She balled her hands in her skirts to keep the hem clear of the snow—god, but she missed her old trousers—and hurried to close the distance to where her son and her apprentice walked with hands almost touching.
It did lift her furious heart to see how dismayed they looked, and how they moved slightly farther apart, when she closed the distance. The trio stomped silently homeward, snow crunching and frost grinding beneath the unhappy rhythm of their boots.
Anger and impatience were a volatile combination, especially when one was trying not to ruin a holiday. Agatha buzzed inside like an angry hive the rest of the day, through Mrs. Braintree’s dinner and after, when Captain Stanhope and Mr. Flood regaled them with tales of the dazzling Arctic city of Smeerenburg. Eliza and Sydney were defiantly merry, dancing riotously to the captain’s shanties until Penelope’s boisterous brother threw up his hands and laughingly pleaded exhaustion.
They retired to bed. Agatha paced her bedroom floor, and noticed the gentle sound of a door opening, about an hour after everyone else had gone silent. A rumble in Captain Stanhope’s usual key followed, harmonizing with lighter notes in Mr. Flood’s softer tones. The door shut, and silence reigned again.
Agatha paced for another number of minutes, as many as she could stand. Then she slipped to the connecting door and tapped softly with one fingernail. The door opened at once, Agatha darted in, the door closed—and Agatha was backed up against the wall with her arms around warm, plump Penelope Flood.
Oh, an armful like this was worth any amount of trouble.
Penelope’s mouth was hot and hungry. She wore her night rail, and a gray woolen wrapper against the chill, but she’d left the wrapper open so Agatha’s hands could roam the rolling dips and valleys of her body. The shorter woman tore her mouth away on a gasp when Agatha’s hand plunged into the neck of her night rail and cupped possessively around the soft weight of her breast. “Christ, Griffin,” she groaned, warm breath against Agatha’s throat. “What kept you?”
“No idea,” Agatha groaned back. All her rage and frustration became mere kindling, and sent her blazing up now with love and lust and a need so sharp it was almost painful. She held Penelope tight and devoured her mouth until both women’s joints gave way, and they slid down to the floor in a panting, grasping tumble of linen and limbs.
Penelope’s knee landed hard on the bare floorboards and she cursed, then bit her lip and made a face. “This was easier when I was younger,” she muttered.
“I know just how you feel,” Agatha chuckled between kisses. And she did. A good hard fuck took a toll on a body at forty-five years of age. She could still feel last night aching in her muscles, and knew it would be even more noticeable tomorrow.
She couldn’t wait.
Agatha remembered when she’d gloried in smooth, unlined skin and the dewy litheness of youth. Now everything had relaxed, and folded, and new spots seemed to show up without warning, as though she were a potato left too long unattended in a cellar.
But Penelope—she had folds in the same places, and creases, and skin that had slackened and gone delicate with age. She was round where Agatha was rangy, but her body also bore the marks of her years, and it was glorious to behold. Agatha tugged Penelope’s hem up higher and higher, the better to see everything beneath, to learn it better than she knew her own body. Every freckle, every fold was somewhere to press wondering fingers, every roll was made to fit the greedy span of Agatha’s palm.
Penelope’s small teeth bit down on Agatha’s earlobe, and what little remained of her patience went up in absolute smoke. “I hope you want it fast, Flood,” she rasped, her voice all but choked from desire.
“And hard,” Penelope replied, in an eager tone that sent lightning skipping down every one of Agatha’s nerves. Penelope pulled back, grinning wickedly, with a light in her eyes that made Agatha catch her breath. “Can I show you something?”
“Anything,” Agatha breathed. But she was still surprised when Penelope pulled a small box from her bedside table and opened it up to reveal... well, a respectably sized dildo made from sleek walnut. It gleamed cheekily in the candlelight as Penelope lifted it from the box’s protective padding. “Good god, Flood, where on earth did you get that?”
“Believe it or not, this was a present from Harry after he made captain,” Penelope said. “Nantucketers call it a he’s-at-home. ‘Every whaler’s wife should have one,’ he said.” She patted the smooth surface with familiar affection.
Agatha narrowed her eyes and purred, “And you would like me to use it on you.”
Penelope quivered visibly. “Yes, please.”
The breathiness in her reply hooked under Agatha’s skin and set her pulse to staccato. She took the wooden phallus in hand and rose to her feet. “On the bed, then,” she said, putting steel into her tone.
It had been a guess, but it was a good one: Penelope scrambled to obey, flinging her wrapper over the nearest chair and stretching out on her side on the bed. Her bosom plumped up gorgeously against her arm beneath the night rail, and she winked when she caught Agatha staring. “There’s oil in the box,” she said with a grin.
Agatha retrieved the small jar of unscented oil and set it on the bedside table. Penelope rolled onto her back and flung her arms up over her head, arching so her nightclothes revealed even more of her ample curves beneath the linen. Eagerness was written in every panting breath, in the way her legs moved softly up and down against one another beneath her skirt.
Agatha felt heat sizzle along the back of her neck, and down her arms to her fingertips. It was warmer in here than it had been last night—Penelope must have stoked the fire in the hearth a little higher in anticipation. The warmth in the air, the untied wrapper... She’d done as much as possible to ensure everything was ready for when Agatha slipped secretly into her room in the night.
Agatha was strongly inclined to reward such thoughtfulness. Especially if it meant she got to fuck Penelope Flood good and hard.
She held the dildo regally, put all the command she could into her voice, and said: “Strip.”
Penelope yanked her night rail over her head, while Agatha examined the dildo more closely. It had a good weight and feel against her hand, silken-smooth with a rope-like series of twists at the base that made it easy to grip and turn.
She wrapped her fingers around it and looked back at Penelope, who was now entirely, wonderfully nude and wriggling on top of the blankets on the bed. Her hand slipped down to her own sex, stroking lightly.
Agatha grinned wickedly. “Impatient, are we?”
“Yes, we bloody well are,” Penelope responded tartly.
Agatha used her free hand to pinch the nearer nipple, and Penelope gasped. Agatha’s own nipples went tight at the sound. “A little wider, if you please,” she murmured.
