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“I have several. Wood, glass, stone, rubber. Very soft leather packed with wool. I only brought one.” He paused. “See was a euphemism, by the way.”

“Oh,” she said, faintly. “Would you like to see my cock didn’t sound particularly euphemistic.”

“Mm.” She could hear his grin. “Here’s the proper question. Would you like me to fuck you with my cock?”

Sweat dampened her throat, anticipation coiled between her legs, and she gave a little whimper.

“Is that a yes?”

“Depends on which you brought,” she managed. “It’s not the stone one?”

He laughed and stroked a thumb down her side. “Too heavy. I’m traveling light.”

“I warned you I’m not imaginative.” She laughed too, shakily. “I certainly can’t imagine a stone…That is, a—” She coughed. “Cock. Of stone.” Except maybe she could, because every moment she was coiling tighter. Intrigued. Excited.

“You might find you like it. It’s hard, of course—harder than most—but smooth. I’d warm it first. And oil it. Nothing I use on bicycles, I give you my word. And I’d fuck you with it slowly, using my hand to control the strokes.”

She pressed her thighs together, a pulse beating at their apex.

“And the one you did bring?” She tried to make her breathing more even.

“Packed leather. I fit it in a leather harness. Which leaves my hands free.” His hands were roaming lower.

She moaned, unable to restrain herself, and he repositioned, shoving apart her legs. She couldn’t wait another second, and he obliged her, no more caresses. He leaned forward and put his mouth on her. Her moan became a groan, a deep, desperate sound that she could hardly believe she was making. He pulled with his lips, lapped with his tongue. She forgot the cock. She was rolling against him, lost in the rapture of the moment. He slid two fingers inside her, working her with a slow, churning motion, and then stroked faster, once, twice, three times, and she screamed, convulsing as thunder broke, dark vibrations traveling through her. The next clap of thunder started it again, delicious tremors that took her apart. Kit sprawled on her legs, purring his satisfaction like a lazy cat. Finally, he stirred.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said, as though she had muscles and bones, as though she could do anything but puddle on the bed like silk.

When he returned, he knelt at her feet, legs spread, nightshirt rucked up. His cock jutted, dark and curved, larger than she’d pictured. The sight motivated her to prop herself up on her elbows. He stroked his hand back and forth, up and down the length of it.

“Can you feel with that?” she whispered.

“I’m not frigging myself.” His teeth flashed. “I’m warming the leather. Any pleasure I derive from this particular action is sourced in my mind, not this phallus. But the mind is powerful. And my desire to be inside you is more than physical.”

He lunged and came down atop her, bracing the bulk of his weight with his arms. “Do you want me inside you?”

God, yes, she wanted it. She wanted it now, and tomorrow, and next week, and next year, and someday, and forever. She pushed up and kissed him, wrapping him with her arms and legs as he slid into her by slow degrees. He rolled his hips, lodging himself deeper and deeper. She was pinned, filled to the brim and quivering. She traced the taut muscles of his back, dug her nails into the hard curve of his buttocks, urging him on. He changed the angle of her legs, pressed her knees higher, thrusting faster, his teeth on her throat, and her peak slammed her head back into the pillow and kept coming on. She heard her cries mingle with the storm, and she couldn’t tell if he’d cried out too, or if she’d reached the heights alone. She held him close, breathing his scent, unable to speak. She drifted off with him inside her, and woke up briefly to the sound of thunder, his body curled around her, his arm slung possessively beneath her breasts. And then, despite the storm, despite everything, she slept like the dead until morning.

28

It was still raining at breakfast. The bar was even more crowded than it had been the previous evening, and a mood of agitation prevailed. The storm had disturbed everyone’s rest and continued to disrupt travel. Muriel squeezed between tables at which the talk was nothing but complaints about the beds, the weather, the train, the tea, and the toast. Her only concern was getting tea and toast. Cold, burnt—it made no difference. She was groggy, sore, hungry as a bear, and she required sustenance for the grueling ride ahead. She’d have eaten grubs.

There were no grubs in evidence, and no free tables. She had no party to join. The wheelmen were in the tack room, attending to their machines. She’d peeked in on the way to the bar and seen Kit crouching by a Rover with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He had a smudge of grease on his cheek, and hair in his eyes, and the muscles in his forearms were doing interesting things as he changed the angles of his wrists. She’d realized she was giving him that mortifyingly lobsterish look, so she’d hurried on, before anyone could remark it.

Now she clutched at her rumpled skirt, wondering if she could make herself very small and perch on the edge of a bench at a table of strangers, or if she’d better return to her room and gnaw a seaweed specimen.

A woman noticed her distress and scooted down her bench voluntarily, opening a space.

“You can sit here.” She was around Muriel’s age, with a tired face and energetic hair, curls escaping her bun and corkscrewing in all directions.

“We’re terrible company,” warned the woman sitting across from her. She seemed as though she’d be very good company, on less trying occasions. She had a sprightly air. Her smocked silk dress was a conspicuous shade of pink.

“And anyway, we’re about to leave.” The woman to the right of the woman in pink set down her teacup. Her eyes were a fathomless blue.

“We’re not even guests here,” confided the woman in pink.

“My thanks.” Muriel sat, a little confused and wholly charmed.

“We’re at the White Hart,” the woman in pink continued. “But the kitchen flooded, so there was nothing to eat.”