Big Love Abroad Read online

  I tried again. I inhaled deeply, trying to pry individual notes out of the aroma. "Um. Berries?" That was stupid. It was wine, of course I smelled berries.

  "Good. What kind of berries?"

  I blinked behind the tie, turned my head and exhaled, returned my nose to the rim of the glass and inhaled again, more slowly this time. I felt Lucas rotating the glass, swirling the wine beneath my nose. This time, somehow, I detected something other than the general fragrance of the wine.

  "Red? Like cherries, maybe? And I think maybe I can smell...blackberries. There is something else too, I don't know, spicy?" I let him swirl the wine again, and then I sniffed once more. "Chocolate?"

  "Very good."

  "Am I making this up, or are there really all these different scents in the wine?"

  "Those are the notes that most connoisseurs would find as well." I felt the rim of the goblet slide slowly down from my upper lip to be fitted between my lips, the glass tilted. "Take a small mouthful. Just enough to cover your tongue. Don't swallow it right away, though. Taste it. Feel it."

  Moisture on my lips, aroma in my nose--cherries and plum and chocolate--and then the taste, no, not the taste first, the texture. It felt...thick. Full. Ripe. As if something warm and velvety and smooth was sliding sensuously across my tongue, filling my mouth with an explosive presence. There really was a texture to it, something beyond being merely a liquid. I rolled the wine across my tongue; let it play over my tastebuds. Holy shit. The flavor was a burst of intensity, ripe fruit, something almost sweet, a richness. The more I truly tasted it, focusing on the flavor, the more I became aware of many different impressions that I had no words for, no way of identifying or describing. It was an overwhelming rush of sensation, blindfolded with the cool silk of the tie, heat from Lucas radiating against my back and over my neck, his breath on my skin, the rich wine caressing and luxuriating in my mouth, the scent of food cooking.

  And then I felt lips on my skin just beneath my ear, where the back edge of my jaw met my throat, gentle lips, warm and damp, pressing in and hesitating, sliding. I tipped my head back, baring my throat; a hand slid over my breastbone, up and up, cupping the side of my face, two fingers framing my ear, fingertips in my scalp, buried in my hair, a thumb grazing across my lips.

  Breathing seemed ridiculous and superfluous.

  I heard the scrape of glass against marble, glass against teeth, a swish of liquid as Lucas took a sip from his own glass. I finally swallowed my mouthful of wine, remembering to breathe, tasting the wine as strongly as if it still rested on my tongue, flavors lingering, traces of tannins, yes, languorous luxurious flavors flowering on my tastebuds.

  And then he kissed me, and it was all soft lips and wine remnants and his hand on my face and our breath tangling, the soft scratch of his beard against my cheek and somehow my hand was on the back of his neck, reaching for his ponytail and undoing it, letting his hair fall against his shoulders. He kissed me, and it was slow, deepening, drowsing. There was no urgency in the kiss. I began facing away from him, and then I twisted to get a better angle, nudging my cheek into his palm and then, after a few hammering heartbeats of a kiss's breath, I twisted yet more and faced into him, his chest against mine, and still we kissed. Still we kissed.

  Then the kiss was over, and I was left wanting it still. I was left with bated breath, blindfolded, lips parted, heart crashing wildly. The blindfold fell away. Lucas with his hair down...not quite unkempt, just messy enough to be sexy, the hair kinked where it had been bound by the elastic, brown waves framing his face, brushing the tops of his shoulders.

  "Time to eat." He smiled, a slight curve of his lips, a promise of more to come.

  We ate. The salad was simple but delicious, the broiled meat moist and tender, complimenting the lush red wine perfectly. There were baguettes of bread, crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, steamed broccoli tossed lightly with melted butter and seasoning salt. It was all simple but tasty, expertly prepared. And once again, rather than falling into endless conversation, we merely ate, the clink and scrape of silverware the only sound, eyes often flicking up, meeting, looking away, maybe a smile exchanged.

  I had a moment of disorientation: for a moment or two, I felt as if I'd already been here, done this, eaten this meal with this man, as if sitting here in companionable silence and eating and drinking was utterly familiar, as if I'd always done it. It was a moment of feeling like being home.

  It was dizzying, dazzling, and utterly terrifying. I could see myself just never leaving this home, somehow getting drawn in, a day or two spent with Lucas turning into a week or two, a month or two, and then all of my things would slowly migrate here, and I'd just let my single room at Oxford go and then it'd be a year or two and things would be easy and peaceful.

  "Nina?" Lucas's voice broke through my thoughts, sounding concerned.

  I started. "Yes?"

  He gestured at me with his fork. "Are you all right? You...it looked like you got lost there for a moment. You stared at me for the longest time with the strangest expression."

  I ducked my head and cut a sliver of meat, placing it in my mouth. I refused to look at him. Refused to let anything else show. "Just...thinking."

  "About what? You looked...lost. Or scared. Or...I don't know, almost as if you'd seen a ghost, if you'll pardon the expression."

  Seen a ghost. I had, in a way. I'd seen the ghost of my future. Our future.

  First Ian, and now Lucas. There was definitely something wrong with me. I was seeing forever everywhere I turned, in everyone I met. I wasn't even looking for forever. I just wanted to study Regency literature and figure out my thesis and maybe a doctoral dissertation, get a spot as a professor at a prestigious university somewhere. Nothing too huge. Just dreams. But those dreams were my dreams, the ones I pursued alone. Men didn't factor into my plans.

  Lucas was looking at me with great interest, as if he could read the thoughts on my face as easily as he'd read Goethe or Marlowe. He stood up, setting his napkin on the table beside his plate, never taking his eyes off mine, his brows narrowed as if in concentration, as if my thoughts were maybe in the original 18th century German, or the 16th century English, rather than in the more easily deciphered modern text. As if I was an enigma to be solved. He moved toward me, around the table, trailing his fingertips across the rich black wood grain, stopping just beside me, his knee just barely brushing my thigh. He reached across the table, snagged his goblet and drained the last of his wine. He lifted an eyebrow, which I somehow translated into a command to do the same. So I did. It was almost too big a mouthful of such rich wine. It coruscated in my mouth, a bursting bouquet, and then I swallowed it.

  A single drop trickled down from the corner of my mouth, and Lucas's eyes followed its path toward my chin. He smeared it away with his thumb, and then put his thumb to my mouth.

  "Mustn't let a single drop go to waste, you know," he murmured.

  I could only blink and breathe.

  He took my hand, helping me to my feet.

  I wore a simple hunter green A-line dress, half-sleeves, knee-length, and a thin grey cotton button-down sweater with black flats. I was suddenly excruciatingly aware of myself, of the flattering cut of the dress, the way the sweater was buttoned to just beneath my breasts, accentuating them without revealing them, the way the hemline of the dress let my calves show. I don't mind my calves; they're shapely, as plump as the rest of me, but beneath a knee-length dress they somehow managed to look both cute and sexy. Or at least, I thought so.

  And now, Lucas stared down at me, his eyes roving over my features--hair, eyes, chin, cheeks, throat, cleavage, hips, legs...and I realized he thought so too.

  Another kiss. Breathtaking. Slow, god, so slowly. Languorously.

  That word again: languorous. It sounds musical, that word. You can draw it out, spread the syllables over many moments, make the 'L' long and rolling around the edges of your tongue, and then you pull apart the 'A' sound into a whole word by itself
almost, and then there's the 'N'--'G' transition. With this word you split them open, feel the 'N' as it turns into a nice back-of-the-palate 'G', and then it all curves into a lilting finish, the sibilant last letter hissed to the end of your breath. It's the kind of word that sounds like its own definition.

  Languorous.

  That's how he kissed me. With his lips, first, so I felt the brush of his slightly chapped lips scratching across mine, felt his breath on my teeth, on my tongue. Hands, one on my face, where it had been during our first kiss, possessively cupping cheek and ear, and now the pad of his thumb at the corner of my mouth. Then his lips sealed on mine, and I tasted him. His tongue tracing my teeth, prodding at my tongue, teasing, tangling. Head tilting, his other hand at my back, pulling me closer to him.

  It was a full-body kiss.

  It was a kiss that made me feel as if I was owned, as if I was the most beautiful creature in creation.

  I got drunk off that kiss.

  And I knew, deep down, that I should pull away. That very recent history would repeat itself. But when you're drunk, you can't pull yourself out of it. When you hit that place where you go "Shit, I'm really drunk," and you know you've just had one shot too many and you're going to end up falling-down drunk but there's fuck-all you can do about it but ride it out; there's no way to will yourself out of it, no way to get off the roller coaster.

  I dissolved into the kiss. I didn't even notice when my cardigan was set aside, except for the slight chill on my skin, goosebumps pebbling my flesh. And then we were moving, still kissing, walking backward, not tripping but slowly and easily moving together in synch, step, step, step, my eyes closed as if I knew this house as well as my own bedroom back in Michigan, a sense of light even though my eyes were closed. I peeked: a ceiling fan rotated lazily, its light producing a dim amber glow, shedding just enough light to see and be seen, but not ruin the seduction.

  "Nina." I looked up at Lucas. "Close your eyes."

  I closed them. I'll never know why, other than in that moment I could only comply. He'd kissed the sense right out of me. So I closed my eyes. And then I felt that cool slippery silk cover my eyes, and my heart started thumping a little harder in my chest. I took a deep breath, and I heard Lucas make a sound deep in his chest, as if the swelling of my breasts with the breath was almost too much for him to bear.

  Fingers pinioned my wrists. Footfall on hardwood. A sliding sound, as of a closet door opening. Whisper of silk on metal. My lungs seized; I was already blindfolded, what else could he--

  Silk around my wrists, binding them together. "Lucas? Um--what...what are you doing?"

  Lips on mine, kissing and smiling. "It's like the wine, Nina. Savor it. Feel it. Taste it."

  "But--"

  "Do you remember my last name?" he asked, cutting in over my protest.

  "Yes."

  "What is it?"

  "Killian," I said. "Lucas Killian."

  "Correct. If you want me to stop, anything at any time, you have only to speak my last name. All right?"

  I nodded, but the nod became a baring of my throat, because his lips were there, teeth nipping, tongue scraping. I let out a breath, and as my lungs contracted to expel the oxygen Lucas's fingers danced down my spine, lowering the zipper of my dress. I felt it happening, knew what he was doing. And then the dress was falling, sagging to hang around my waist and at my bound wrists. Another nip of his teeth at my throat, then his lips on mine, sucking the sense out of me via my mouth, seduced by a kiss, and then somehow my bra was loose as well. Fingers around my wrists, silk unwinding, my clothes fell to the floor, and then my wrists were behind my back and the tie was winding and winding, tight and implacable and inescapable, yet still whisper-soft and gentle.

  Blindfolded. Naked but for a scrap of silk and lace around my hips. Hands bound behind my back. Heart in my throat, gasping shallow breaths, afraid, fear adrenalizing me, rushing through me. I could taste the wine still on my lips, taste his kiss there too, taste hints of dinner on my breath. I felt a breath of air on my skin. A fingertip, skating down from my shoulder to the slope of my breast, and then pinching my nipple. I gasped.

  My gasp was eaten by a kiss, scorching, eager. I would have wrapped my arms around his neck and leaned into the kiss and given myself over to it, but I couldn't. I could only allow myself to be kissed and wonder what was next.

  Teeth at my belly. Hands on my hips. Lips on my thigh. I struggled against the tie knotted around my wrist, knowing what he was going to do and wanting the freedom to at least pretend I wouldn't let him. We like the pretense, don't we? No, no, don't do that, don't go down on me, I'm not really in the--oh, ooohhhhhh, well, that does feel good, doesn't it? Okay, fine--OHHH!--oh Jesus you're good at this, holy shit don't stop! Take away that freedom, and all that's left is knowing you really do want it, knowing that, lurking beneath the flimsy veil of demurral is a desperate hunger to be pleased, to be infused with the kind of breathless frantic bliss only artfully delivered cunnilingus can provide.

  Oh. My. God.

  He first seduced me with a kiss to my mouth, and then he seduced me with a kiss to my cunt. Devoured. Ravaged. He gorged himself. And I was utterly powerless. Raptured. Blindfolded, sight stolen, forced to feel more fully than I ever had before, hands bound behind my back and unable to guide or prohibit save cry stop. I could only endure it.

  To begin, he feathered kisses along my belly, just above the elastic of my underwear. His fingers stole along the backs of my thighs, angling upward and upward until he was teasing the lower creases where my full buttocks met my upper thighs, and then he cupped my ass in all its fullness while his mouth explored the front of my thighs, one and then the other, drifting inward and then across and inward again, and then pressed his mouth to my core over the silk and breathed a hot breath until I shifted with equal parts discomfort and pleasure. I would have pushed him away at that point, but I couldn't, and his surname was absent from my lips.

  Then he tugged my underwear down around my knees, but left them there. His lips touched the indent of my hips, one hand firmly cupping the tensed globe of my ass, the other between my thighs and angling upward, a single fingertip tracing my opening, stroking, pressing, slipping, sliding, inching in, in, in, ohhhhhhh, yeah, jesus yeah, there it was, that delicious stroke through my wetness, the hum in his throat of raw appreciation, he likes it when I'm wet and ready, fuck yeah he does. And god, I'm always wet and ready, aren't I? When did that happen? Have I always walked around with a dripping-wet pussy, ready and waiting for pleasure, ripe for the devouring, and just never knew it? Is the scent of my desire palpable? When I strolled the grounds at university, and that handsome young student in the stupid argyle sweater-vest shot me a glance, was it because he scented my constant state of arousal?

  Fuck me, I'm a horrible person but I just couldn't do anything but let this near perfect stranger eat me out like I was dessert--there hadn't been dessert. So I was his dessert, and he was making sure he didn't miss a drop. His tongue slithered and slid and delved, tickled and flicked, traced and lapped, and I was vocal but wordless in my delight; e.g.: I moaned. Loudly. Frequently. Through gritted teeth, my tongue tamped down a scream.

  But when I was there, on the edge, arching and grinding into his laving tongue and suctioning mouth, he pulled away. Touched a finger to my lips. Nudging me backward, which was awkward given that my underwear were still around my knees. I felt the edge of the bed, and sat down. I smelled Lucas, felt him lean against me, took the opportunity to press my lips to the skin I found near, a shoulder, maybe, or his chest. Silk unwound, fingers grasped my wrist, brought my hands around front, and Lucas's weight pressed me backward until I was lying flat on the mattress. I heard the ruffle of blankets being tugged backward, took this as an invitation to move toward the head of the bed.

  Oh my. High thread-count cotton sheets, cool and soft as a cloud against my flesh. Decadent, luxurious.

  Lucas wrapped my wrists in the tie once again, pushed my hands up
over my head. I felt the edge of a headboard, thick, wooden, smooth. I gripped it as my underwear was pulled off.

  When did he take his shirt off? Is he naked? These thoughts rippled through me, apropos of nothing.

  Then the soft whip of silk on metal, once, twice, more ties removed from a rack. Now what?

  Shitshitshitshitshit.

  One ankle, silk-wrapped, tugged aside, a moment of nothingness as he presumably tied a knot. My other ankle, drawn aside so I was spread wide open. My chest heaved. I was afraid. Why wouldn't I be? I'd just met him. I knew only his name, that he was a student at Oxford, and that he...well, apparently, he liked to tie women up and make them feel incredible.

  So far, so good.

  He'd done nothing to hurt or scare me, beyond the fear of the unknown. In fact, every motion had been utterly gentle, slow and careful and intentional, each touch precise, no movement wasted.

  "What's my name, Nina?" His voice came from far away, near my feet.

  "Lucas..."

  "Good."

  And that was the last word he spoke for some time.

  What did he do next? He teased, tortured, and taunted me to within an inch of my sanity. He left my wrists bound, but not fixed to the bed. But with his face between my opened thighs, I couldn't reach him to touch him unless I sat up and leaned forward, and his oral talent left me alternately limp and arched up off the bed. Whenever I got close, he would bring his mouth away from my clit and kiss my hip, my inner thighs, my belly, my breasts, my lips--tasting my essence on his lips, tasting myself, my arousal--and then when I'd stopped moaning in frustration and was huffing with the pleasure of his thousand teasing kisses on my hyperaware skin, he would taunt my clit with a flick of his tongue, flick and flick and flick until I was consumed with need for more.

  Unerringly, he knew when I was close. Albeit, I wasn't shy or quiet when I drew near the edge.

  So then I wised up. I clenched my teeth, pressed my spine down into the mattress, and endured his teasing tongue until he had me near screams--which I choked down, and kept still.

  And then I exploded. I couldn't keep that down, couldn't endure it in silence, couldn't do anything but thrash against the restraints and scream.