Chris Karlsen - Knights in Time (33 page)

you go?”

Had she been able, she’d have kicked herself in the butt. She’d basically admitted to being

a low grade stalker. So much for her ability to filter what came out of her mouth, which until now was a source of pride.

“I’ve been in London,” Stephen said. “Alex had me practice songs at his studio, which is

incredible. The equipment and the talented men who worked it, amazed me. The difference in my

singing is...well, leave it at better than imagined.”

“Does he plan to release a CD of you for sale?”

Stephen nodded. “Among other things. He told me he pulled strings, called in a few favors.

I am scheduled to appear on several shows where much of England will see me.”

She hadn’t seen that coming. She’d never considered the commercial possibilities of

Stephen’s voice. Again, she gave herself a mental kick for thinking of him as just blind Stephen with the lovely tenor voice but with no useful modern day skill. Good for Alex. He recognized it and already had him on the road to what might turn out to be a great career.

“Which shows?” she asked.

“Something called,
Britain Has Talent
, then
Jools Holland
, and
Graham Norton.

“
How nice. He must’ve pulled some big strings. Those are popular shows. They book

way ahead. When are your appearances?”

“Over the course of several weeks next month.”

He reached down and found the towel with ease. “Why are you here?”

“I have a gift for you. A little something my sister made especially for you.”

“Thank you but—”

“Don’t say no yet. You don’t know what it is.”

The wind chime jingled as she took it from the bag she carried.

“What is that tinkling sound?”

“A wind chime. I thought to hang it under the eave near the front door. Its sound will tell

you when you are close to the trailer.”

“You say your sister made this for me. What makes the sound?”

She described how it looked and the purpose. Although he didn’t understand what she

meant by solar system, he grasped the concept of the chime. He acted interested. Maybe he

wouldn’t send her away.

“It is clever. I like the idea. Will you put it up or should I ask Alex?”

If he wanted her to put it up, then he was fine with her staying. She took it as a victory, a

small one, but a victory none the less. Those words lifted two sleepless nights of worry and panic from her mind. The rhinoceros-sized lump of uncertainty that had sat on her chest and squeezed

the air from her as she drove over lifted and cantered off. Tightness gone, she sucked in the first free breath of the last hour.

“I’ll hang it. Shall we go into the kitchen? I only need a small hook and to stand on a chair

to reach the eave.”

“Yes, let’s go in. I’m thirsty.” Stephen slung the towel over his shoulder, slid his sword into a new scabbard, and grabbed his cane.

He’d never know how broad she smiled. If he gave her the chance, she’d show him in a

much bigger way how happy she was.

“Tell me about working in Alex’s studio,” she said when they went inside. “Was it fun?”

“Yes, most of the time. It was a bit tiring at times too. Some songs required lots of

repetitions for me to get the rhythm right.”

Esme laid the chime on the counter. She poured them both a large glass of water and put

Stephen’s in his hand. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” he said and sat at the table.

Esme searched for a hook. The compact kitchen only had four drawers. Three held

cutlery and other utensils. She rummaged through the last one, which was Miranda and Ian’s junk drawer.

“Wow, you can’t believe this drawer. There’s a bazillion pens, scotch tape, a mini stapler,

staple remover, scissors, letter openers, but not a hook of any kind.”

“I’ll get one from Owen later.”

“Good idea. Back to your upcoming debut, I want to hear more about your singing career.

What songs are you performing on the different shows?”

“Haven’t decided which ones for
Jools Holland
or
Graham Norton.
For
Britain Has
Talent
I’m singing one serious song called,
Just Show Me How to Love You
and one cheery song called,
Maybe I’m Amazed.
Alex desired a different arrangement and asked the writer of the song for suggestions. The writer, a nice man named Paul, came to the studio and worked with us.”

Esme gave a tiny “ooh” when he mentioned Paul. “You met Sir Paul McCartney...Paul

McCartney, unbelievable. Stephen, you’ve no idea but he is huge in the music industry. Sir Paul is a legend, an icon.”

“I just called him Paul. That’s what he told me to call him. I told him he needn’t call me Sir

Stephen, simply Stephen would do.”

“He never struck me as someone who was full of himself. I’m glad you both got on so

well,” she said, sitting next to him.

Stephen finished the water fast. “I’d love a glass of orange juice.”

She got up, went to the fridge, filled his glass and sat next to him again. “Here,” she said

and placed the glass in his hand.

“Thank you.” He drank the juice almost as fast as the water. He set the glass down and

looking self-conscious said off-handedly, “I’ve been sweating. I need to shower.”

Esme waited a beat before deciding to venture into deeper relationship territory. “Would

you like your back washed?”

Stephen’s gaze lifted. His eyes not quite finding hers. “Is that a general question or do you

offer?”

“It’s definitely an offer.”

He turned his head a fraction to the right. His eyes found hers. Debate raged behind his.

He’d either forgive or he wouldn’t. Another
I’m sorry
wasn’t going to help.

“I can’t undo what was said. You...” she took a fortifying breath and let it out. “You either

believe I’ve changed or you don’t.”

An agonizing long moment passed, then he stood and, extending his hand said, “Yes, I’d

like my back washed.”

She rose and slid her hand in his. “Shall we?”

He let her lead him to the bedroom where he toed off his shoes and tossed his socks. She

stripped him of the jeans. Her lips grazed his collarbone as she leaned in close to unbutton and unzip him slowly. She used her fingernails to rake his ribcage on her way to the elastic band of his underwear, loving the quiver that followed in their wake when she hit a ticklish spot. She licked his nipples and kissed his chest, his stomach, the thin line of hair leading to his crotch as she lowered to remove his underwear.

When she started to remove her clothing, he grasped her wrists and stopped her. “Wait.”

He went to the dresser that didn’t hold his clothes and pulled a red silk scarf, no doubt

Miranda’s, from the top drawer.

“How did you know that was there?” Esme asked. “You must’ve snooped.”

“No...oh all right, yes. I snooped, so what?”

“That’s terrible. You should be ashamed.”

“I am,” he said without conviction. “Stand still.”

“What are you going to do? Are you planning to tie me up?”

“And if I were? Do you not trust me?”

“I do. You’re the only one I trust to tie me up. Is that the plan?”

“No. I want to wrap this around your eyes. I wish you to make love with your other

senses—to know how it feels.”

He stepped close as he tied the scarf over her eyes. Close enough for his erection to prod

her buttocks through her linen skirt. This time she quivered with a frisson of anticipation.

“Can you see anything through the scarf?”

“No.”

“Now I will undress you.”

From behind, he drew her wool blazer off one arm at a time. Then, with his chest pressed

to her back and his warm breath teasing the tiny hairs on her neck, he reached around and

unbuttoned her blouse. He tugged it halfway down her arms to trap them at her sides. He pushed

her hair away to expose her neck to his lips. Lips that nibbled from the top of her spine along the back of her neck to the side of her throat, where they lingered. Still imprisoned by her sleeves, she couldn’t touch him or taunt him in return but only moan and whisper, “more.”

Without her sight, her other senses roared to life. She heard the almost imperceptible

change in his breathing when he shifted from her throat to drag his teeth across the top of her shoulder, stopping to bite here and there. The jagged corner of one front tooth slightly overlapped the other. An imperfection that hadn’t registered with her when they’d kissed before.

A single shoulder collapsed under the erotic damp warmth of his mouth followed by the

fleeting sting of the bite.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

“No.”

“What did you feel?”

“Soft then sharp, the contrast of the two was so good, so unexpected so...”

“Sometimes pleasure with a mite of pain in the right place is magic, yes?”

“Yes, magic.”

“You crave more?”

She nodded and her breathing fell into rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest as he

kissed along the slope of the other shoulder.

The hair on his chest tickled her arm as he dropped to kneel on the floor. He lifted a foot

and removed one shoe and then the second.

She wriggled and scrunched her bare toes into the thick bedroom carpet. The plush pile

felt luxurious, decadent. She, who’d never acted a shameless wanton with complete abandon,

wanted every decadent thing Stephen could think of done to her.

Maybe it was the blindfold.

“Step from your panties,” he ordered after sliding them down.

When Stephen rose again, he moved behind her and raised her skirt high. Light fingertips

caressed the inside of her thigh and brushed just the edge of her nest of curls. “Part your legs for me.”

She did. He slipped one finger, then two, then three into her wet spot. Massaging the

aroused nub, he circled, delved deeper, withdrew to her entry, then delved deep again. He slid his fingers out only to re-enter her in an imitation of the most ancient and intimate of dances.

“You’re driving me mad,” she said, her voice low and husky. Any second she’d demand

more than fingers.

“Good,” he said, his breath ragged as hers.

He pulled his fingers from inside her to remove her blouse, freeing her arms at last. When

she tried to turn, he held her in place with an arm across her chest. “Wrap your hand around me,”

he instructed.

She understood and wrapped her hand around his erection. With his other arm pressed to

her stomach, he held her in a fierce embrace while she rubbed the length of him. His breathing

turned to hot pants, moist on her ear when she fingered the silken tip that cried to be inside her.

From the nearby road, tires squealed, words were exchanged and then it was quiet again.

Familiar noises that sounded other worldly to her.

He clamped his hand around her wrist, took her hand from him and lifted his fingers to her

nose. “What do you smell?”

“Me.”

He brought her hand up to her nose. “Now?”

“You.”

“That’s a correct answer but not the right one. What you smell is more primitive. It is

desire. Yours and mine.”

How rough his calloused hands were as he removed her bra to fondle her breasts. The

hard mounds of his palms scraped her soft flesh while he gently rolled her nipples between his

fingers.
Pleasure and pain
.

He moved in front of her and brought her hand to his chest. “What do you feel?”

“The pounding of your heart.”

In return, she brought his hand to her chest. “What do you feel?”

“A heart that races for me.”

She pressed closer. She sucked his lower lip and then kissed along his jaw to his ear,

where she asked, “What do you hear?”

“The throaty words of a woman piqued with passion.”

Heat crept up her spine, spread to her neck and shoulders. Without the ability to see the

hunger in her eyes, see her lips part in invitation, see desire as it exploded through her, did lust cover him in a fevered blanket too?

He positioned his raging hard on between her legs but not inside her. Then, he cupped her

ass and pulled her tight to him, a single finger traced the cleft of her behind. “What do you feel when I touch you?”

“Like my skin is on fire and I’ll burn until you’re inside me.”

Slow and steady, he moved back and forth, in an erotic path that made her slicker than she

ever thought possible. She moaned and clamped his back wanting the torment to stop, wanting it to go on.

Without stopping the sensual taunt, he kissed her exploring every dip and curve with his

tongue. When he broke the kiss, he asked, “What did you taste?”

A light breeze from an open window somewhere ruffled her hair and sent a shiver down

to the small of her back. He turned her, drew her to his warm chest and wrapped his arms around her. “Better?” he asked.

“Much.”

“What did you taste?”

“The sweet hint of orange.”

“And me, what do I taste like?”

“The way you’ve always tasted to me, whether real or in my imagination. Rich and warm,

like honey left in the sun.”

She couldn’t take it anymore. “Stephen, if you don’t make love to me immediately, I shall

die of want, I swear.”

“Come,” he said and led her to the bed.

“Can I remove the scarf now?” Esme asked and lay on the rumpled sheets.

“Yes.”

The frenzy of their previous sexual encounter at the castle ruin was absent. Today was

the coming together through caresses that left no inch of skin missed. It was entwined arms and a tangle of legs and a duel to see who could kiss the longest, the most thorough.