In which our contemporary heroine (we have two stories going on here, one in 1712, one in 2008), fantasizes about her hero...
Lucius was bundled up against the cold in a bulky navy peacoat and an extraordinarily ugly brown hat with earflaps that made his head look mutated, but he still managed to look good.
Okay, he looked lumpy and bulky, but she knew how good he looked when he wasn’t quite so encumbered, and she had a vivid imagination. His shaggy dark-blonde hair that he wore pulled into an untidy ponytail, his high cheekbones, his smoky gray eyes, his lean, but powerful build, the weathered complexion of someone intimate with the ocean, had made her revise her descriptions of her hero. Thanks to Lucius, her dashing pirate Matthew was both more disreputable-looking and sexier than her original vision, although she’d have to go back and make sure the character’s eyes were uniformly gray, not brown as they’d started out.
And that inspiration sprung from exchanging a few words with Lucius the day she took possession of the cottage--a blessedly warmer day than this one, when he’d been out and about in nicely snug, faded jeans and a heavy charcoal sweater, cableknit like an Irish fisherman’s and definitely well-loved. She knew little about him other than he was knee-weakeningly good-looking. That and that he was a handyman at one of the island’s surviving grand Victorian hotels. He’d mentioned that and then offered his services if anything broke down in her house, either to fix it or find someone who could.
Oh yeah, she’d take his services any time…
He was hot and worked with his hands. She’d moved from those bits of information into a fantasy that involved her calling him because she thought her bed seemed rickety and squeaky. He’d decide the best way to test its strength was to tie her to it spread-eagled, then torment and tease her wide-open self with those clever hands and an equally clever tongue. Caressing and teasing her nipples roughly enough to almost hurt, making them swell and harden and ache. Licking and caressing her swollen clit until she was soaked and trembling, on the verge of orgasm, then drawing back--over and over again so she grew got wilder and wilder with desire. He’d wait until she was a sweat-drenched, writhing mass of lust before fucking her senseless. And of course, it was a perfect cock, long and thick and with a jaunty curve to it that hit her G-spot with every stroke. (Hey, it was her damn fantasy. Why shouldn’t he be endowed like her heroes?)
Sometimes, in the fantasy, they broke the bed, which in fact had been fine until they started going at it like particularly rut-crazed weasels. And then he spanked her because it was “all her fault” and got them both so excited they fucked again on the broken bed, or up against the kitchen counter, or…well, just about anywhere, really.
Despite the chill in the room, her body felt fevered, aching with need.
Dressing for warmth rather than style had certain advantages. It was easy to slip her hand inside her yoga pants, easy to find her slick, aching clit and circle it with her fingers, imagining Lucius’s hand there instead.
Good God, she was drenched, close already, simply from thinking about him, so turned on that her cold fingers added to the sensation instead of making her flinch.Cranking up the sexual tension between her poor, frustrated characters had gotten her juices flowing--damn, she loved her work sometimes--and a quick replay of the hot-and-kinky handyman fantasy gotten her so close that a few touches…
She bucked up, imagining she was crashing into Lucius’s hard body, screwed her eyes tight to shut out everything but the fantasy. She saw red as she came.
Heart and cunt both fluttering, Elizabeth came back to reality with a crash.
What was she doing sitting alone and playing with herself instead of checking the guy out for real? He lived next door.