him. "Oh yes."
With his trapped hand he could feel her pulse throbbing in her most private parts. It was enough to drive a man mad. "May I…" he said breathlessly.
"Oh, of course." That was more Helen, more her expression, just sated and shaken.
She opened her legs for him to retrieve his hand. He withdrew it, streaked with blood and mucous. They both looked at it, the bright streaks on his skin, beneath the nail of his middle finger.
"Helen, I never…." His pulse was pounding, every sense shrieking.
She reached down and touched, only a smear on her hand when she raised it. "It's nothing," she said. "Spotting from a surface capillary." Her eyes met his.
"I swear I meant to leave you virgin," he said. And yet his pulse was still pounding, his member aching.
"Well, I don't suppose my future husband will object," she said. Helen smiled. "That was extraordinary."
"Not bad?"
"No." There was the devil in her eyes again, that daring look Helen got when she was proud of her own bravado, of passing beyond the pale in one way or another, the way she looked when she'd scaled a gate or picked herself up out of a cold river or shot the onrushing megamultipede that was attacking Nigel. She looked at him, and he wondered what she could see -- too much. There was too much naked need. "Your turn," she said.
"What?"
"Your turn." She put her hand against his trouser front, against the hardness inside. "You do it. I want to watch you."
"Oh my God." And yet he did it, unfastening the buttons and stroking, almost unbearable, so close already, closing his eyes and….
And there were her hands parting cloth, the kiss of air on his member. "Fascinating," she said.
"I need…."
"Do it."
He had to, his own hand on himself as so many times before, moving in swift time, still wet from her body and that thought, that thought enough was almost overwhelming.
Her hand, sudden and unexpected, pressing against his lower belly just above, pressing firmly on his bladder so that he was suddenly caught between, sensation and sensation, wrong and desperate and sweet…. John moaned, and it took him, bright and sharp as falling off a cliff, dizzying as teleporting, feeling himself come in his own hand (oh God right in front of her!), desperate and embarrassed and transported at once.
Over the edge, and then down.
She was curled against his side, her bare knee against his thigh, white lawn bunched against his belly. "There, my dear. There."
The world revolved. Small surprise, that it should all revolve around her. His world did. It always would.
He didn't open his eyes, just turned and gathered her against him, basking in the scent that was Helen.
"Here." She had snagged the eiderdown quilt and pulled it over them, quilt and blanket and heavy warm duvet, pulling them around them and casting shadows across his face, drawing them into a nest of warmth. "John."
"Please don't be angry," he whispered.
"Never, my dear." She put her head against his shoulder.
He ducked his face to hers, tasted her lips again. "I am yours."
"Yes." She nosed his chin, and he opened his eyes. She looked none the worse for wear, and rather the opposite of horrified. "When we're married," she said, the devil's quirk at the corner of her mouth, "We can do this every night."
"Oh, can we?" And that was more than a man could hope, and far more than he deserved.
"I don't see why not," she said, and laid her head against his breast. "We're us."