Big Love Abroad Read online

  He didn't see me right away, so I sidled up beside him. "You read Middle English?" I asked.

  Lucas started violently, tossing his pencil in the air and juggling it before catching it. "Jesus, Nina. You scared the sense out of me." He blinked rapidly, then began twirling his pencil around his middle finger so fast it became a yellow blur. "Yes, I do. Not too well, as yet, but I can muddle through." He gestured at my copy of Beowulf. "Enjoying that?"

  "Oh yeah. I've read it before, but it's been awhile."

  A nod, and silence. I could see his gaze flickering from me, back to his books, and then back to me. Then, abruptly, he stuck one side of a book into the opening of the other, closing them both so they held his place.

  He then stood up, tucked his books under an arm, lodged his pencil behind his ear, and asked, "Lunch?"

  It was just an invitation to have lunch, no reason to feel at all giddy.

  But I did.

  And that lunch was everything I'd hoped for and more. We spent several hours in a booth, nibbling at fries--or chips as the English call them--and discussing our favorite books and authors. Lucas, it turned out, was one of the most widely read individuals I'd ever met, and possessed that rare ability of being able to remember and discuss, with authority and passion, every book he'd ever read. He could move with ease and fluidity from a discussion of The Iliad to Tess of the d'Urbervilles, to The Grapes of Wrath, and even to popular fiction ranging from Twilight to Fifty Shades of Grey to Harry Potter.

  He mentioned Fifty Shades casually, as a throwaway comment, perhaps hoping I'd miss the reference, plunging on rapidly into an exposition on the rise of the strong female lead in popular fiction.

  "Wait, wait, wait," I cut in, laughing. "Not so fast, buster. You've read Fifty Shades of Grey?"

  He blinked at me for several beats. "Well. Um. Yes, I have. The first two, at least. I never got around to the third."

  "Why, Lucas," I teased, "you don't seem the type!"

  His brows narrowed, lowered, and his handsome head tipped to one side. "Why not? What am I not the type for? It's a book; no book is safe from me. Because it's about sex? If that's your argument, I'd beg to differ, actually. It's not a book about sex, per se, not really. It's more about the play for power. And yeah, he--Christian, Mr. Grey, whatever you want to call him, he may exercise the power and the control over her sexually, or at least he tries, and she resists it, but in their interpersonal, relational dynamics, she actually holds the power. She changes him. He has all these rules, the contracts and the NDA, all that stuff governing his relations with women. But she comes along and--and she just blows past all that in no time flat. And he's powerless to resist her, powerless to stop her. He may have tied her up and whatever, but really she was in control the whole time. The whole book is about control. Surrendering it, giving it, taking it, how you use it and why you want it, and why letting go of it can be so freeing."

  "Surrendering control can be freeing, that's your takeaway from it?"

  He shrugged lazily, but his gaze was sharp. "It can be. Done properly."

  "What do you mean, done properly?" I eyed him. "Are you--are into that stuff?"

  The corner of his mouth quirked. "Into what stuff?"

  I just blinked at him silently for a moment or two, gathering my thoughts and trying to figure out what I was asking and if I really wanted to know the truth. "Um. You know, tying people up, that sort of thing."

  "Rather a personal question, isn't it, Nina?" His eyes were hooded, heavy-lidded, his shyness and hesitancy gone, somehow. "Are you?"

  "Um. I don't know."

  "Then you aren't. Doesn't mean you wouldn't be, if you tried it, though." His voice was low, barely audible. "Have you ever wanted to try it?"

  "I...um..." YESYESYES! The reaction in my gut was instant, blistering heat. Curiosity. "Try what?" I played coy.

  He rolled his eyes. "Don't retreat now, Nina."

  "I'm not retreating." But I was. Curiosity always got me into trouble and I'd only just managed to stop thinking about Ian--all the time, at least.

  "You are, though." He leaned toward me, elbows on the table, and his hand reached out and took mine. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, Nina."

  I let my hand rest in his and tried to not think about how his hand was strong but gentle, soft yet firm. "Okay, then, no more questions."

  He grinned, amused. "Where's the fun in that?"

  "But you just said--"

  "My point was, I think you do want to know the answer. Am I into that type of thing? Am I? What type of thing? Isn't that the better question?"

  I tried to withdraw my hand, but his fingers circled my wrist and refused to let go. "What type of things are you into, then, Lucas?"

  Shitshitshit, how the hell had the conversation gotten here? How the hell had we gone from talking about Odysseus and Hector and Ajax to whether or not Lucas was into bondage? Had I fallen down some weird rabbit hole? Lucas was shy, endearing, hesitant, wasn't he? But this Lucas was direct, assertive, unblinking.

  "I don't like anything all that weird, Nina, I can promise you that. No flogs or chains or rooms full of equipment." Then why were his eyes dancing with glinting shards of razor-sharp humor?

  "Then what?" I hated how that question, the admission of curiosity, squeezed out of me without my approval.

  He let go of my hand. Leaned back in the booth, checked his watch. "I have a meeting in a few minutes. If you'd like to continue this...conversation later, maybe I could pick you up at your room at, say, seven this evening?"

  I nodded, my body giving my assent before my mind could catch up.

  "Fantastic. I'll see you at seven, then." He was gone in a breeze of faint cologne, leaving several bills on the table to cover the meal. I hadn't even seen him looking through his wallet.

  I sat in a daze for several moments before getting up and cycling back to my room, my head spinning all the while.

  What the blue fuck just happened? Had I just agreed to a date with Lucas? I mean, a date date. Not an impromptu lunch between two students, but a real date. The kind where I could possibly end up bound and gagged in Lucas's bedroom, discovering that I also liked sex while tied up.

  God, I really should not be thinking like that. What the hell was wrong with me all of a sudden? My entire adult life, since the moment I lost my virginity, sex had been fun, enjoyable, something that you did as a matter of course with your boyfriend, whenever and wherever you could manage it. Quickly, under the covers, in a dorm room. In a car, in the backseat with a seatbelt in your spine and an armrest as a pillow, the windows steaming. In a basement, during a movie, under an old quilt, stealthily. Once, most daringly, in the back alley behind a bar, while drunk, regretting it mightily the next day, because eeew. But it was never something I thought about all the time. Never something I fantasized about and dreamed about and went crazy over....

  Because now, it felt like I was going crazy. It was as if Ian had broken something loose inside me, freed some ravening beast from a once-locked cage deep inside me. I'd masturbated nearly every single day since coming to Oxford. Thinking of Ian, usually. Bad girl, I'd scold myself, after, physically breathless and mentally anguished. You abandoned him, you have no right to use him for masturbational material. But I did. A lot. In the shower. Before falling asleep. In the morning, before I was fully awake.

  Lately, though, I'd forced myself to stop. Thinking about Ian, at least. I tried to replace the memories of what he'd done to me, how he'd made me feel, by thinking of someone generic. Someone not him. Anyone else. I didn't deserve to think about him. Whenever I did, I'd go mushy and ripe with guilt and regret.

  But now, in my dorm, damp from just having gotten out of the shower and shaved myself head to toe--except for a little patch of fuzz downstairs, because being totally bald just felt weird--I lay on my bed with my towel wrapped loosely around me, my hair splayed out on my pillow, my skin heated and flushed from the deliciously scalding shower. My fingers stole dow
nward and Lucas's features skittered across my mind. His long, thick hair, which I didn't usually like on guys but worked on him so well, his soft, warm brown eyes, his tall frame hovering over me, gentle hands touching me everywhere, fingers feathering over the tender skin of my belly, dancing across my thighs, yes, yes, brushing aside the edge of the towel and cupping me, sliding his fingers in, in, stroking over my clit and nudging it, sending thrills of heat blazing up from the little bundle of hypersensitive nerve-endings.

  I was gasping, moaning low under my breath, and then my spine arched up off the bed and my fingers were flying, and I could almost feel stubble rasping on my breast and teeth gently biting my nipple and lips on my belly. I could almost hear a deep voice rumbling in my ear, encouraging me to let go, to come hard, to come for him...

  The voice had a lilt, a British burr. That's all I knew.

  Stubble on my skin? Or a beard?

  Long hair draped loose over my belly as lips descended to ravage my clit? Or short and messy, tickling and brushing?

  Fucking hell...

  I came with a whimper and a rush of release, but it wasn't good enough. It wasn't the nuclear-hot, chemical rush of a real orgasm. It was more like a cheap knockoff. The real thing was a diamond-encrusted Rolex, and the brief, shallow burst I'd just experienced was a knockoff watch you got from the bargain bin at K-Mart.

  *

  Lucas picked me up at six-fifty-eight, dressed like a true Oxford student in dark, dressy jeans, a trim white button-down, and a wool blazer with real leather elbow patches. He held the car door open for me and then whisked me away, out of Oxford, across the countryside and to some little village a few miles--kilometers?--away. He pulled up outside a--what should I call it? A cottage? It was a tiny, low-roofed home, with small leaded windows on either side of a narrow door. He twisted the key in a burnished, scratched lock-plate.

  As he shut the door behind me, Lucas flicked a switch, illuminating a surprising and unexpected interior. Based on the outside, I was prepared for low ceilings, wood paneled walls, a threadbare couch, maybe some aged wallpaper and a thin carpet. Old, dated, but homey and comfortable. When Lucas turned on the lights, I caught my breath. The walls were painted grey, a few shades darker than slate, which set off the dark, polished, gleaming hardwood floors. The ceiling must have been nine feet high and was painted flat white. A white leather couch with a matching easy chair and loveseat were centered in the room around a flat-screen TV positioned on the wall above the fireplace. Track lighting lit the room, curving in elegant arcs that spotlighted black-and-white photographs and minimalist pencil sketches. The artwork on the walls, both photographs and sketches, depicted a myriad of everyday scenes--St. Paul's Cathedral in London, the Bodleian, the London Eye, Stonehenge, pigeons on a sidewalk, crows on a wire, people clustered on a subway car, a train arriving at a station platform, a pair of old battered boots on a welcome mat.

  I moved into the living room, slowly perusing the artwork. "Who did these photos and drawings?" I asked.

  Lucas shrugged out of his blazer and set it on the back of one of the dining room chairs. "Oh, those? That's a hobby of mine."

  I eyed him in surprise. "You did these?"

  He lifted a shoulder in casual dismissal. "Yeah. Like I said, just an idle hobby, something to do other than read and whatever. Summers between classes, I roam around the UK with my camera and a sketchbook. It's just for fun."

  "They're really good, Lucas," I said. "Really impressive."

  He smiled at me. "Thanks. I don't show many people. It's not a big deal. I only do it for my own pleasure."

  I glanced into the kitchen, where the simple decor of more clean lines continued, with shades of black and white and gray. "I thought we were going to dinner?"

  His grin this time was...slightly predatory? Amused? I couldn't quite pin the expression down. It gave me shivers, though, of equal parts anticipation and eagerness and even a little fear. I mean, I knew this guy even less well than I'd known Ian, whom I had spent the entire flight from Detroit to London talking to, giving me a chance to get to know him beyond initial impressions.

  "Oh, we are. I just thought we'd have dinner here. I'm not a gourmet chef, but I can put together a pretty good meal." He glanced at me. "Is that okay with you? We can still go out somewhere, if you'd prefer."

  I shrugged, going for more insouciance than I felt. "We can stay here."

  "Good. I've been saving a bottle of wine for a special occasion such as this."

  He moved into the kitchen, pulled open what I'd thought was a pantry door but which turned out to be a makeshift wine cellar. It had been a walk-in pantry at some point in the past, I was pretty sure, but had been retrofitted to hold several dozen bottles of wine. He pulled out several bottles one after the other, glancing at the labels, and then replacing them, finally finding the one he was looking for.

  I glanced around as he searched through the bottles. "So. You own this place? It's pretty nice."

  "Oh, yeah. Well, my parents are...pretty well off. When I moved to Oxford, they bought this place for me so I wouldn't have to deal with dorms. Made it much easier for me long-term."

  "I bet it did. So you live here full time, then?"

  He nodded. "Yes, I do," he answered distractedly. "Ah, here she is. An oh-nine Le Fleur Petrus." He carefully opened the bottle and set it aside. "We'll let that breathe while I get started."

  I glanced at the bottle, but the label was in French. "So that's a special wine?"

  Lucas was pulling things out of the fridge. "What? Oh, yes. Well, it's rather a good vintage. One of the better wines to come out of the Medoc in recent years."

  "You might as well be speaking Greek, Lucas," I admitted.

  He just laughed. "Oh. Well, no matter. If you're interested, I could explain some of the finer points of proper wine appreciation, but I'm not going to bore you if you don't really care."

  "Well, maybe you could tell me some of the basics. I like wine, but I'm not, like, a sommelier or anything. I just drink basic, average wine."

  "Well, the first thing is that you don't just tear open a bottle of fine wine and dump it into a glass. There's a process to it, a...well, it's rooted in tradition and ceremony, but it also has a functional process which is to bring out the best notes and flavors. You have to uncork it, let it breathe. Some wines, if they're old enough and expensive enough, have to be poured over a special kind of filter, because the wine will have bits and pieces in it. And after it's breathed for a suitable period of time, you pour it slowly, gently, so it doesn't glug, right? You may notice, if you ever order wine at a nicer establishment, the server will twist his wrist as he pours. That's not just to be fancy, it's so the wine doesn't drip or glug. You also need proper goblets for certain kinds of wines. There are red wine glasses and white, each designed to let the wine reach its fullest potential."

  As he spoke I noticed there were two flanks of beef marinating in something dark. Lucas placed them into a broiling pan, poured some of the marinade over them, then popped the pan in the oven. After washing his hands, he began making a salad, using fresh spinach and romaine, walnuts, shredded cheese, cranberries, and some kind of balsamic dressing. Every motion was fluid and practiced, not a single movement wasted. "Wine is...each vintage has its own personality, subtle undertones and overtones, notes and flavors, and a refined palate can identify all these things. Wine is meant to be savored, slowly, languorously, even." His eyes roamed over me, turning his words into a double entendre.

  I held his gaze boldly. "Seems like a lot of work just for a glass of wine."

  "It is, but for truly excellent wine, it's worth it."

  "So. Show me how to appreciate a fine wine, then."

  He selected two large goblets from a cabinet, held them up to the light to make sure they were clean, and then set one on the counter. The other he held in his left hand, lifting the bottle with his right. Holding the glass at an extreme angle, almost horizontal, Lucas very slowly and carefully poured th
e dark ruby-colored liquid into the glass, twisting his wrist gently as he poured, then righted both bottle and glass to cease the flow. It was neatly done, with the practiced adroitness of someone who had done it a thousand times. He repeated the action with the second glass, only partially filling each glass.

  "Now, before you take your first sip, I want you to close your eyes--in fact, hold on. Stay here."

  The kitchen was small, with a stretch of counter just long enough to allow two stools to be placed side by side. The counter divided the kitchen from the combined dining room/living room, and from the small hallway where one bedroom and the bathroom were located. I stood facing the kitchen, with my back to the main rooms, the goblet of blood-red wine held up to my nose, sniffing it, trying to decipher the "notes and undertones" he'd mentioned. I just smelled wine, but maybe my palate wasn't refined enough.

  I never heard him approach. One moment I was alone, the next I felt long fingers on my shoulders, and I inhaled sharply. And then the fingers were feathering though my hair, pulling it back away from my face, tucking the loose strands behind my ear. The scent of cologne filled my nostrils, layered over the herbs and spices he was cooking with. His chest was pressed lightly against my back. My breath caught in my lungs.

  "Close your eyes, Nina." His voice was coaxing, smooth and baritone and lightly accented. I closed my eyes. Cool silk touched my face, then it was pulled taut. I felt motion at the back of my head, indicating that Lucas was knotting the tie. "Can you see anything?"

  I opened my eyes, seeing blackness. "No. Nothing."

  "Good. Focus inward now. Smell. Taste. Touch. Sight can lie. Sight can mislead. Sight can distract." His voice was barely above a whisper, so I had to strain to hear him. I felt some part of him slide past my arm, reaching past me, perhaps. And then a cool glass touched my upper lip, filling my nostrils with a pungent fragrance. "What do you smell?"

  I inhaled. "Wine."

  "Clearly. But the bouquet, what does it smell like to you?"