I hereby confess:
I am my brother’s kept woman.
Within fifteen minutes, Soze had managed to collect most of us in the tomb’s Firefly Room. Lucky was there, looking a little puffy around the eyes and absolutely refusing to recognize my presence, and so was Puck, who had his feet upon an antique hutch in the corner. He’d tracked down Thorndike despite her lack of cell phone, and Bond, Big Demon, Frodo, Juno, and Graverobber rounded out the party.
“Okay, I’m not going to mince words or waste any time calling us to order. Hope you guys will forgive me for dispensing with tradition.” Soze laid his cell phone open in the middle of the table. “But we’re here to talk about this.” He pressed a button.
The tinny, static-filled voice of Kurt Gehry burbled out. “…absolutely unacceptable…would never have stood for it back when Rose & Grave actually meant something to its members…last straw. If you think the patriarchs of this organization are going to stand idly by while you and your pathetic excuse for a club sell off our traditions to some idiot off his medication, then you are not worthy to bear the title of knight. We hold you completely responsible for this fiasco, and if you do not root out this traitor and stop them before they cause any more harm, then we will do it for you. By any means necessary.”
The patriarch’s voice cut out, replaced by the recorded options on Soze’s voice mail for save, replay, and delete.
“I shudder to think this man holds a high position of political power in our nation,” Thorndike said. “Now, would someone please explain what exactly he’s raving about?”
“This,” Soze said, and opened the screen of his laptop. We all leaned in to look. A browser window was open, showing the homepage of a website called “secretsofthediggers.com.” It looked like your standard conspiracy-theorist website, focusing on the alleged omnipotent actions of our shady, secret, and elite society with lurid Day-Glo colors and a disturbing emphasis on exclamatory punctuation. Nothing I hadn’t seen before. Except for this one had a big, bold, flashing paragraph front and center:
WATCH THIS SPACE FOR AN EXCLUSIVE EXPOSÉ WITH AN ACTUAL CURRENT DIGGER!!! APPALLED BY THE SOCIETY’S SECRET CONTROL, THIS MEMBER WOULD LIKE THE WORLD TO KNOW THE SOURCE OF THEIR EVIL POWER!!! EVERYTHING THEY DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW, REVEALED HERE!!!
Frodo blinked at the screen. “This is it? This is what we all got called in here for? Methinks the guy running this site isn’t the only one who’s acting a little unbalanced.”
“Yeah,” said Big Demon. “The phrase I’m searching for is ‘Who cares?’ Isn’t it just going to be the usual Men in Black, woo-woo stuff? Since when do we even care what these lunatics print about us?”
Soze tabbed over to his Phimalarlico mail, then clicked on the group heading for patriarch postings. There were dozens of new messages. “Every patriarch with an e-mail account got an ‘announcement’ from this fellow telling them exactly what they—personally—could expect from this exposé. And judging from some of these e-mails, it was very personal indeed. This knight apparently has a vast amount of information, whoever he—or she—”
“Or she!” I rolled my eyes. “Of course they think it was one of us. Rose & Grave was fine until they let the chicks in, after all. It could be any disgruntled patriarch.”
“The reason they think it’s one of us,” said Thorndike in an odd, choked voice, “is because we’re the ones with the most access to the tomb. We’re the ones with easy access to the Black Books where the Uncle Tonys describe, in detail, what has happened at every meeting—every C.B. — we’ve ever had.”
“That’s correct,” said Bond. “I remember looking through them with Lil’ Demon when we were researching how to get into Dragon’s Head to steal back that statue.”
It instantly occurred to everyone in the room that Lil’ Demon was very conveniently out of town. Thorndike began to sneeze, and then blew her nose.
“And they think it’s us for another reason,” Soze said. “This guy didn’t send an announcement of the upcoming article to the patriarchs for fun. It was a threat. And alongside a threat comes—”
“Blackmail,” said Lucky. “They think we’re trying to get back at them for not supporting us this year.”
“Makes sense, if you ask me,” said Puck with a shrug. “They’re betraying the society, so why is it still our job to keep their secrets?”
“Right, because an attack like this would make them feel so loving and conciliatory,” I said. “Do they really have such a low opinion of us?”
“Says the woman who takes pleasure in kicking the alums out of the tomb?” asked Juno. “Of course they do, and we haven’t been working very hard to convince them otherwise. The question is, what to do now?”
“Try to stop them, clearly,” said Graverobber. “Didn’t think it was possible to piss off the patriarchs any more than we already have, but clearly I was underestimating how low we could sink. Stealing secrets from the tomb?”
“You’re one to talk, Graverobber,” I sneered. “I think a person threatening to quit should go high on the suspect list. If you quit, you have nothing to lose.”
“But do you think he’s a thief?” Jenny asked me with a penetrating glance. “Do you think he could be bought like that?” I was surprised to see her actually taking his side. I was surprised to see her meeting my eyes, to be frank.
“Explain my motivation for selling anything to this nutcase,” he snapped. “Unlike some of you, I hardly have a cash flow problem.”
“Assuming it was one of us.” Soze’s tone immediately mollified the room. He clicked back to the website. “Which, though I’m not ruling it out, I’m not going to take for granted, either. So let’s not start pointing fingers until we have more evidence. Patriarchs come and go from this place all the time. Yes, we have a record of their visits in our guest book, but that doesn’t mean a thing. You don’t know how long the traitor may have been sitting on this information before he decided to go public.”
“Or she,” Graverobber corrected.
Thorndike groaned. “While we play pronoun games, the clock is ticking. What’s the plan?”
Soze looked at Lucky, who piped up. “I’ve checked out the site’s Whois, of course, but it’s a private registration, which I figured it would be. I’ve got a couple more tricks up my sleeve for tracking down this fellow, but frankly, I’m not sure how far it’s going to get us. The problem with a paranoid conspiracy theorist is, well, he’s already paranoid. He’s sitting in a bunker somewhere with an aluminum cap on his head, certain the CIA and the FBI and whatever are trying to track him down. He’s probably got himself pretty well hidden.” She sat down at the computer. “But like I said, I’ll try.”
“Great.” Soze looked around the table. “Anyone else?”
“I’ve got some friends in the radical community,” said Thorndike, then stifled a cough. “It’s a long shot but sometimes they know people who know people. Fringe of all stripes tend to hang together.”
“And they’re fine working with The Man?” Juno mocked. “You retain any street cred whatsoever after joining Rose & Grave?”
“I’m starting my revolution from the inside,” Thorndike said, then sneezed. Lucky glanced at her for a moment, then returned her eyes to the screen. The rest of us took two steps away from Typhoid Thorndike.
“Shouldn’t our focus be on rooting out the traitor in our midst?” Bond asked in clipped tones. “It seems as if that would be much more useful in the long run. Has anyone considered Howard?”
“Howard’s not a Digger,” said Frodo.
“No, but he was a tap. I doubt this website fellow would concern himself over a technicality.”
Soze shook his head. “Howard doesn’t have access to the Black Books, but your point is well taken. We do need to find out who’s behind this. But I’m not sure how. It’s not as if we can fingerprint the books. The patriarchs are sure it’s one of us. I’m thinking it may be a patriarch trying to get us into trouble again, maybe weaken our support base a little more than it already is.” He gestured with his phone. “This particular trustee is already our biggest detractor, so his reaction is no surprise, but he’s not the only patriarch going postal.”
The White House Chief of Staff had been the force behind last year’s conspiracy to deprive all the new taps and the senior club of their internships as punishment for participating in initiating the first female members. And as Poe could attest, he wasn’t afraid of carrying through on his threats. Not only had the senior been denied his White House summer job, he’d been rendered unemployable anywhere on the Hill. It was unheard of for a Secretary of Rose & Grave to be forced to spend his graduate summer gardening.
The next fifteen minutes were devoted to strategy, though all of our theories and plans were hampered somewhat by the realization that someone standing in the room (or one of our missing members) could be responsible for our current plight. As the conversation waned, I started thinking that maybe Soze had a point. If there was a patriarch determined to ruin this club and start afresh with next year’s taps, then causing all this internal strife was no doubt exactly the way to accomplish his goals.
Pretty soon, the room emptied out as each of my fellow knights departed, task in hand. Lucky remained bent over the laptop. I approached gingerly, as one might a wild animal that might suddenly a) bolt, or b) snap your head off. My anger at what I assumed to be her betrayal paled in the face of our current issue—and more, in the wake of what I’d seen outside the coffee shop.
“Lucky—”
“I’m really busy right now,” she snapped. Apparently, we were going with option b.
“Fine. We can talk later.”
“I’d prefer if we didn’t talk at all.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that,” I said, becoming somewhat snappy myself. “And though you can be as difficult as you want out there in the barbarian world, inside we’re supposed to support one another. I just want to help you.”
“Do you even know what a firewall is?” she asked.
“You know what I mean.”
Her fingers stilled on the keyboard and then she slowly turned and faced me. “I don’t care who you think you are, Amy Haskel, or what you think you heard. If you want to pretend it’s different in here, then that’s your problem. I know I’m under the same judgment in here as I am outside. I’m not going to let myself be corrupted just because a bunch of silly men in robes tell me it’s okay. And I’m not going to pretend any of you have my best interests at heart just because you took an oath to a minor goddess that doesn’t exist.” And then she turned back to the computer, and commenced typing.
Damn. Why did she join at all if she despised us so much? I took a deep breath. “You know, I never really thought it had anything to do with gods or goddesses. I thought that silly wood engraving was a symbol of this thing we made, all one hundred and seventy-seven years of us.” Okay, that was the definition of graven image, but bear with me. “This isn’t my religion, Lucky, and no one is asking for it to be. No one is asking it of you, either. But when I make a promise to someone, on anything, it’s not about the thing I’m swearing by, it’s about me. I made a promise, and I’m going to keep it. So I do have your best interests at heart. I do because I promised I would.” I turned to walk away. “And you owe us two dollars for using my barbarian name.”
I was halfway to the door when she spoke. “Coffee.”
I turned around. “What?”
Lucky sat in a leather armchair three sizes too big for her and stared down at the end of her braid. “I, um…I spilled my coffee earlier. I could really use some caffeine. So if you wanted to, um, make us some coffee, I’ll be done here by the time you get back and we can talk.”
I laughed. “You chew me out and then ask me to fetch you coffee? Luck, if you think that would work on anyone who didn’t really like you and want to help, then you have a very odd grasp of the human spirit.” I headed to the kitchen.
Now, if I were Hale, where would I hide the coffee? I was crouching in front of the pantry, shoving aside bags of potatoes and onions, when I heard footsteps behind me.
“Wow.”
I stood and spun to see George standing in the doorway, jaw hanging open. Damn, where did he come from? I hadn’t heard him on the steps. He came toward me, his eyes glinting behind his glasses. “Turn around, ’boo.”
I furrowed my brow but did as he asked, slowly rotating until I faced him again. This time, his mouth was closed, and his face shone with appreciation.
“When,” he began in a teasing tone, “did you get that lovely bit of ink on your backside?”
My hand flew to the waist of my low-rise jeans. Oh, right. There, framed perfectly by the top of the fuchsia lace thong I’d donned for Brandon’s benefit, sat the tiny hexagon of my Rose & Grave tattoo. “Last spring,” I said. “With the other girls.”
“I love it,” he whispered. “More than the other girls.” And with that enigmatic statement, his hand slipped around my torso and he traced the spot with his thumb. “Why the hell have you been hiding it all fall?” He shifted and arched his head over my shoulder until he could see my back.
“I haven’t been hiding it,” I replied. “You just haven’t been looking in the right places.”
“I concur.” He spread out his palm, flat against my back. “I’ve been woefully ignorant of all your right places.” And there it was, just a tiny touch of pressure, and I listed forward against his chest. He buried his face in my hair. “You look amazing today, ’boo.”
Brandon hadn’t thought so. Oh, irony of ironies that now the clothes I wore for my ex enticed the man responsible for screwing up the relationship in the first place. But that and other thoughts soon fled. How did George manage to do this? He was barely touching me—just the one hand against the small of my back and his jaw against my cheek—but I felt dizzy with anticipation. My hands went out to grasp the shelves, and I felt the unmistakable ridged metal of a coffee can.
Right. Coffee. Oh, hell, who needed coffee when I could just stand here and drink in the pheromones of George Harrison Prescott? My skin burned. If he would just shift slightly, if he would just move the hand he had anchored against my back, if he would just make the slightest gesture at all, I’d be his in a flash.
But he stood there, holding me, breathing deeply, his body almost, but not quite, touching mine.
Your move, Amy.
“We shouldn’t do this here,” I said at last. Because I’m a chicken.
“Those things you said last night at your C.B.,” said Puck, as if I’d never spoken. And now his hand began to move, ever so slowly, down over my jeans-encased butt. “I sat there and listened to you talk about all those boys you were with—”
“All those?” I said on a breath. “You should talk.”
He chuckled against my skin, and it felt like lightning. “Fine. That moderate number of boys you were with. And you know what I thought?”
Tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me.
I heard boots on the steps.
“Caffeine withdrawal is not a pretty picture, Buga—” Jenny swung into the kitchen and stopped dead. “Miércoles.” Her expression flashed with shock, then resentment. “Excuse me.” And she turned and ran.
Crap. Crap crap crappity crap. I dropped my head back against the shelf as George pulled away from me. “I wish she hadn’t seen that.”
“Why? Might do her some good.”
I bit my lip. “No, you don’t get it. Earlier today I saw her arguing with her boyfriend.”
Puck raised an eyebrow. “Luck’s got a boyfriend? That’s impressive.”
“Not if you saw the boyfriend. He’s a slimeball. He was being a total jerk to her and I’d just broken down that little shell of hers and convinced her to let me talk to her about it when you…”
“When I what?” Puck asked. “She acts like I did something to her personally. Always has.”
“She doesn’t approve of you.”
“So? I don’t approve of her, but I’ve never been mean.” His jaw was doing that tight thing again and I wanted to kiss away the tension. “Whatever. I am who I am, and she’s not the first person who has decided to judge me for it. There are plenty of people who hate me just for being a Prescott. My name is on a building down the street, and there’s no way to escape that. People like Lucky will decide I’m evil for breathing their air, and there’s no way to escape that, either.”
“Don’t worry what she thinks. She disapproves of all of us, I’m pretty certain.”
“That wasn’t quite the ringing endorsement I was looking for,” he said, pouting.
“Sorry,” I said. “What would you prefer? ‘Why, Puck, how could anyone dislike you? You’re a veritable icon of sexual power!’?”
“That’s more like it. I’m used to being one of two things: a Prescott or a player.”
According to your mother, it’s one and the same. But I bit my lip to keep from saying that out loud, and pushed him away. “Trust me here, the last thing Lucky needed to see right now was me getting cozy with a guy.” Especially a guy like George. “She’s going through a rough time.” I walked past him to the door of the kitchen, but Jenny was long gone, and now the hall stood empty. I stared at my reflection in the diamond-dust mirror until George came up behind me and put his arms around my waist. I had to admit it: Those two people in the mirror looked good together.
“And regardless of how she treats you, you’re going to help her?”
He didn’t know the half of it. If my hunch was correct, Jenny didn’t simply disapprove of us, she was telling our secrets to her barbarian boyfriend. Funny that she’d been put in charge of rooting out whoever was selling the patriarchs out on secretsofthediggers.com. “That’s what we swore to do, Puck. She can judge the rest of us, but right now, I’m going to be her friend.”
He looked back at the stairs. “Fine. I’ll leave you to your prior engagement, however ill-advised I think it is. I make a habit of not going out of my way to be nice to people who don’t return the favor.”
“So a lot of people are nice to you, then?” I teased.
“And in return, I’m excessively nice to them.” He leaned toward me and put his mouth near my ear. “The next time I see you, Bugaboo, we are picking up where we left off. No more waiting.”
I’d heard a similar sentiment earlier today. Funny, from Micah, it had been the most despicable threat. From George, the most delicious promise.
It was a promise he didn’t get a chance to fulfill for quite some time. Okay, several days. Okay, two. But, trust me, when you’re waiting to have George Harrison Prescott’s hands on your body, time passes very, very slowly. (Especially given that it had also been two days since Jenny had spoken to me. She’d disappeared from the tomb, and failed to respond to seven e-mails and three voice mails. And those were just from me—who knew what the rest of the Diggirls had said to her after hearing my account of the coffee shop confrontation? According to reports, she wasn’t returning any of our calls. It was indeed possible our concern had spooked her.)
And so it happened that one evening I was sitting at my favorite study spot, the window seat in the tomb’s Grand Library, looking out at the moonlit courtyard. Connecticut was shuddering into fall, which meant lots of dismal, gray gloom transitioning us from verdant summer into the fiery brilliance of New England’s peak. Today’s weather was the sort I’d come to associate with New Haven. It spit rain all day, and the ground slushed with the results, soaking shoes and socks and the flares of everyone’s jeans and making them rethink that after-dinner section up on Science Hill or the screening at the Film Studies Center. I could feel the dampness as I sat there, legs crossed beneath me, a middle volume of the tomb’s leather-bound set of The Golden Bough open on my lap. Time was running out to find a thesis topic, but I kept getting distracted. The rotten evening was the perfect chance to dig in, uninterrupted.
Ever since Monday, being present at the tomb usually meant an automatic conscription into Josh’s latest campaign to appease the patriarchs and find the traitor before he caused a permanent break between the club and its most devoted supporters. We hadn’t gotten much further in our search, as Jenny’s efforts had turned up zilch, and everyone seemed too devoted to the cause to be responsible for the leak.
However, I happened to know that Lydia had taken advantage of the storm to trap Josh in her room for the evening. Bless her. The miserable weather and Josh’s efforts would keep everyone else away as well.
But clearly, I’d underestimated a certain man’s persistence.
The chandelier flickered to life above my head and I looked to the door to see Puck with his hand on the switch. “Ah, you are here after all.” I hadn’t even heard the front door open.
The sudden pounding of my pulse signaled: This is it. But I could play it cool. “Did Lydia tell you where to find me?”
“Not exactly.” He smiled and crossed to me. “Lydia said she thought you’d gone to the library. Her boyfriend said he was sure you were having a grand old time.”
“And then, no doubt, he sent you over here to conduct an investigation.”
“Precisely. I think there was something about strip-searching anyone I found inside.” He sat beside me and tapped the book in my lap. “What are you doing here so very late at night? No life?”
I checked my watch. It had gotten late, hadn’t it? I was surprised that even Lydia and Josh were still awake. They’d usually “gone to bed” long before this hour. And let’s not question why it took so long for George to come looking for me. “Studying. I take classes, you know. Or you would, but you opted out of Branch’s Shakespeare.”
“I decided the Nabokov seminar was more my style.” He tilted his head. “Bugaboo, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul, Bugaboo. The tip of the tongue taking a trip down the palate to—well, burst, actually—at last, through the lips. Bug. A. Boo.” He leaned in to kiss me.
“Gross,” I said. “Humbert was a pedophile.”
“A damn eloquent one. Besides,” he said, and nibbled on my lower lip, “you’re legal.”
Can’t really argue with that. I smiled and kissed him in earnest. “What are we doing?”
“What we should have done a damn long time ago, ’boo.”
“What, and lay our private doings open to the society during my C.B.?” I teased, scooting down on the seat so he had an easier time reaching me. Man, this boy could kiss.
“Mine or yours,” he mumbled, kissing down my jawline to my neck. “It’s all going to come out eventually. And I don’t care. Spend the night with me.”
“Okay.”
Simple as that. Because when a guy like George Harrison Prescott is this determined to hook up with you, when he walks through the rain and quotes ecstatic literature and kisses you like he hasn’t seen a girl in years—well, there’s only one acceptable answer. And that’s to accept. Not to overthink it, not to weigh the options, not to determine where this fit into the scope of your orderly C.V., and definitely not to start figuring out exactly where you would fall on his lengthy C.B. This wasn’t about my friends, or my future, or anything else but what I wanted…now. Within these walls, he was neither the reluctant legacy nor the school’s most infamous heartbreaker, but rather, an infinitely charming fellow Digger, fellow Prescotteer, and the guy I’d wanted to tap ever since I laid eyes on him.
George Harrison Prescott: accept or reject? No contest.
I stretched my legs out and tangled them with his as he fought for leverage on the slim window seat. Beyond the lead-veined window there was nothing but private courtyard and wintry dying garden and moonlight, and we were alone in the tomb of Rose & Grave, which is as good as being alone in the world. Here we were, set off five minutes from the rest of the population, separated from the students of Eli by our society names and the secrets we shared.
“It’s not as cold out as I thought,” I said.
“Huh?”
I bopped him on the nose. “Your skin. It’s not cold.”
“I bundled.” And then he began to unbundle me, starting with the scarf around my throat.
I loved this moment of hooking up with a boy, when you haven’t yet relinquished all sense of rationality, but you’re not by any means acting like you would in front of your parents. Our clothes were on, but we were horizontal; we weren’t completely mussed from making out, but my skin was flushed and he was removing his glasses and laying them on the table to my left. I’d seen George without his trademark glasses before, of course, but never from an inch or two away. I thought his copper-colored eyes were gorgeous before, behind the matching copper frames. Without them, and staring into mine, those eyes would have taken my breath away if I’d been able to breathe in the first place. Men should not get the kind of genetic advantages bestowed upon this boy. Or at least not without a big warning sign tattooed on their foreheads.
He shifted his leg slightly, and suddenly, I forgot all about his eyes. “George,” I murmured.
“Open your wallet, ’boo,” he said into the tender skin of my throat. “Because I have a feeling you’re going to owe these fine Diggers a lot of money pretty soon.” His hands slid up under my sweater and I arched beneath him.
“Then we should probably adjourn to someplace more comfortable.”
He lifted his head. “I have the perfect place.”
And then, before I had a chance to gather my books or slip my shoes back on, he was pulling me out of the Grand Library and up a flight of stairs.
“Um, I can assure you this is not the way out,” I said.
“And I can assure you all I’m looking for tonight is a way in.” He reached our destination and held open the door with a flourish. “Milady.”
The Inner Temple. I hesitated. “You’re serious? What if someone comes into the tomb?”
He grabbed me around the waist and drew me inside. “I guarantee everyone’s gone home for the night. Besides, you think we’re the first to think of it? The first to do it?” He pushed my hair to the side and began kissing the nape of my neck. “I bet a ton of guys used to bring their dates in here to show off. Nothing so sexy as knowing what kind of power the guy you’re with is wielding. Knowing you’re with a Digger…”
“Yeah,” I replied. “But I’m a Digger, too. How do you plan to impress me?”
“Oh, I’ll think of something.” And then he kissed me. And I know I’ve gone on about George’s kisses in the past, but indulge me one more time. He’s phenomenal. I’ve never ever been kissed this way. Not to get too technical about it, but the man kisses as if he’s doing way more to you than just kissing you.
My body got that impression as well.
WAYS IN WHICH “PUCK’S” REPUTATION IS WELL DESERVED
1) The aforementioned kisses.
2) The tremendous skill he possesses in removing a girl’s clothes in a manner so subtle that, addled as she is by the kisses, she isn’t even aware of what he’s doing until she’s standing, half-naked, underneath the star-studded dome of the Inner Temple and he’s moved his kisses south.
3) The things he does south, mainly to breasts. Quite astonishing, actually. Wow. Wow.
4) The way—
That’s about as far as I got with my list before my knees buckled beneath me.
“Whoa there, ’boo.” He chuckled against my bare skin and steadied me as I sucked in a breath and tried to make my stomach look like I’d ever taken advantage of the free Pilates sessions at the Eli gym. But it was tough to maintain the proper concentration when George Harrison Prescott dropped to his knees before me, anchored his hands on my butt, and began to nuzzle my belly button.
“Take your pants off,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Look at you,” he said, and rocked back on his heels, watching me. “So agreeable all of a sudden. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“The pleasure.” I slipped my jeans down over my hips and received another jolt of happiness when his eyes widened. The load of laundry I’d done yesterday was totally worth it. “Fuchsia. Just for you.”
“Very nice.” His face expressed something far greater than approval, however. I kicked off my socks and pants and hooked my fingers beneath the straps of the thong.
And then I hesitated. “Wait a second—”
“Oh, I agree. Leave it on.”
I stabbed him in the chest with my finger. “You’re still clothed. What, planning on bolting and leaving me here in my skivvies?”
“Hardly.” He pointed at the closet in the rear of the room. “With all the robes in there, it would be a pointless prank.”
Good call. “Then I think you’re overdressed.”
He spread his arms. “Help yourself.”
So I did, because peeling material off of George’s Adonis body is not exactly an undesirable task. I’m embarrassed to admit how many times I’ve imagined him naked, and happy to report the reality blew them all away. And once he was naked, and I was nearly so (he flatly refused to let me take off my panties), all teasing went out of the proceedings. The point of no return.
Then I learned George’s kisses were merely a prelude to the rest of the tricks in his repertoire. I’ve lived twenty-one years on this planet, and I think I’ve been around the block a couple of times (my C.B. audience can attest to this fact) and I never even knew some of the things he proceeded to do to me were physically possible. For instance:
Exhibit A: The throne on top of the dais is an antique, intricately carved affair, covered as it is with bas-relief scenes from the Grecian underworld and crowned by two large globes on the front of each armrest, which, it turns out, are great places to hook your calves when you’re in particularly intimate positions wherein you are on the chair and he is…well, not on the chair, but rather, on the dais. On his knees. It was a gorgeous piece of furniture really, probably part of a set along with that diamond-dust mirror down near the kitchen. The only thing that might have improved upon the whole experience was if we’d had the mirror nearby. But I digress. I’d never thought of the straight-backed throne as particularly comfortable, but now I don’t know if I’ll be able to consider it at all without immediately breaking out into a sweat.
Exhibit B: Sex on the conference table may be a bit of an old saw in the corporate world, but sex on the Rose & Grave conference table, beneath the starry dome, surrounded by wood paneling and oil masterworks and George, George, George…I think I owe the good Diggers a couple hundred bucks. At one point, I grabbed his shoulders and stopped him.
“Do you think this place is bugged?”
“That would be fun.” He swiveled a bit, demonstrating a move I swear is illegal in three out of five states.
“George! It’s not funny. I’m creeped out by the idea that this could wind up on tape.”
“Smile for the camera, ’boo.” He chuckled, then reached down between us and made me gasp. “Come on, you think we’d still be forced to do all that transcribing in the Black Books if they had the Inner Temple wired?”
“Good point,” I managed to get out in between labored breaths.
“Then again,” he said, and rolled us both on our sides, “see that third star over there? Looks suspiciously like a lens, don’t you think?” He pulled me on top of him and grabbed my hips. “I think this is my best angle.”
I promptly came, so it was clearly my best angle as well.
Exhibit C: We ended up on the floor of the Inner Temple, lying on top of an unused robe, directly beneath the oil painting of Connubial Bliss. And I still had my underwear on, mere technicality though it was. George seemed fascinated by it, constantly running his fingers beneath the straps at my hips and in the back, obviously pleased as punch the flimsy scraps of material weren’t in the least impeding his current activities. And I had to say, I was with him on that one. I’d always figured thongs were supposed to be sexy for the boys only; I’d never realized what a turn-on they were for me until George showed me their full potential.
“Remember what I said the other day?” His voice sounded gruff and breathless. “About what I was thinking during your report?”
“Yes,” I murmured, looking down at him through half-closed eyes.
“This is it. This is what I wanted. I saw you standing here in front of this painting, talking about those other guys, and I wanted you. Right here. Like this. This is my fantasy, ’boo. You are…my fantasy.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and I felt his chest shudder beneath my palms as his breath caught.
So I took over, happy to oblige any and all of this man’s fantasies. Because it was no longer a secret he’d satisfied all of mine.