Diana Peterfreund - Under the Rose

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.