Private Research: An Erotic Novella Page 7

  “Not generous.” He smiled that quirky, devastating smile again. “Self-serving. Taking advantage of an opportunity. Adapting to failure.”

  I laughed. “To my failure, you mean.”

  “No, to mine.” He moved closer to me. He was just so overwhelming, so overtly sexual, liquid sensuality. “I want to know what happened to this club but, that day at the archives, the only thing I managed to do well was run into you. And, as for that, I should have found you in January.”

  He played with the strap of my tank top, running his fingers under it, over my skin.

  “I would have had four more months to fuck you every which way.”

  His words were blunt, rather vulgar really, and they hit me hard in the gut and between my legs. While the first night he’d been gentlemanly and attentive in his approach to sex, I was learning he had more of an edge to him. As if frequent sex turned on some latent dominant switch in his head.

  His hands dropped, pulled on the waistband of my skirt, and slid it down over my hips. I didn’t stop him. As the skirt dropped, so did he. To his knees in front of me.

  “Legs apart,” he ordered softly. Curious and aroused, I did as he said. Over the silky material of my panties, he cupped me with his hand, the pressure of his fingers making me all too aware of how damp I was. Through the fabric, his thumb swept over my clit. I sucked in my breath at the sensation. Which he followed with the wet heat of his mouth.

  My knees nearly buckled and I reached forward desperately, grabbing at his shoulders for support.

  If I’d had four months of this type of pleasure, I likely wouldn’t have gotten any work done at all.

  The filmy fabric that separated his tongue from my flesh was absolute torture. But then, when he slid the underwear down as well, when his mouth was on me with no barrier, I sighed at the sweetness of that first touch. Shuddered at the sharp pleasure of one finger parting me, entering me. Then another.

  I looked about the room as if searching for something that would help me, would sustain me against too much pleasure. For a moment, I saw myself in that small single room that was cramped with research books and my luggage, half-dressed, with a man’s mouth on me. Not just any man.

  Sebastian.

  Who had fueled my fantasies for two years. I looked down and watched his mouth cover me as if I were watching some porn video. The tide swept over me fast, unexpectedly, and I cried out, my knees buckling as my hips moved forward against him. He held me firm, but I drooped over him as he kissed me lightly where I pulsed.

  He stood, caught my trembling body up in his arms, and laid me down on the bed, my hips at the edge.

  “Staying?”

  I let out a breathy laugh and watched him as he retrieved a condom from his back pocket, then unbuttoned his pants. He didn’t undress any more, only pushed his boxers and trousers down, freeing his erection. “Do you have any idea how sexy you look right now? Spread open for me? Your pussy soft and wet. The taste of you still on my lips.”

  I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. I watched him roll the condom on, desperate for him to come closer. Then he did, parting me, pressing into me. He reached under my thighs and lifted my legs so that they rested against his chest. It wasn’t a position that allowed me to do much of anything but enjoy the feel of him sliding in and out, slowly at first and then faster, until he was pounding against me, the slap of our sweaty bodies loud in the room, the fold of his trousers scraping against my skin.

  Fuck me every which way. Like I was his little sex toy. A hole for him to fuck.

  He slammed against me hard and stayed there, hands gripping tight at my hips, almost painfully. I watched him as he released himself inside me, eyes closed, head thrown slightly back, mouth open. A primal pleasure spiraled through me at being the generator of that look. Then he opened his eyes and looked down at me, slowly pulling out before thrusting back in yet again. Softer now, but shuddering at the lingering sensations.

  He pulled out and, before I had a chance to think, was back between my legs, mouth hot on my clit, licking me like he was starving.

  I came within seconds, shocked at the orgasm that had snuck up on me. But he kept his mouth on me, licking more slowly, lingeringly. Kissing me.

  I blinked, the corners of my eyes damp.

  Every which way.

  Chapter Six

  HE LEFT EARLY in the morning. I had a little more than one week left in the shared flat, but Sebastian was adamant that after work he’d come pick me up and we’d move my things. There was nice Sebastian, sexy Sebastian, ballsy Sebastian, ambitious Sebastian, and then this other version of him, that, once he’d determined my complicity, had no trouble ordering me about.

  In my head, I readjusted the thematic relevance of our interactions. So it wasn’t the full circle of a one-night stand; it was a tangent of that. This was Sebastian as solution, just as two years ago he had been the problem. The neatness of that significance comforted me. Made it easier to ignore the moral ambiguity of our agreement, the significance of the fluffy genealogy project for which I’d be well paid while sharing his bed and living in his apartment.

  I spent the day settling things that needed to be settled. Informed Neil that I was moving early (which naturally made me the recipient of some extremely suggestive jokes about my relationship with my “friend”), changed my airline ticket, cleaned up my room, and packed everything I could into the duffel bag and backpack with which I had arrived. The numerous papers and spiral notebooks I had acquired were stacked in a shopping bag.

  I finished the Vietnamese food when I stopped for lunch, then searched for a good copying facility nearby where I could take the material I’d borrowed from Mr. Mallard. I found a place that specialized in archival copies and made an appointment for the following day.

  I was exhausted, partially from lack of sleep and partially from the activity, and was shocked to see that it was still relatively early. I had two hours at least before Sebastian showed, and, considering the previous night, more likely four.

  Finally, I took out my laptop and tried to focus on my work. But it was hard. I’d hit what felt like a massive dead end the day before. I had calls out with little hope of them being returned with positive news. I didn’t want to do anything that had to do with my dissertation.

  I wanted to fast-forward to Sebastian’s flat and Sebastian’s bed and not think.

  But considering that train of thought was exactly the sort that would get me in trouble, I forced myself to make a list of all the veins of information I hadn’t yet mined. I had more than two months instead of nine days. Additionally, I’d have some extra spending money when I helped Sebastian with his project. If I needed to travel outside of London for research in a week or two, I likely could.

  Despite the negative outlook with which I had started work, several hours later, when my cell phone rang and projected Sebastian’s name (he’d graduated from a recognized number to being an actual contact), I’d made progress and felt optimistic.

  As I left that dingy little flat for the last time, I determined to also leave the negativity and weight of the past behind.

  ON THE WAY to his apartment, we stopped for takeaway. He pulled into what would have been an alley back in the US but here was a labeled street, and then we waited as the gate to the underground parking garage of the huge modern apartment complex slid open. The garage descended three stories underground, each ramp shockingly steep. Sebastian had explained that first night that in London space was at a premium, and people tended to build down these days, even in a new complex that wasn’t limited by historic preservation. We pulled into a narrow space, no SUVs here, then crossed the garage to the elevator. Sebastian insisted on carrying my duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder as if he were the one backpacking through Europe.

  Had he ever done that, or had his entire life been one of privilege and luxury?

  Certainly, this apartment building, with its gleaming modern elevator accented with brushed steel, was a luxury. />
  Walking over the threshold of his apartment was oh-so-different from the last time. Though the buzz of sexual attraction and physical awareness still permeated the space between us, so did a sense of distance.

  He placed my bag down in the living room and I hesitantly put my backpack next to it. I took a look around the room as if I hadn’t just been there two days ago, walking naked from the bathroom to his bedroom.

  His bedroom. Heat rushed through my body, and I slung a sidelong glance at him. What now?

  “Make yourself at home,” he said with a rather elegant little gesture that made me focus on his hands again. Long fingers. I clenched tightly inside at the simple memory of those fingers penetrating me. As if he had no idea what was going through this sex-crazed little brain of mine, he strode over to the sofa and lifted a cushion slightly.

  “When you want it to be a sofa bed, there are clean sheets in the cupboard. I’ve never actually had anyone use it before.”

  Not that I would be using it either. But I nodded and smiled since, clearly, we were playing a polite game of pretend. We stood there a moment longer, the silence stretching.

  “Thanks for letting me stay here,” I said finally.

  “There’s not much in the fridge freezer,” he said. “But feel free to take anything you want. And dishes are in the cupboards in all the usual spots.”

  He moved with purpose then, pulling out plates. I opened the bag of food and arranged the containers on the table.

  “Is this what you normally do for dinner?” I asked when he joined me.

  He shook his head. “No. Well, I suppose in a way. I usually pick up something prepared at the market. A bit healthier.”

  He lived a classic bachelor life. Not so different from how I’d been living in that shared flat but very different from my life back in the States. I liked to cook. Had to, really, to save money. And since the easiest way to eat cheaply as a single person is to cook in bulk, that’s what I normally did. My freezer was always stacked with food for the month.

  “That’s good.”

  We sat there in silence for a minute, each putting food on our plates. Chow mein and broccoli beef. This was first night of living with him, even if it would only be until partway through August. So strange, so domestic.

  “So,” I said finally. “Tell me about this project of yours.”

  “Right. Where to begin. When my grandfather, Viscount Stanton, died last year—” I blinked. Viscount? “—he left me his journals. Apparently my grandfather was far more verbose on paper than he ever was conversationally. He’d been keeping these journals, one for every year, since the age of six.”

  “How old was he when he passed away?”

  “Ninety-three.”

  Eighty-seven journals. I shook my head at the thought. If only Anne Gracechurch had been as prolific.

  “So I started reading them. Well, I skipped the first twelve years. He lived in a very different time. Inherited the title at twenty-four, in the middle of World War II.”

  My paternal grandparents had been in Italy during the war. Moved to the US in the fifties. I’d always been interested in their stories of wartime.

  “He married a year later. Claimed he felt some pressure after his father’s death to continue the line.”

  It seemed so old-fashioned, the stuff of the nineteenth century more than the twentieth, but then, the first decades of any century were often more an extension of the previous than some great cultural break.

  “Where does this club fit in?” I asked.

  “He belonged to it. At least, until it was destroyed during the bombings. Actually, he mentioned that only in passing as he’d stopped attending shortly before his wedding.”

  Even with the little Sebastian had said so far, I could see the romantic appeal of a club that disappeared in the tragedy of WWII.

  “Where was it?”

  “He didn’t say. Nor did he say if it had been in the same location since its inception.”

  “But his father belonged. And his grandfather?”

  “At least one Bosworth had belonged to Harridan House in each generation for the previous 150 years. The membership seems to have been a point of pride.” He shook his head, a small, twisted smile on his lips.

  “The club is named Harridan House?” It was a strange name for any club, but considering it was likely a bastion of masculinity, perhaps it simply wore its chauvinism on its sleeve.

  “Yes, odd, I know,” he said. “And the membership was entirely male although female guests were allowed and encouraged.”

  Suspicion tickled at the back of my neck. “Females encouraged is unusual. Was that in recent years? What was the purpose of the club?”

  A full grin split Sebastian’s face. “From my understanding, it was half brothel, half swingers club. Completely secretive and exclusive, and run by a woman known only as Madame Rouge.”

  I let out a disbelieving laugh. “Of course. I should have guessed that debauchery runs in your family.”

  “Yes, passed down like the Stanton Rubies,” he said wryly.

  “And your grandfather recognized that gene in you and left you his journals.”

  Sebastian looked down, the smile leaving his face. “No. I believe he left me those because he knew I’d be the only one to care.”

  At once, the club was less interesting than Seb’s family history. I wanted to delve into it, to learn what made him who he was and what was beneath the charming, seductive exterior.

  “Your father—”

  “I haven’t read all of his journals yet,” Sebastian said, interrupting me. “I’m partway through the fifties. For the most part, my grandfather stopped mentioning Harridan House the year he married. Said his next visit would be his last. There was one more note the day the building was destroyed.”

  “And what do you want to know?”

  “Everything. As much as we can discover from the day it was founded to the day it closed. What happened to it after WWII? What happened to its owner? Who was this Madame Rouge?”

  It didn’t seem an impossible task.

  “I don’t take holiday until August,” Sebastian said, answering my unspoken question. There are limits to the resources available online, and I have only a handful of Saturdays to go to the archives. I can do it, yes, but you can do it faster and, likely, more thoroughly.”

  I nodded, slowly. Then laughed. Of course, it would be a sex club. Apparently, Sebastian’s obsessions were all fairly related.

  I put down my chopsticks and wiped my mouth with my napkin. Then I reached for my backpack and pulled out a notebook and pen. Despite the strangeness of the situation, if I was accepting money and shelter from him, it was essential I keep things as professional as possible. Time to get down to business.

  I flipped to the last third of the notebook and jotted down the few details he had given. “So what have you done so far?”

  “I’ll e-mail it to you.”

  I put my pen down. Turned my attention back to the food even though I was well past full. I pushed the noodles around with my chopsticks and then finally placed them down again.

  He took a final bite and then laid his down on his empty plate.

  It was early. Not even eight in the evening. Tonight would likely set a pattern for the rest of our time together. I needed to unpack, find a place for my things. I just wasn’t certain how this was all going to work.

  “What about the journals? Are they here?”

  “Yes. They take up a good portion of the linen cupboard.”

  Sebastian kept all eighty-seven journals in the closet. While he cleaned up the table and put leftover food away, I took journals 13–25 and stacked them on the coffee table to begin tackling tomorrow.

  I turned around, found him standing there watching me. I wanted to know what he was thinking, but his face gave no hint.

  “I’m going to work out.”

  “After eating? I thought you had to wait an hour?”

  He laughed. �
�I don’t know, but I’m only using weights tonight.”

  When he left the room, presumably to go change, I took my backpack and the shopping bag of notes over to the sofa and started unpacking. Neatly, however, so that he could easily move things aside and still feel like he had a living space. I flipped open my laptop and searched for his network. I had just finished opening up all the documents I needed when he walked back out of the bedroom in gym clothes.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” he said casually.

  “Wait,” I stopped him. “What’s the password for your wifi?”

  “Ah, the network is SGX54 and the password”—he looked vaguely embarrassed—“is HarridanSecrets.”

  I laughed.

  I looked over my list from that afternoon, trying to decide my next steps. In the last year, I’d made important headway in my research, at least if I wanted to do a comprehensive biography of Anne Gracechurch’s life, which was something that had never been done. Despite the one survey of English women’s literature that had mentioned her seventeen books, apparently no museum or library had been interested in her life and work thus far except in the way she reflected on other, more famous authors and artists, at least none that I had discovered in the last twelve months of calling archivists and searching online catalogs and the internal-use-only catalogs that had been e-mailed to me. Luckily, a decent portion of her books had been digitized and archived online. Otherwise, maybe I never would have stumbled across her and the mystery of her connection to James Mead.

  I’d found two other English dissertations that dealt with Gracechurch in some way, and one history dissertation, but they each touched on her in only the most superficial of ways. If I did go with plan B, I could possibly examine her work in cultural context. Over and over she appeared at the fringes of other literary figures’ lives, a letter exchanged here, a reference to her being at a dinner or a party there. In that case, James Mead would likely stop being a part of the story.

  While I’d identified the location of at least some of her letters and papers, and even paid for copies of as many as I could to be sent to me, I was still vainly hoping to find some that had not yet been delivered to museums or archives. But as the last two days had proven, I’d hit a bit of a dead end with her family. So it was time to turn yet again to her social circle, as it was possible that someone else’s family might have passed down private correspondence rather than commit it to the care of an institution.