Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

Simon moved over her, on top of her, his gorgeous face looking down at her. “There’s more. If you deem yourself able.”

She would not have thought it possible, as she was fully satisfied, but she experienced a desirous pang. Living in the moment, she held his gaze, trailed her left hand down his strong back, and wiggled her hips. “Do not disappoint, Mr. Darcy.”

“Challenge accepted, Miss Goodenough.”

She was slick with want, delirious with need, and yet he hesitated when he breached her womanly walls. She surmised he was surprised by the tight fit, but then he kissed her wantonly and plunged deep.

Willie’s emotions danced as Simon reawakened the woman she’d abandoned long ago. So beautiful, so exciting . . . so troubling . She pushed the latter thought aside. She would live in the moment because this moment might not come again.

“Willie,” he bade as he rocked her to orgasm. “Open your eyes.”

But he would then see her as a Freak. She ignored his command until he stilled.

He smoothed his thumb across her cheek, nipped her lower lip. “I want to see you when I come. The real you,” he emphasized.

That caught her off guard and her lids flew open.

Simon cradled her face and held her gaze as he resumed his skilled and sensual mating.

Mesmerized, enchanted, and seduced, Willie climaxed in tandem with the love of her youth.

“Sweet Christ,” he whispered as he collapsed upon her.

Indeed, was her only coherent thought.

Simon had enjoyed many a tryst. Numerous alliances far more risqué than this recent dalliance with Willie. Yet his mind and body reeled in the aftermath. Never had he felt so focused, so driven, so lost .

Lost in the moment. Lost in her beauty. Lost in the passion.

Mystifying.

Terrifying.

Was it possible that he’d never fallen out of love with Wilhelmina Goodenough? Even though she’d broken his heart? Even though twelve years had passed and she was nothing like the young girl he remembered?

She was, in fact, more. Vastly complicated and assured trouble. Life with this woman would not be easy. Or boring.

Simon stared up into the darkening room, contemplating the future. Typically his mind churned with visions and calculations. Advanced designs that were not only functional but impressive. He had goals, monumental goals, and though he felt compelled to marry Willie—indeed, he would marry her, even if only in spirit—he could not yet imagine how she would fit into his life. The fact that she was a Freak was challenging enough, but her involvement in an underground movement, a movement ripe for radical upheaval should their cause go unrecognized, could prove inconvenient, if not detrimental to his career. On that score, her parents had been spot-on. In order to construct his more inspired creations, Simon needed the support of various government agencies and, upon occasion, assorted officials. This meant walking a fine line politically and not ruffling feathers. Willie’s association with the Freak Fighters would most definitely ruffle stodgy and fearful Old Worlders. If protests and demonstrations turned ugly, if Freaks and their supporters turned to more extreme measures resulting in violence and mayhem, New Worlders would be wary as well. A rebellion such as this would too greatly resemble the civil rights movements of the twentieth century. Movements that sought equality for Negroes and Indians in the United States, Catholics in Northern Ireland, and blacks and women in the United Kingdom, to name but a few. All cited in the Book of Mods and many resulting in bloody conflict.

Simon thought about Willie engaged in a heated protest and frowned. Just because she didn’t advocate violence, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t get caught up in a ruckus and hurt. Or worse. Killed.

“What troubles you?” Willie asked in a scratchy voice.

Simon turned his face into the pillow, toward the woman who’d been sleeping in his arms. “You’re awake.”

She looked at her wrist, then frowned. “I feel at odds without my timepieces. What hour is it?”

“Close to dinnertime.”

“I can’t believe I slept into the evening,” she said, pushing upright with her good arm. “My stamina is lacking. How frustrating.”

“In light of the severity of your injury,” he said, smoothing a comforting hand down her back, “I’d venture exhaustion is natural. Look at it this way, the more you rest, the faster your recovery. Perhaps we should not have—”

“I’m glad we did.” She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “You did not disappoint, Mr. Darcy. Indeed, I can’t imagine spectacular.”

“Rest and recover,” he said with a wicked grin, “and you will not have to imagine.”

She instantly sobered. “I’m not sure it is wise for us to persist as lovers.”

“Nor am I. What I’m sure of is an attraction, a connection that has gone unbroken in spite of the years. In spite of the misunderstandings. I’ve no intention of running from this. From you.”

Cheeks flushed, she looked away. “I’ve changed, Simon. I am not the carefree girl you fell in love with. In fact, I don’t know how to behave like a proper lady anymore. I don’t know how to live life as a woman whilst maintaining my career—a career that allows me to support, not only my father, but a cause I deeply believe in.”

“Ah. The Freak Fighters.” Simon sat up and swung his bare feet to the chilly floor. “Just how involved are you?”

She dragged a hand through her rumpled hair, shrugged. “Only as an anonymous voice to date. I pen articles under pseudonyms, draft pamphlets to distribute to the masses in an effort to properly educate Vics regarding our race. Old Worlders tend to circulate ignorant propaganda in hopes of suppressing our rights as a way of keeping us down. What they don’t seem to understand is that suppression and intolerance are fueling discontent amongst Freaks. Causing some to branch out as mercenaries—using their supernatural gifts for dubious gain. Whilst others—like the Freak Fighters—band together to instigate change for the better. The remainder simply try to blend, to be invisible, denying who they are even to themselves. It is for those intimidated few that I fight the hardest.”

Her passion and intent stirred his blood and indeed left him humbled. Aside from designing assorted contraptions and conveniences, what had he really done to make a difference in this unstable world?

“I do not oppose your cause,” Simon said. “Indeed I am moved by your plight and passion, but know this, Willie. Change is often perceived as chaos and not always won peacefully. As was evidenced by the Peace Rebels.”

She cut him an injured glance. “They came here, to this century, with good intentions. Were it not for a few bad apples—”

“You don’t have to defend your father—or was it your mother?—to me.” Sensing he was entering dangerous territory, Simon grasped her hand in reassurance. “Which of your parents was the Mod?”

Not breaking his grasp, she swung around so that they were sitting side by side. “My mother.” She licked her lips, then swallowed. “I think she was involved somehow with Jefferson Filmore. I saw her in his memories. They were arguing and—”

“Back up.” Simon angled his head. “You read Filmore’s mind?”

She shook her head. “Traced his memories. Went back in time and . . .” She furrowed her brow. “I have only explained this to a couple of people, and never to a Vic.”

He smiled. “Happy to be your first.”

She smiled back but averted her gaze, studying the toes of her pretty, bare feet. “In order for me to time-trace, there must be some sort of physical contact and I must be focused. It helps if I prompt the transmitter—the person who’ll be sharing his memories—with a subject or event that will trigger memories of the experience that is of interest to me.”