London Broil Read online

  “So you need a really deep screw? That’s what I’m going to give you. Upstairs.” As they ascended the stairs, he unzipped the back of her dress. “Take it off.” She obeyed, slipping the dress off while he faced her, removing his jacket and loosening his tie. His eyes fell to her modest cleavage, made more prominent by the push-up bra, and he ran his hands over her breasts. “This too. Off.” She remained silent, enjoying the way he was taking charge and bossing her around, very evidently turned on by her teasing in the restaurant.

  He pointed to the end of the bed. “Kneel there with your feet over the edge.” As she sat back on her calves and looked around at him, James came to stand behind her, straddling her feet. He took her elbows in his hands and used his upper body to bend her at the waist until she was resting her forearms on the bed. He ran his fingers back along her upper arms to cup each breast, palming her nipples. Still fully clothed, and grasping her hips, he pressed his erection hard against her behind, and then she felt him rubbing his warm hand in a circular motion on her right buttock. Suddenly he slapped it, causing her to jump with surprise, and before she could react, he slapped again, harder.

  “Ow! James, that’s not sexy!” she complained. “Isn’t it? I think it is,” he said, his voice sounding low and rough. She heard him unzipping his pants and in a moment, she felt the head of his penis as he circled it against her wetness, stopping short of entering her. She groaned, arching her back as he continued the teasing motion. Finally he laid hold of both her hips again and plunged deeply into her, causing her to gasp. He leaned forward, reaching around to touch her as he slowly moved within her. She spread her thighs a little wider. Now he began to slam against her, burying himself as deep as he could, and making her breasts bounce forward rhythmically. Each thrust wrung a tiny yelp from her as she felt him bumping up against her cervix. It was almost painful, but exquisitely so. He was no longer fingering her, but attending to his own sensations. He grunted and with a last sharp thrust, emptied himself into her. They stayed united for several seconds, and then he pulled out, collapsing on the bed and gathering her into his arms. She was momentarily surprised, and then amused, to see that he was still wearing his shirt and tie, and that his trousers and underwear were down around his ankles. He even had his shoes on.

  “Christ, that felt good, Laura,” he said after a moment. “But I didn’t bring you off, did I? I’m sorry, that was selfish of me.”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “I don’t always need that. Sometimes I just like a good reaming out,” she added playfully.

  “We’ll see about that,” he said. For a while they lay there without moving or speaking, and then he said, “Why don’t you go downstairs and bring up the pizza box while I get myself sorted? My robe is in the bath. You can wear it if you like. And there are a couple of Duvels in the fridge.”

  She padded over to the bathroom and found a light terrycloth robe that was far too large, but soft and inviting. Belting it on, she went downstairs and used the toilet in the tiny WC by the kitchen. She could hear him running water upstairs and opening a closet door. By the time she returned with the pizza and two open bottles of Duvel, he was lying against the pillows, wearing just a pair of boxer briefs. She paused to enjoy the sight of him—the scattering of hair on his chest, his broad shoulders, even the slight paunch that had a trail of dark hair leading down to his undershorts. His legs, which she’d not been able to observe closely before, were shapely, with muscular thighs and calves. Nicer than she’d imagined. His other clothes had been put away, and her dress was arranged on a wooden hanger that dangled from a hook on the closet door.

  She sat down on the bed and said, “My behind is still smarting a little. You’re not into caning or anything, are you? I don’t think I’d like that.” He laughed softly. “No, your buttocks are safe with me, at least when it comes to caning. I prefer to use my hand. Remember in Le Loup when I said I’d take you over my knee if you were naughty? Well, tonight, so you were. My palm was itching to connect with your bum the whole way home.”

  16.

  Sweeney-Pie and the Temple Crew Team

  They sat on the bed eating the pizza from their hands and drinking the chilled beer.

  “You were about to tell me your fantasies,” he said, biting into a slice. “I want to hear more about that. What you think about in the shower.”

  “Only if you tell me about your librarian,” she replied. He paused to consider this for a moment, and then nodded. “Miss Sweeney. She was the librarian in our grammar school,” he said. “She must have been in her mid twenties then, with black hair and glasses hiding her green eyes. I thought she was lovely. She used to wear shirts with round collars, cardigans, and skirts that were tight enough to show her wee curvy bum. She had this schoolmistress quality about her, just as you do, and sometimes the same pert expression. When I was fifteen, she took an interest in me, I suppose because I spent my free time in the library.” So he’d been bookish as a boy. Laura mentally hugged to herself this nugget of information.

  “I suppose I used to moon about and stare at her. I must have seemed a clumsy great oaf. I was already taller than she, though I hadn’t finished growing yet. One day she called me into her office. She said something about giving her a hand with moving the furniture, and shut the door. Then she asked if I liked her and said that if I did, I could give her a kiss.” He paused, a faraway look in his eyes. “She was so sexy, I could feel I was getting a woody as soon as she spoke. So I kissed her, very chastely, and she dismissed me. The next time it happened, she asked if I’d like to touch her breasts. That time when I kissed her, she touched her tongue with mine. I can still feel how soft her tits were. The third time, she asked if I’d like to touch between her legs. She didn’t have any knickers on, and before I knew it I was swiving her. Later I discovered that she picked out a lad every so often. There was a tiny fraternity of us, the chosen ones, and they watched and noticed when she’d picked someone new. Her name was Margaret, I think, but we called her Sweeney Pie.”

  “You didn’t feel violated or abused?”

  “Are you mad? Of course not. I felt like the luckiest lad in the world. I would have crossed oceans or climbed mountains for her. We were very loyal to Sweeney Pie. Oh, there were plenty of lads being abused. We all knew which priests were diddling them. A terrible business, that, but nobody ever spoke of it to adults, and if they had, I’ve no doubt they would have been punished.”

  “What happened to Miss Sweeney?”

  “She left about a year after that. Probably got caught with one of us, or perhaps she was pregnant, but nobody ever told me what happened. I missed her terribly for a few months, and then transferred my interest to lasses me own age.”

  “Mmm. I bet you were adorable. I’d like to see a picture of you back then.”

  “Have you ever taken an interest in one of your students?” he asked, eyeing her speculatively. “Surely some of them are quite smitten with you.”

  “Have I ever debauched a strapping but virginal college boy? Gods, no,” she said. “It’s not that I don’t notice the good-looking ones or sometimes think about them. But I don’t go there. It’s unethical, and besides, in the States they burn women at the stake for having sex with boys.”

  “Now it’s your turn. You promised to tell me your fantasies. Have you ever had a fantasy about a college lad?” She considered his question, and realized that she felt shy about telling him. A flush started to bloom on her cheeks as she hesitated. “I’m embarrassed. You’ll think my fantasies are silly. You’ll make fun of me.”

  “Laura, I just trusted you with something I’ve never told anyone, and it felt good to tell it. You never have to lie to me or hold anything back. Isn’t that a comfort?” He put down his beer on a stone coaster and pulled her back to lean against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. “Now tell me. What do you think about…” his voice dropped to a whisper, “when you touch yourself?”

  “Every year in Philadelphia there’s a crew e
vent, a regatta. The varsity rowers from Temple are all big guys, well over six feet, and I love watching them row. In my fantasy, I’m covered with something delicious and gooey, and… all eight of them lick it off me.”

  She paused, wondering what his reaction was, since she couldn’t see his face. He seemed very still. Finally he said, “What are you covered with?”

  “Usually béarnaise sauce, though sometimes hollandaise.” Now she could feel his chest shaking and she knew he was laughing.

  “See? I knew you’d do that.”

  He tried to stop laughing, but couldn’t. His arms squeezed her more tightly. “It’s just the thought of you covered with béarnaise. That’s usually served on steak, you know. I thought you had an objection to being compared with meat.”

  “I do. You should try béarnaise on a green vegetable. It would be good for your soul,” she said grumpily.

  “Right then, moving on,” he said soothingly. “Tell me another.”

  She lay back again and thought for a moment. “Sometimes I think about being blindfolded—with a silk scarf, that’s very important— and being fed creamy dairy products. Don’t laugh!” She jabbed him with her fist. “Crème fraîche. Sour cream. Whipped cream, sweetened, or mixed with brandy. Mascarpone. Heavy cream. That wonderful stuff you have here…clotted cream.”

  “Who feeds it to you?”

  “A man, but I can’t see him, so I don’t know who he is. I have to guess which type I’m eating. First he uses a spoon, and then his finger, and then… other parts of him.”

  “I’m beginning to like this fantasy. It has definite potential. But don’t you have any fantasies that are non-food-related?”

  “Yes, there’s one where I’m in the bathtub taking a bubble bath and George Clooney walks in.”

  “He just happens to be in the neighborhood?”

  “Yes. Don’t overanalyze it. He appears magically, and starts confessing that his most secret and cherished desire in life is to suck on my toes. And then he does.” She was smiling, but she wasn’t sure whether he could hear it in her voice.

  “You’re having me on, aren’t you?” he said, and started to tickle her ribs. As she doubled up with laughter, he pressed her back onto the bed and untied the bathrobe she was wearing. “And now it’s time to turn to home improvements. I believe you have a wee nail in need of my attention.”

  17.

  Chardonnay with a Serpent

  On Monday in the Porteous library, as she was musing over a particularly delightful 1676 edition of Vergil with a foldout map and a swan engraved on the title page, Hamish suddenly walked in.

  “Miss Livingston— may I call you Laura? I’ve been remiss in not finding a chance to have a cozy chat before now.” Hamish was dressed in black jeans and a cream-colored linen shirt with black loafers. He crossed over to shake hands with her and when he took her hand in his tight grip, she thought that he held on to it slightly longer than was necessary.

  “There was no need. I’m sure you’re a very busy man, and I feel privileged to have the chance to visit here.”

  “No, it’s a pleasure for us to have a scholar of your stature working with our collection. I googled you, of course. I’d like to learn more about your work. Perhaps you’d come into the kitchen and have a drink with me?”

  She was surprised at his sudden interest, and suspicious of his motives, but could hardly refuse the invitation. She closed her laptop and followed as he led her out of the library and down the hallway toward the back of the house. As they walked, she noticed his impressive physique, and the way the muscles of his back were set off by a custom-tailored shirt. His collar sat well off his neck, revealing the spot where his blond hair came down to a point at the nape, and the smooth, hairless, tanned skin below. Her gaze dropped down to his rear end, which was nearly as stunning as Ellen’s in its own, masculine way.

  The kitchen was a long, narrow space with an array of impressive appliances, copper pots hanging from racks, and expensive-looking marbled countertops. At one end was a nook rather like a large restaurant booth; he indicated that she should sit there.

  “White wine?” he said, taking a bottle from a dedicated fridge and opening it. He didn’t look at her to see whether she would agree. “I have a Littorai Chardonnay by Ted Lemon. As an American, you may be familiar with this.” She made an appreciative sound; the Sonoma winemaker’s bottles were hard to come by. He brought the wine paraphernalia over on a tray with a dark wood board holding a cheese, some crackers and a small dish of a chunky red substance. Laura’s interest was immediately piqued, and she asked about the cheese.

  “It’s a comté, and this is a good English tomato pickle,” he said. “Perfect for a mountain cheese like this. But try the wine first.” It was delicious and they sat for a moment sipping it and enjoying the cheese, which was fully ripe and at room temperature. He must have planned this, she thought. She could already feel the impact of the wine as her empty stomach absorbed the alcohol. Hamish turned his brilliant blue gaze on her and held her eyes with his. He had the same magnetic charm as his sister. He said, “Now, tell me about your project.”

  “Are you sure you want to hear this? Most people’s eyes glaze over after thirty seconds.”

  “I hope to survive the ordeal, given that I’ve been collecting since I was ten and helping Father acquire books for the last decade,” he said, smiling wryly. She wondered how old he was. He looked to be in his mid thirties. Quite a bit younger than she, and far better looking. He could have no sexual interest in her, yet she felt ridiculously flattered by his attention.

  She explained that she studied the contents of writers’ libraries and the relationships between the works they wrote and the works they owned. “I’m particularly interested in books owned by Alexander Pope,” she said. “There is no sale catalog from his library and limited evidence about his books, though I know he was a subscriber when Pine engraved his Horace. You have a copy of the Horace, but I didn’t see anything that could identify it, unfortunately.”

  Hamish nodded, and casually placed his arm along the back of the seat. He was sitting surprisingly close to her, his thigh almost touching hers. She wondered whether the heat she felt radiating from it was just her imagination.

  “We have a couple of books owned by Joseph Addison. Some fine Elzevirs in contemporary bindings. I’ll show you. You belong to that small group of people who can truly savor their loveliness.” They talked on, sipping the wine and discussing the seventeenth century book trade and the high points of the Porteous collection.

  “And what opinion did my father have about the Pine’s previous ownership when you spoke to him?” he suddenly asked. Her heart jolted inside her chest and she immediately felt sober.

  “I’ve not spoken to your father,” she answered slowly, looking him in the eye. “You told me the first day I visited that he was quite ill. I’d love to see him if he’s better now, ” she added quickly. “Would that be possible?”

  He ignored her question. “I thought perhaps he’d asked to see you or that Charlotte had taken you upstairs…” His voice trailed off and he looked at her with his blue eyes, questioning, probing. She felt like a small furry animal mesmerized by a viper. She simply shook her head, not trusting herself to say anything more, and let her eyes roam over his face, let herself mindlessly contemplate his good looks. He was as handsome as a Greek statue, and almost close enough to kiss her. She felt a flush rising in her cheeks and silently railed against it, willing the blood not to flood into her face.

  After a moment he turned away and drained the rest of his wine. He’d seen the blush, she thought, but attributed it to the modesty of a dowdy librarian captivated by his good looks. It was partly true. “And how much longer will you be working with us?” he asked. His manner had subtly changed and she knew their interview was over. “Only another few weeks,” she said lightly. “I’m leaving in early September.” Inwardly, she sighed in relief that she hadn’t told him about the note a
nd letter in the Pine. That was Alexander Porteous’ business, not his son’s. If she had told him, she would have been breaking a confidence.

  “I wish you success in your work, Laura. If there’s anything I can help you with, please let Charlotte know.” As they got up, Laura cast a regretful glance at the half-consumed bottle of Littorai Chardonnay. She hoped it would not go to waste. Perhaps Charlotte would enjoy it.

  18.

  Nolly’s Vegetarian Pleasures

  James called her later that week and asked if she would come out to eat with him and Nolly, his food critic friend. Nolly had an assignment to write about a vegetarian restaurant, and they thought Laura could provide useful commentary on the cuisine. She agreed, provided it would be an early night. She had plenty of work planned for the next morning.

  When she arrived at Fava, James and Nolly were already seated at a table in a semi-private room upstairs, drinking martinis. They stood up as she came to the table. Nolly was a tall, undeniably fat man with a ski-slope nose and a thick fringe of hair in mingled grey and reddish-brown; he had a sizable bald spot on the back of his head. “My dear Laura!” He took her proffered hand and instead of shaking it, raised it to his lips. “Do sit down and have a cocktail with us. We’ve put off looking at the menu until your arrival.” Laura ordered a martini (Bombay Sapphire, up, not too dry, olive) from the hovering server, and sat between Nolly and James.