Thea Devine - Fascinated

Setting her gloves aside, Megan raised her head. Her moss green gaze snared his black one. "I do not see it."

The heat surging through him owed nothing to sunshine. "Look harder, madam."

"There is a cloth covering it," she returned, "Perhaps you should remove it."

There was no mistaking her inference.

He remembered the press of her lips and the lick of her tongue when she had kissed his verge.

His heart thudded against his chest. "We will both catch our chill," he warned.

Megan reached for the top button on her bodice. "But we will always have fond memories of meat pie, will we not?"

She unfastened one button, two, three… and shrugged out of her bodice.

Her breasts, warmed by sunlight, gleamed like alabaster. Full. Heavy.

Perfect.

"Take down your hair," he said in a strangled voice.

He watched the lift of her arms, her breasts, noted the glint of red-brown hair underneath her arms, catalogued each quiver of her soft breasts.

A long, thick braid fell over her shoulder. Laying aside the hairpins, she slowly unraveled it and raked her fingers through it to straighten out the kinks.

The red, bronze and silver that had only glinted in her hair when it had been secured on top of her head, now was a blazing waterfall that cascaded over her right breast and down to her waist.

The thud of his heart shook his entire body-his chest; his knees.

Megan was willing to satisfy a eunuch's fancy; he could do no less.

He jerked the thobs over his head, letting it fall where it would, and kneeled down in front of her.

In the dim light of morning with the curtains closed, his condition had been blatant but not the scars. There was no hiding them in the full light of day.

She did not cringe from their sight.

Solemnly, she uncovered the bucket of food. Equally solemn, he accepted in his bare hand the slice of meat pie she offered him.

Sitting down, he crossed his legs, acutely aware that she could see everything… his scars, his desire, everything he had spent the last forty years trying to hide.

Pulling out a small jug of cider, Megan filled two glasses, left breast quivering with her motion, nipple stabbing the chill spring air.

He reached out and flicked back her hair, so that he could see both of her breasts.

The meat pie was tasteless, the cider sour. He would never forget them.

When they had drained the last drop of cider, finished the meat pie and licked their fingers clean, she returned the jug, glasses and empty pie plate to the bucket.

Megan stood up and unfastened her skirt, her bustle, her petticoats. Her hair shielded her face. "I would ride you, sir."

Twenty-four hours ago, he would have thought her ridiculous.

Twenty-four hours ago, he had not opened his door to admit a widow who masqueraded as a whore.

Straightening his legs, he kicked her underclothes off their cloaks and lay down.

The sun was hot. Blinding. The weight of her body was more welcome than his next breath.

Kneeling over him, she grasped his verge.

He stopped breathing.

Wet heat kissed him.

His heart stopped beating.

Unrelenting pressure. Scalding moisture.

He concentrated on Megan's face as she determinedly tried to put him inside her. She bit her bottom lip, like a child studying for an exam.

"Take me home, Megan," he said hoarsely.

And wondered where his home was.

He knew where others thought it was, but he himself did not know.

Without warning, her portal opened and she swallowed him.

She moaned.

He groaned.

Her pubic hair prickled his pelvis. The tip of his verge abutted her cervix.

He could feel the pulse of her body frantically beating against him.

Megan stared down at him. "I think I'm too old for this."

He grabbed her hips. "I think not, madam. Ride me," he gritted. "Ride me like you saw the young girl ride the boy."

Show me what it is like, he silently begged, to be young and whole and carefree.

Tentatively she lifted up; cool air surrounded his verge while his crown was gripped by molten fire. Her gaze did not waver from his, green eyes moist with sexual need and something more, the need to please him.

It was not her consideration he wanted; he wanted her selfish enjoyment.

He bucked up; at the same time he pulled her down, forcing her to take the hardness that was all he could give her.

Megan threw her head back; a low cry vibrated along the length of his verge.

He did not know who it came from-her, or him.

She had a long neck, white, graceful.

Slowly, she learned the rhythm: up, thighs and vagina squeezing him; down, thighs and vagina opening. Blindly reaching, she clasped her hands over his.

They were the hands of a woman used to cleaning and toiling.

The sun haloed her head in a crown of red, bronze and silver. He alternately watched her breasts jiggle and the chords in her throat strain. A chorus of ragged breathing blended with the wet impact of flesh slapping flesh. Megan rode him until he could feel the sun on his back and the ground beneath his feet and the wind in his face, together galloping back through the past to a time when they had both been young and innocent.

And then it stopped-the pounding motion, the driving force, the race for freedom. Megan stared down at him, face streaked with sweat and sunshine, hair clinging to her cheeks and her breasts. Her vagina rippled around him in the aftermath of her orgasm, fisting, relaxing, fisting, relaxing… about his heart, his verge. Too much, not enough.

He fought back a cry of agony. He was not ready to be a eunuch again, not when the blood still sang through his veins and desire crackled up and down his spine.

Megan's panting breath slowly subsided. "You cannot, can you?"

He did not pretend to misunderstand her. "No."

But Allah, God, he wanted to.

"I am going to bring you to release, Muhamed."

She abruptly levered up onto one knee-he slipped free of her, wincing, turgid verge reaching out for her-and stood up.

He gazed up at the beauty that was a woman's sex; it was pink and wet between a dark fringe of damp curls.

Her pubic hair was darker than that on her head and underneath her arms.

Quickly, she lifted her leg and brought it over his groin, so that her thighs modestly pressed together.

"Come with me," she said, every bit as imperious as he could be.

"Why?" he rasped, chest heaving, lungs laboring.

Why could they not stay as they were, just for a little while longer?

"I am going to make an offering," Megan said cryptically.

Bending down in a glistening waterfall of hair, she flipped the side of her cloak over and retrieved something from her pocket.

He could not see what it was.

Straightening, she turned and walked toward the well that the spring fed, buttocks gently bouncing, hips swaying.

He followed her.

Megan stood over the baptistery that mothers dipped their babies in. Cupping her right hand, she scooped it into the water, brought it up, filled. Turning to him, she let the water trickle down his verge.

He sucked in his breath.

The water was icy.

What had been hard shrank to escape the cold.

She ignored the results of her handiwork, concentrating instead on unrolling a French letter. Megan stuck the unfurled sheath of rubber onto a bush that housed the remnants of swaddling cloths.

His throat tightened. She had baptized his male appendage, as women baptized their babies. Now she left a condom offering, as countless mothers left pieces of swaddling cloths as offerings.

"You think that the good fortune mothers seek for their children will visit me?" he asked roughly.

"I know it will," she said firmly. "But later. In a room warmed by coal and the comfort of a bed at our disposal."

He had experienced one miracle, last night buried inside her body; he did not expect another one.

He helped Megan dress, dropping her petticoats over her head, tying her bustle in place, buttoning the band of her skirt, the front of her bodice.

Pulling her hair back from her face, he braided it for her. It was warm with sunshine, slippery fine, softer than down.

Megan held perfectly still for his ministrations, as if she were not used to another dressing her, helping her.

What kind of a fool had her husband been, to reject Megan's love? he wondered angrily. Were she his woman, he would see that she never wanted for attention.

But he was a eunuch, not a man.

She secured the braid on top of her head and crammed on her hat and gloves while he threw on his thobs and wound his turban around his head.

It felt heavier than a boulder.

They did not talk as they retraced their steps through the overgrowth of thorny bushes to the gig that waited for them. He unhobbled the horse and hitched it to the carriage.

Megan climbed in, unassisted.

He wanted to rip off her black hat and black cloak.

He wanted to eat more tasteless meat pie and drink more sour cider and lie again in the sun, with her naked body riding his own.

"You said that eunuchs who do not have their manhood or their testicles marry," she said, looking straight ahead at the gelded horse instead of him.

His lips tightened in a grim line. "Yes."

He knew what she was going to ask.

Megan turned and stared at him. "They would not marry would they, if they were not capable of enjoying a woman's attentions?"

He snapped the reins. "No, they wouldn't."

The journey back to the inn was completed in silence. He could feel Megan's determination to give him satisfaction.