15
chemistry moves on to physics— breaking the rules (and possibly the wrists)— interesting synonyms—alice takes a stance
To squirm or not to squirm, that is the question Alice posed herself as she lay gazing at the ceiling while Daniel pressed his hand against her thigh. Although the weight was comfortable, its warmth ignited nerves even through her nightgown and drawers, making her restless. She wanted him to move that hand—but in which direction, she could not decide.
“There is an advanced exercise which may help us get more into character,” he explained. “Shall we attempt it?”
“By all means,” Alice agreed. “I am always in favor of professional development.”
“Are you sure? It will go against Regulation 32. And possibly Regulation 17 also.”
Alice frowned in bemusement. “ ‘No forward reconnaissance into closed-off spaces without first advising headquarters of your intentions’?”
“Hm.”
“Well, Mr. Bixby, regulations exist for a good reason and ought to be respected. Nevertheless, these are exceptional circumstances. I authorize you to proceed at will.”
She felt proud of these words. She admired their straightforward vigor in much the same manner she might admire a jolly good Marmite sandwich. Not one single tremble or high-pitched vowel existed anywhere amongst them.
Her heart, however, represented nothing more than jam dolloped haphazardly atop a crumpet. If Daniel ever realized how smitten she was with him—how deeply vulnerable she really felt—he’d be appalled.
“Very well,” he said, and kissed her.
It was a tender kiss, softening her lips, soothing her nerves. She returned it in the way she remembered from their earlier practice until slowly, delightfully, theory dissolved, leaving only pleasure. Reaching up, she stroked fingers through his hair and down along the strong curve of his jaw. She had never touched another person like this, never known it was possible to feel tingling enjoyment rather than discomfort in doing so. Just as soon as he stopped kissing her (hopefully many long minutes from now), she would assure him that his advanced exercise was a great success.
And then he began to lift her nightgown.
Good heavens, she was about to be utterly exposed! This was hooliganism at its most outrageous! Agent B would see her drawers!
Daniel paused, somehow divining her alarm from the widening of her eyes, or the cessation of her breath, or the way she was holding his wrists in a white-knuckled grip.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Alice blinked. Releasing his wrists, she exhaled slowly. “It’s fine. A mere reflex on my part. Kindly move on with all promptitude.”
“Are you su—”
“I can complete the A.U.N.T. level three obstacle course; I can do this.”
He paused, shifting back with a concerned look—
“If you stop,” Alice told him, “I will write you up for dereliction of duty.”
“Yes, Mrs. Blakeney.” He regarded her with a thoughtful expression, trying to decide the degree of her vulnerability or the chances of her murdering him. “Perhaps I should just get straight to the point?”
“Yes. I dislike fiddling about unnecessarily. In most ventures, brisk penetration of details and a straightforward thrust to the core of the matter is the best tactic.”
Daniel made a small, odd sound. Alice wondered if he had developed some sudden malady of the throat, but he pulled himself together and returned her gaze implacably. She felt a sudden thrill. Not even the Academy instructors had looked at her with such unwavering dominance. This was a man who knew exactly what he was doing and who felt not one shred of fear about what she might do in turn. It made her feel safe in a way she never had before.
Somewhere in the brightly lit, well-polished lobby of her mind, Memory tapped the mission dossier pointedly. But Alice was moving through low, dark tunnels of instinct and desire, and if anyone had asked her about the dossier, she wouldn’t know it.
“Spread your legs,” Daniel ordered.
The instruction was simple enough—and yet somehow akin to a passage from Les Liaisons Dangereuses. Swallowing dryly, Alice did as she was told. Daniel moved his hand beneath her nightgown and through the silk-hemmed center opening of her drawers, placing it firmly upon the warm, damp place it found there. Such a jolt went through her, Memory flung the mission dossier aside and ran to hide under a stack of Bible verses.
“Try to relax,” Daniel said.
“I am relaxed,” Alice replied in a voice so taut the final syllable cracked under its strain. After all, what could be more restful than lying in a houseful of maniac pirates while a man to whom one was ridiculously attracted inserted his hand into one’s drawers?
“Hm,” Daniel murmured doubtfully. And then he stroked a finger . . .
And stopped, consequent to having been shoved onto his back while Alice knelt astride him, two of her own fingers pressed sharply against his windpipe.
“Um,” he said.
She moved her hand back. “Oh dear. Another reflex. Light touches, you know? My apologies, Mr. B-Blakeney.”
“No, the apology is mine,” he answered somewhat breathlessly. “I propose—er, I mean, I suggest we postpone this exercise until another night.”
Alice frowned. Postponement was the last thing she wanted. She had not reached the pinnacle of A.U.N.T.’s ranks by postponing difficult tasks or shirking her professional responsibilities. And plainly her responsibility to A.U.N.T., the Queen—nay, all of humankind—was to have Daniel Bixby continue fondling her. Preferably without her killing him in response.
“I’m sorry, I must insist on begging your pardon,” she said. “It seems duty acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.”
“You are not strange, merely sensitive, like the most finely constructed pistol.”
He smiled up at her, and Alice became aware that his center of marital activity was aligned directly below hers, with only a few inches of hot, empty space providing a bulwark against depravity. Get off the man, she told herself sternly.
Make me, her body answered.
“We must have done enough now to pass as married,” she said, although it was less a statement than a tentative reconnaissance. Secret question marks lurked behind every word.
“Hm,” Daniel said. And taking hold of her hips in a firm grip, he lowered her so that their bodies met.
Alice gasped. The open crotch of her drawers left her exposed to something for which depravity seemed far too mild a word. Sinful would be more appropriate. Or better yet, throbbing.
Daniel guided her a few inches forward and then back, dragging her against the hard ridgeline of him. The texture of his linen underwear scraped her bare flesh. The sensation was even more electrifying than if she had drunk tea with several tablespoons of sugar. Suddenly she apprehended the vast field of experience she had yet to cross—and how many land mines it contained.
Keep going, her heart pleaded.
Tap-tap, her fingers replied against the air.
Seeing this, Daniel frowned with concern. He stopped their activity at once, and Alice felt herself being lifted away from him.
Frustration rushed her senses. She’d always found physical contact difficult, and in response, others had invariably stepped back, walked away, leaving her untouched rather than helping her to find a manner in which to experience it safely. Daniel Bixby had promised to be different. And now here he was, being considerate, taking gentle care.
Well, she would just have to show him what she needed.
She grasped his hands and, in one swift, firm motion, removed them from her hips to pin them instead to the mattress on either side of his head. Glaring down at him from within curtains of tumbled hair, she saw his eyes flash bright, and her own responded in kind, as if a current of electricity ran between them. He gave her a smile so thoroughly wicked, he might as well have gone through her book collection and dog-eared all its pages.
Alice thrilled. She had him restrained but knew that at any moment he could overcome her without even taking a breath. She paused to imagine it, and the pulse in her wrists and between her legs grew more fierce. Lowering herself again, she restarted the slow, rocking motion.
Where Daniel had been hard before, he now felt like granite against her softness. Tiny sparks of pleasure began to shoot through her nerves. Panic began to rouse itself within her at the overwhelming stimulation—but, as if he sensed it, Daniel curled his fingers tightly around hers. He held her protected even with her kneeling over him—kept her safe as she took what she wanted from his body. Alice tugged a little, testing if she could escape, but he would not relent. He had her.
She exhaled with relief.
Sparks turned into flares, and flares kindled fires. Suddenly Daniel lifted his hips, introducing a new angle as he rubbed against her, and the fire soared until it was a raging conflagration that scalded her breath and threatened to turn her self-control to cinders. Alice sought in vain for the cooling, calming modulation of old poetry . . .
And the whole alphabet exploded through her body.
At the same moment, Daniel’s body shuddered beneath her. Alice wondered dimly if he felt the same ecstasy, but could not ask, all her language lost and most of her breath along with it.
“Holy Mother of God,” he gasped.
Seeing his stunned expression, Alice felt suddenly, oddly shy. She would have moved away, but a heavy lassitude came over her, obliging her to remain where she was, her fingers damp in Daniel’s grip, other parts of her body damp also, as if she’d been a fire indeed, and now was doused. She did not know what to do next. Her gaze slipped away into a vague middle distance just as Daniel’s did the same, but they breathed in unison, heavily, a little shakily. Their bodies lingered together with a mutual longing that not even acute pleasure had satisfied.
“Does that answer your question?” he asked.
“Yes, it was most informative,” she replied. “I am now a little concerned about my heart rate, however.”
He laughed. Their eyes met accidentally, and intensity tightened the space between them, as if each was the other’s moon, subject to a private gravity. They looked away again, fast. Alice climbed off Daniel, her legs trembling almost as much as her pulse. A.U.N.T. regulations began firing rapidly through her brain. Damn, damn, damn, ricocheted in consequence. I should not have done that. Kissing was one thing, but she’d just crossed a line that felt very dangerous indeed.
As panic began to swell, she shut everything down with well-trained ruthlessness. Physical pleasure—gone. Desire—gone. A robust connection to her sense of self—just gone, so that she felt like an observer of Alice, rather than the woman herself. She stacked pillows before the wrought-iron headboard, then arranged herself in a stiff, upright pose against them, knees drawn to her chest and nightgown hem tucked firmly beneath her toes. Yanking the quilt until it covered her knees, she swatted briskly at a few wrinkles.
“Good night, then, Mr. Blakeney,” she said, and closed her eyes.
A moment’s silence was followed by Daniel’s hesitant voice. “Er, yes. Um. Perhaps I shall retire to the sofa again, so that you may feel comfortable lying down.”
“I am entirely comfortable,” Alice said without opening her eyes. “This is my regular position in bed.”
Although she could not see him, she absolutely felt his doubtful sidelong glance. “I’m not sure you’re being—”
“Sir. Do you mind? I am trying to sleep.”
Silence fell again.
Daniel lay carefully motionless, listening to Alice count beneath her breath. He wanted to cuddle her, kiss her, softening all those damned numbers into poetry. He wanted to remove her nightclothes and continue practicing marital exercises with her until they both graduated several times over. But if he did not repress his desire he might just destroy the mission—and Alice’s heart—his own heart—the whole entire bloody world—along with it.
Worse, he could be fired if A.U.N.T. learned about what had just happened.
Not to mention how appalled Alice would be if she learned the degree of his attraction to her. He could just imagine the stacks of Human Resources complaints she’d write on the subject. Well, not imagine, but at least extrapolate the likelihood from known facts.
So he stared up at the ceiling (good grief, someone really ought to clean it) and started counting beneath his own breath. But the tidy rhythm broke apart again and again under the force of his pulse, and the silence in the room shivered like a shy girl—or, indeed, a shy man who lay beside a woman with whom he was hopelessly enamored.
Damn, he thought. Damn, damn. This is not safe.
“I think—” he began.
“Sleeping,” Alice snapped in reply.
A melancholy sigh threatened to rise in his throat. Horrified at the prospect, he climbed out of bed, obtained new underwear from his bag, and employed the washroom to refresh himself. Upon returning, he paused for a while, regarding Alice’s finely wrought face within its tumbled frame of hair. She looked like an angel—granted, an Angel of Death, considering her abilities with an umbrella or merely the heel of one hand, but that was beside the point. He was obsessed with her beauty. Part of him wanted to bring out a ruler and measure the width of her cheekbones. Another part began to raise more ribald suggestions.
“I cannot sleep with you staring at me like that,” Alice said without opening her eyes.
Daniel actually felt himself blushing. “It’s probably unwise for us to share the bed.”
“Nonsense. Besides, my reputation would be ruined if a servant or pirate entered the room and found you sleeping alone on the sofa. Come now, you are making much ado about nothing.”
He almost laughed at that, but judging from Alice’s cool expression, she’d not had the same literature professor as him. With a shrug of surrender, he climbed into the bed and settled down with his back to her. Reaching out, he doused the bedside lamp.
“Good n—”
“Sleeping.”
He did sigh then. At least with her rigid attitude, there was no danger of waking to find her head in his lap like he had this morning.
Which was not the best thing to remember, under the circumstances. He cast the provocative image from his mind and began a slow, resolute count backward from one thousand until at last, somewhere around sixty-nine, he drifted thankfully into sleep.
And woke at dawn with Alice Dearlove dreaming in his arms, her breath like poetry against his hard-pulsing throat.