Jane Eyre Fanfic: Goodnight, my--

NSFW.  This scene takes place immediately after Rochester confronts Jane about her lack of interaction with him and his guests in the drawing room.

“Goodnight, my—” he stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me.

My heart sank, and those threatening tears finally did fall, hard and fast.  The thought of seeing Sophie or Adele in this state was impossible; no, I needed this private pain to remain private.  How can he act this way after what happened? I wondered as I groped my way down the hall, blinded by my tears.  We had been so intimate that night of the fire, and then he had all but bolted from Thornfield, leaving that very day for the Ingrams’ estate.  And now to return, amidst rumors of marriage, only to parade that dark, curvy woman in front of me.

No, I told myself sternly as I opened the nearest door.  This is not about you.  How could it be about you?  You know what they have always warned about men and sensuality—Mr. Rochester acted as any man would and now he must return his attention to marrying well for his family.  As I closeted myself inside the room—the library as it turned out—I tried to tamp down the betrayal and anger from whence the tears sprang.  It was unreasonable.  I should not expect anything different.

I leaned against the back of the sofa in the dim firelight, my breathing slowing to normal and my emotions once again coming under my control.  And then the door opened suddenly, revealing Mr. Rochester.

“Jane.”

I pressed myself further against the sofa, not trusting him or myself.

He closed the door softly behind him and approached me.  His hair was wild, as if he’d run his fingers through it several times, and his expression was uncertain, pained.

“Jane,” he said again, softly now.  We were only inches apart.

“You must attend to your guests, sir,” I said, looking away.

He reached for me, but I pulled away, maneuvering so that the sofa was now between us.

“Why do you insist on provoking me?” he asked.  “First, I arrive and receive no warm greeting from you—in fact no greeting at all.”

“I was not sent for,” I replied.

“But I sent for you in the drawing room, did I not?  And yet you still said nothing, no word at all.  You would barely meet my eye, just as you are doing now.”

At that, I did look up and immediately regretted it.  His eyes were darker than I remembered, almost black, and the desire in them was almost overwhelming.  I felt my body respond to his gaze, recalling the caresses and kisses he had bestowed on it two weeks ago.  I blushingly looked down again, and I was grateful that we had this piece of furniture between us.

He continued, his voice a map of frustration and something else—longing perhaps.  “And now I reach for you, to take your hand, and you draw away, as if I’m not to be trusted.  But haven’t I already proven that I am, Janet?”

Memories of him over me, his fingers stroking and his mouth kissing the most secret parts of me, flooded my mind.  I could not erase the sight of him shirtless, breeches straining with his erection, his eyes raking over my body as he promised to leave me intact for my wedding night.

“You did, sir,” I answered faintly.

He stepped to the left slowly, like someone trying to coax a wild cat.  “And was that not satisfactory for you?”

I meant to step to my left as well, to keep the distance between us the same, but found that my body didn’t want to move.  “You are a man, Mr. Rochester.  I know enough of men to know that it is not wise for us to engage any further than my employment requires.  Especially with your guest in the house.”

“Ah,” he said, moving toward me once again.  “But I have multiple guests at the moment.  To which do you refer?”

“You know quite well I refer to Blanche Ingram,” I said.  

“Are you jealous, Jane Eyre?”  He seemed amused, and now we were on the same side of the sofa.  He stepped closer.

I meant to say no.  Of course I couldn’t be jealous of Blanche—it was tantamount to a starling envying a swan.  But instead I said nothing, not trusting my lips to utter the correct word.

He came forward, and the top of his shoe brushed the hem of my gray dress as it slid underneath.  I felt the sole of his shoe come to rest against my worn leather boot.  He placed his hands against my shoulders and gently pushed me down so that I was seated on the sofa.  He stood over me, still amused, although the lines around his mouth and eyes suggested some sort of internal struggle.  He took my hand and pulled it up so that it was pressed against his chest.  I could feel the rapid beating of his heart underneath his silk waistcoat.  I tried to pull it back, but he held it fast, all while gazing at me.  

“Come now, Jane.  Don’t pretend that you aren’t jealous.  Falseness doesn’t become you.  You can be honest with me.”

I fought vainly to regain control of my hand.  “There is nothing to be jealous of, sir.  She is a lady of gentle birth and I am not.”

“You are using your station as a shield, not to ensure your humility as you think you are, but in order to protect yourself.  From what?  From human love?  Are you truly a fairy or an elf, that you cannot allow yourself to bestow your affections on me?”

“Stop!” I said sharply.  “You are teasing me and it’s not fair.”

“Is this a jest?” he asked huskily.  He moved my hand from his chest to his pants, and underneath I felt the evidence of his desire straining against the fabric, very much real.  I could feel so much through the material, the warmth and the hardness of it, and I surprised myself by giving it a light, experimental squeeze through the thin velvet.  It swelled in my hand and he groaned.

“If this is you expressing your jealousy, Jane, I should like to have you express more of it,” he said.

I withdrew my hand, shocked at myself, shocked at Mr. Rochester, shocked that all of the moral and Christian education had led me to this: touching a man I wasn’t married to—my employer no less—in a shadowed library, and what’s more, I had let him touch me.  It was as if he made me forget all the things I knew, all the good and righteous intentions I had to keep my distance.

As if reading my thoughts, he said, “Jane, there is nothing wrong here.  Surely, this is the most right thing there can be, the two of us together.”

“You are not to be trusted, Mr. Rochester.  You are a sinful man.”  I meant it to be an accusation, a barrier between our desires, but my voice came out provoking, almost flirtatious.
His eyes sparkled.  “As always, your honest words do more to stir me than a thousand hours of flattery.”  He lifted my chin with his finger so that I was forced to look him full in the face. “Will you consent to lay your conscience aside for a stolen hour with me?  If I once again promise to honor your virtue?”

I hesitated.  “Virtue is more than passing a test on the advent of marriage.  And it is something that belongs wholly to me.”  I could not say that about many things, but my mind, my thoughts, my beliefs—they were truly mine.

Mr. Rochester knelt.  He gently parted my legs, which I found my body powerless to stop, and he moved forward so that he was once again close to me.  “You are so singular, my little elf.  How many men have found such a one as you?”  His words hypnotized me and I stayed frozen, warring between desire and conscience, as he nipped at my earlobe.  He trailed light kisses over to my mouth, and then finally pressed his lips against mine.  I didn’t move for a long moment, but finally, desire won, and I parted my lips, allowing our tongues to meet.  His kisses were deep, intense, as if by kissing me, he wanted to lay claim to me, to all of my feelings and all of my needs.

One of his hands slid down to my chest, but access to my breasts was restricted by my corset.  He swore.  

“Sir—”

But then his hand slid up my dress, underneath the layers of petticoats, underneath my simple chemise, and he once again found that hidden part of me.  I jumped as his fingers traced the outline of my folds, then ran teasingly down the center.  There was nothing I could say, nothing I could do, because this felt too good and the look in his eyes was so warm, so hungry…

His thumb began tracing circles around the bundle of nerves at the top, and as my back arched, he reached behind me and started unhooking my dress.  Soon it was undone, and he tugged impatiently at the gray silk, pulling it off my shoulders and urging me to stand, so he could finally cast it aside.  He took in my slender frame appreciatively, tracing the upper lines of my breasts pushed up by the corset, no longer hidden by the dress.  He untied my petticoats, and soon those were discarded as well, so that I was in only my corset and chemise, which came to the middle of my thighs.  

“Much better,” he breathed, and I was bade to sit once more.  He raised my chemise to my waist, parted my legs and knelt between them, shrugging off his dinner jacket as he did.  He kissed his way up one of my thighs, making me shiver, and then he finally laid his mouth to me, licking and kissing and swirling.  I gasped again and again, and the pleased hiss he made when my fingers laced through his hair sent another spike of lust through me, leaving no room in my mind for anything but this--this sensation, this sight of the man I wanted with his dark head between my thighs, the firelight flickering off the yellow silk of his waistcoat.

But before I could mount to the climax that my body craved, he stopped and stood.  His face was so hungry, it was almost unrecognizable, but he looked all the handsomer for it—wild and rakish and so very, very sinful.  His hips were now at my eye level, and I gazed at the telltale ridge in his pants, a sight that had occupied so many of my lonely nights these past two weeks.

“Pull it out, Jane,” he said.  

It was an order.  A plea.  Either way, I would not have refused for the world.

I slowly unbuttoned the brass buttons on his pants, feeling his breathing hitch whenever my fingers grazed him.  I took my time on purpose, somehow knowing that the squirming discomfort we felt was part of it somehow, that the end would be all the richer for protracting the means.  Finally his pants were undone, and I carefully pulled them down, exposing all of him.

“Touch it,” he commanded, and I did, running my fingers down the underside, which judging from his reaction, was a very sensitive part.  I stroked the length of him, circled the crown and watched as a drop of fluid glistened in the light as I did.  I explored him, this part that I had never seen, satisfying my own curiosity and my own urge to make him feel as he made me feel.  Knowing that his kisses made me wild, I leaned forward and licked at him, letting my tongue mimic the patterns he had used on me, swirls and licks and teasing little darts.  His hands were laced behind his neck and he leaned his head back, soft groans the only noise filling the room other than the spitting of the fire.

Experimentally, I pressed my lips against the crown and opened them, letting him slide into my mouth.  “Jane,” he said hoarsely.  I moved my mouth up and down slowly, feeling him shudder and tense as I did.  “Jane,” he said again.  He pulled back, his cock proud and erect, harder than I’d ever seen it.

He put a hand behind my neck and one around my waist and made me lie down on the sofa.  He climbed over me.  “Do you trust me?”

I nodded.  What I didn’t trust at this point was myself, but there was no power on earth that could move me from this sofa.  He took himself in his hand and, still holding himself over my body, touched the swollen crown to my folds, which were now slick with want.  

The touch was so intimate, so unexpected and yet so perfect, that I reached for his narrow hips, wanting him to go further, to sink inside of me and quench the need that had dogged me day and night since he had awoken my body.  He resisted my pulling, rubbing himself up and down my folds, and both of our eyes were on the undeniably erotic sight of his cock rubbing against me.  

“Please,” I heard myself whisper.  “Just a little bit.”

His body was trembling with restraint, and he stopped, letting himself press against my entrance.  I bucked forward, sending him inside a fraction, and he pulled back abruptly.  With a growl, he lifted me up, and in a matter of seconds, I was seated on his lap, facing away from him, his arm wrapped around my corseted waist, while he assaulted my clitoris with deft fingers.  I could feel his erection nestled against the bare skin of my backside.  

“There’s a good girl now,” he murmured as he worked me.  “Such a bad girl earlier, but so good now.”  He dipped a single finger inside of me, and my head flew back as I began moving my hips instinctively against his hand. 

The muscles tightened around my body, winding and winding and winding until all I wanted was to be unwound, and I wanted Mr. Rochester to be the one to do it.  “Edward…”

“Call me that again,” he ordered.

“Edward…”

He bit my shoulder and his erection blazed against my skin as his fingers finally gave me release, and my body undid itself, my core pulsing and pulsing and finally unraveling.  I leaned back against him and we sat there for a long minute, soaking in the rays of pleasure.  But his shaft was still hard underneath me, and I felt determined not to leave him in discomfort as I had last time.  I sat up and turned around, so that I was still on his lap but now facing him, his cock underneath my pussy, which was wetter than ever.  I slid back and forth, so that my slick folds stroked that sensitive part of him.  He ran his hands down the back of my corset to the bare skin of my legs and rear, and then around to the firm crests of my chest.

“I’m going to come,” he said breathlessly, and then as I pressed down harder, his fingers dug into my thighs and he cried out.  His climax sent long, white ropes of semen onto his vest—a vest more expensive than my entire wardrobe combined—and the sight was so wantonly sexual that I found my body responding once again, wanting more.

A knock at the door sent us both scrambling.  He gestured for me to lay down on the sofa out of view.  “Enter,” he called, fastening the last button of his pants as the door opened.

“Where have you been, Edward?  Are you ignoring us?  Have you grown bored of me?”

I recognized that sultry, pout-filled voice.  Blanche.

“That, my sweet, would be impossible.”  He pulled on his evening coat and buttoned it as well, the coat covering the large stain on the front of his vest.  And then, with the evidence of our tryst covered, he left, without a glance for me, still nearly naked and hidden on the sofa.

Thor or Loki?

Thor?

Or Loki?

Thor?

(ouch. my ovaries.)

Or Loki?

(yup.)

Thor?

Or Loki?

I think I'm giving this one to the Brit.

Jane Eyre Fanfic: I Am Cold

This scene takes place immediately after Rochester returns from investigating the fire in his bedroom.  NSFW.

He held out his hand; I gave him mine: he took it first in one, then in both his own.

“You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt…”

But there he stopped, and the cold dawn light seemed to freeze the moment into something sharp, bluish, unreal.  

“Jane,” he said, and no one had ever said my name in such a way, a way that indicated knowing and kindness and curiosity.  “Jane,” he said again, and I was closer somehow, a small step or a hair’s breadth, but it felt the closest I’d been to a man, indeed to any person, and then somehow we were closer again, to where my dressing gown brushed against the front of his nightshirt.

“Sir,” I said.  “I must depart.”

“Yes, you must go,” he said, but he did not relinquish my hands.

“Sir…”

“Do you know what it means to be in debt, Jane?” he asked.

I thought of Aunt Reed, of Lowood…of my position at Thornfield, which was comfortable but still earned entirely by my efforts.  “No.”  But I added, to be diplomatic, “I can surmise, sir.”

“Suppose you can,” he said, his voice an octave lower.  “I meant it when I said owing you a debt was a pleasure, but I am not a man who lets his debts lapse.  In fact, I tend to be quite prompt with them.”

And then his lips were on the back of my hand, warm and soft.  No gentleman had ever kissed my hand before.   No man had ever pressed his lips to any part of my skin, and I could not help but be shocked by how delicious it felt.  Not merely the touch of his skin to mine, but the way it made my pulse race and my heart pound, and then he looked up at me with his dark eyes.

“Jane.  Will you allow me to thank you now?”

I nodded before I could consider what he meant, what was wisest…which was of course to leave—I was nearly naked in my master’s room, alone and unchaperoned, lit only by an anemic dawn that spilled weakly through the window.  But I nodded in spite of my conscience, and Mr. Rochester snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me closer.  Our bodies were now nearly pressed together.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his face close to mine.  “Thank you, Jane Eyre.”

And then he brushed his lips against mine, softly, barely, faintly.

The sensation sent tremors through me and buckled my knees—but my sensible mind reminded me that Mr. Rochester was a man of the world, that I should leave before I’d committed an act irresponsible or immoral or unwise.  But then he did something else unexpected: he brought his mouth to my neck.  At once there was heat and sensation and a feeling not unlike being tickled, but deeper and stronger and one that was connected to other parts of my body.  I felt my nipples tighten under my dressing gown—such a strange and unanticipated reaction that I responded with an intake of breath.

“Do you trust me, Jane?” Mr. Rochester asked, his lips at my neck.

I nodded—involuntarily—for with these small bites and nips and sucks along my collarbone, the sensible part of my mind might fuss, but it could not find an outlet.  My traitorous body responded instead with every atom of flesh, every fiber of skin and muscle and bone keening for something unknown, something only my master could give. 

He pulled back, and the loss of his lips on my skin felt like the sky darkening, but then he untied the belt of my dressing gown, his eyes on my own the entire time.  His long fingers slid the gown off my shoulders, down my arms, and finally off my body, until the gown was nothing more than a pile of muslin and repurposed lace on the floor.  I was now in only the scantest of garments before him: my night-dress, a thing of thin cotton and hanging only to just below my knees.

Here, I balked and meant to pull away, to make my exit, but then he pulled off his night-shirt so that he was wearing nothing but the breeches he’d hastily pulled on to investigate the cause of the fire.  The blue light from the window allowed me to clearly see the flat planes of his stomach, the lean muscles of his arms and shoulders.  

Unable to resist, I trailed a finger from his shoulder to his elbow, relishing in the undulations of his deltoids and biceps.  He caught my hand and kissed my palm.  I shivered.  He then pressed my hand against his chest and held it there as he looked me in the eyes.  “Do you trust me?” he asked again.

“Yes,” I said, even though perhaps I didn’t.  Even though I was still reassuring my conscience that I would be leaving at any moment.

He kissed my hand once more and then took the tip of my finger into his mouth and nipped at it gently.

…At any moment…

“You will leave this room with your virtue intact—in the sense that your body will be unimpeachable to any future husband.  That is my promise to you.”

I quailed.  This was immoral.  It was wrong.  I pulled away, but then Mr. Rochester moved my hand to his breeches, to the hardness underneath the soft fabric.

“This is what you do to me, Jane Eyre.  Do you understand what torment this can to be a man when he must sit through hours of endless conversation and piano playing?  Do you understand what a man needs when he feels like this?”

Oh, how I wanted to be worldly right then.  I wanted to know what that hardness meant, how it tormented him, but I only knew the scantest details about the male species.  I knew they had desires, and that female virtue was the only thing that could halt these desires.  But then his hand found my nipple through my nightdress, and my thoughts ceased.  He stroked my nipple, rolling it between his fingers and squeezing.

“Of course you don’t understand.  It was foolish of me to expect you could.  But feeling what you feel of me, I still promise to you that you will leave this room intact, a spotless bride.  Now—” he palmed my breast and my knees grew weak.  “—Let me thank you, my Janet.  Let me repay this debt.”

“Sir—” my voice was breathy and strange, so much so I barely recognized it.  He scooped me in his arms and carried me to the bed, still damp from the water I’d doused it in.  He brought a blanket from the nearby trunk and set it underneath me.

“I won’t have you catching a cold.”

The gesture was tender…thoughtful.  And before I could process what that meant—him thinking of my comfort—his lips were once more on my own, hot and searching.  He slid a hand underneath my neck, tilting my face up to his, his tongue licking into my mouth.  I found that lack of experience was no hindrance here; my body responded in kind, my own tongue probing and pressing against his, my traitorous hands daring to touch his bare back, which was firm with muscles and tense with desire.  I slid my hands to the waist of his breeches and then further down, feeling the way his body curved from his back to his bum to his muscular thighs.

He sighed against my mouth and pulled up, gazing at me with his dark eyes.  The blackish blaze of his stare did more to me than even his lips and tongue, and I found myself almost completely divested of thought and moral action.  My good judgement, which had never deserted me through all my troubles, seemed as captivated as my baser instincts by Edward’s—Mr. Rochester’s—lust and skill.

He dipped his head once more, but rather than kiss me, he brought his mouth to my nipple, taking it in my mouth through the nightgown.  The sudden heat and suction made me arch my back, breathing hard, my fingernails digging into his shoulders.  He continued sucking and tugging at my breast, but a hand slowly traced its way up my leg, sliding under my night dress and moving from my calf to my knee to my inner thigh.

I must stop this.  Had I not read of women succumbing to passion in similar circumstances?  And of their lives being ruined by their lack of self-control?  Surely, this was the specific incidence that those novels and essays obliquely referred to.  And yet, the moment Mr. Rochester’s fingers found the most secret part of me, I found I didn’t care.  His fingers brushed against my outer folds, stroking and caressing, and I spread my legs, wanting more.  His fingers moved to the small nub of flesh that brought so much pleasure, and he gently worked it back and forth, back and forth, until my hands were twining tightly in his hair, and I found it impossible to breathe normally.

He slipped one finger inside of me, and I cried out, my hands clenching his hair harder.

“Please,” I begged, though I knew not what I begged for.

“I dare not do more,” he breathed against my ear.  “I promised you that you’d leave this room intact.  But you are so wet for me.  So wet.  And so tight.”  That last he seemed to say only to himself, and the raw desire in his voice shredded the remainder of my self-control.

The hardness that had been pressed against my hip vanished as he raised himself up.  He withdrew his hand from under my nightgown, and I wanted desperately to protest, but then saw that he now positioned himself so that his upper body was between my legs.  He carefully raised the nightdress so that it rested above my hips.  With my nakedness fully exposed to him, his lust was apparent.  His eyes raked over my body and then he lowered his head and licked at my folds.  For a moment, there was only softness and warmth.  He slid his hands under my bum and adjusted my hips so that he had better access to my center, and then he began kissing my folds in earnest, his tongue probing and exploring, again working that bundle of nerves at the top that made my toes curl and my fingers clench around the bedcovers.

“You taste so good,” he told me.  His tongue moved in circles across my clitoris; my muscles were tightening, my legs and my arms and my stomach.  I felt like a piano string, so tightly wound that I might snap at any moment.

“Tell me what you feel, Janet,” he said, and his voice—authoritative, used to be being obeyed—left no room for disagreement.

“I feel strange, sir,” I said, barely able to keep my tone steady.  “Like I might shatter at any moment.”

“I will make sure that you will,” he answered me, his voice almost grimly determined.  “I mean to make you come back to me, every night if I have my way.”

The thought of that was so shockingly inviting, so lascivious, that coupled with his mouth returning to my center, I felt a new wave of fragile tension roll through me, and then a clenching at my core that was almost frightening in its ferocity.

“Sir,” I said, nearly panicked, “sir, I feel—”

The first wave of release crashed through me, and I cried out.  He did not cease his attentions, rather he increased them, so that the second and third waves were more intense than the first, and I cried his name over and over again, feeling every sensation too strongly to bear, all sense of self leaving me in the crashing surf of pleasure until I was left limp, a golden glow settling comfortably beneath my navel.

Mr. Rochester was staring at me from between my legs, his lips parted, lust written plainly on his face.  He crawled over me.

“Well, Jane?”

The experience had left me undone and uncertain but craving more, needing more.  “Sir,” I whispered.  “I am yours.”

He groaned and pulled away.  “Don’t say things like that.  You little English girl.  You really have no idea what effect you have on me, do you?”  He put his feet on the floor and reached for his shirt.  I sat up as well.

As he stood, I could clearly see the source of his discomfort outlined by his breeches.  “Mr. Rochester…”

“The servants will be awakening soon,” he said, “and the fire has left much to put to rights.”  He handed me my dressing gown, and I slid my arms into the sleeves and belted it without looking at him, feeling a flush of shame crawl through me.  It was just as the novels said: once the virtuous woman had proven herself unchaste, her lover would turn cold and disinterested.

As if reading my thoughts, he bent low and kissed me.  

“I will expect you tonight in the drawing room, Jane.”

All feelings of doubt and shame fled before his kiss and his certainty, before his desire and his commands.

London: Chapter Two

She left the roar of the football game behind her and stepped into the damp air outside, searching the pockets of her coat for a cigarette.  She wasn’t normally a smoker, but the cops all smoked and everyone in England seemed to smoke, and after a few days, it had gotten tiresome being the only nonsmoker in a crowd of smokers.  Besides, it was relaxing, taking in the sharp scent of tobacco and the glowing lights of the city.

She slid a cigarette between her lips, and was still fumbling for a lighter, when she heard the familiar click behind her.  She turned and there was a tall man leaning against the front of the pub, a cigarette glowing in his hand.

“Do you mind…?” she asked, gesturing toward the silver lighter still in his hand.

He shook his head and held out the lighter.  Her fingertips brushed against his as she took it, and she felt goosebumps raise up along her arms.  He was wearing jeans and gray blazer and he looked for all the world like one of the vaguely-dressed up cops inside, but there was something almost deliberate in how mundane his outfit was, as if it was calculated only to make the barely memorable impression of someone decently dressed--nothing more, nothing less.

He had thick dark hair and dark eyes but pale skin—not unusual for English men—and a slender, well-muscled body with a narrow waist and broad shoulders.  A strong jaw and lips that made him look like a Tom Ford model.  He kept his eyes trained on the building across the street, a cell-phone store with three stories of grimy looking flats above it.  There was something about his posture that seemed familiar, like she had seen men like him before, but she couldn’t quite place it.

“Thanks,” he said, when she handed him his lighter back.

His voice was American.  So not English then.

“Are you here for the Scotland Yard reception?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. 

“Are you a cop?” she pressed.

He didn’t look away from the building across the street.  “Something like that.”

Back off, Evangeline, she told herself.  She just wanted to finish her cigarette and successfully navigate the Underground back to her hotel.  She wouldn’t say goodbye to Nick—he’d just insist on cutting his night short to see her safely back, and she didn’t want that.  She’d text him once she got to the hotel, and then, since she was already safe, he’d have no choice but to enjoy himself at the pub.

A group of men were walking down the other side of the street, their heads down and voices low.  One of them had a slim black bag.  They were looking across the street at her and the man, and suddenly the man was in front of her, with an easy smile and relaxed posture.  Surprised, she opened her mouth, but before she could speak, he brought his mouth to hers.

His lips were impossibly soft and impossibly warm, and she couldn’t help but melt into him.  He tasted like toothpaste and tobacco, but his skin smelled like soap and cologne, a smell that gave her pause, but not for long because then he slid a hand behind the nape of her neck, and started kissing a trail down her exposed throat.  She let out a breathy moan. It had been far too long since she’d been kissed like this.  

He was a deep kisser, the kind of kissing that made her knees weak and her breasts ache.  She should pull away, she should protest—after all, it’s not like he had bothered to chat her up beforehand—but this is what she had been craving all night.  All week.  Someone delicious and anonymous. 

Still, what if Nick walked out and saw?

But then, as he moved back to kissing her throat, his hands slid up the outside of her thighs and found her ass, and then his fingers were tracing the outline of her lacy boy shorts, from her hips to the inside of her legs, and she couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her when his fingertips grazed the front of her, the skin under the panties impossibly sensitive from a year of celibacy.

Her hands found their way to his chest and then down his tight stomach to his belt.  His lips were on the tops of her breasts now, and she ran hand through his thick hair and yanked it back.  He hissed and then groaned as her other hand found the front of his pants.  He was hard, and just feeling him that way made Evangeline so desperate to have him closer that she dropped her coat and wrapped her legs around his waist.  He pushed her up against the wet brick, his shaft impossibly hard against her, his lips kissing the skin above the neckline of her dress, his hands supporting her ass.

Then his teeth found her nipple through the fabric of her dress and he bit down gently, and she cried out, a soft cry that made his breathing ragged.  She didn’t care who saw, who passed by, who walked out of the pub—all she knew was that she needed this man, whoever he was, and she needed him now.  But as soon as she realized that, as soon as she moved her hand to his zipper to release him, he was gently setting her back on her feet and stepping back.

“I am sorry about that,” he said.  He was eyeing the sidewalk across the street, now devoid of any men.

It took a moment for her brain to catch up with what had happened.  “Is something wrong?  We can go to my hotel or—”

He shook his head politely, still staring across the street, where a light had come on in the narrow flat above the store.  “If you’ll excuse me.”

“But—”

Her voice seemed to pull him away from his thoughts.  He looked back at her, and Evangeline got the distinct impression that he wasn’t accustomed to explaining himself or being overly polite.  There was also something else about the way he stood, the way he seemed torn between talking to her and watching the building…

“It was rude of me to take advantage of you,” he said.  “Again, I am sorry.  Have a good evening.”

She picked her coat off the damp ground, shocked and self-conscious, tears of embarrassment pricking her eyelids.  Was I that bad a kisser?  Does my breath smell like beer?  Was I too forward?  But he had wanted her too; she had felt his unmistakeable desire pressed steel hard against her pelvis.  But then why stop?  It made no sense.

He made his way across the street and she started toward the subway station, but despite the shame in her stomach, the burning in her eyes, she turned back.

“Evangeline,” she said, wanting to leave him with something.  “My name is Evangeline Lynch.”

Again, that look like he wasn’t used to exchanging these types of niceties.  But after a pause, he said, “Gabriel.”

And then he was gone, his dark clothes blending into the shadows.

London: Chapter One

   Evangeline tilted her face upwards to feel the rain.  This was what she had come for.  The rain and the hiss of the late night taxis on the roads, the warm glow of lights on St. Stephen’s Tower and the measured gray stateliness of Westminster Abbey.  There were still tourists out, exclaiming over the Abbey, and the noise of chatting travelers coming out of the Underground Station nearby—and ever so faintly and ever so distantly, the sound of the waves left by pleasure cruisers and tour boats lapping against the walls of the Thames.

   London was perfect.  Britain had been perfect.  Ireland too, although she’d found herself missing Scotland as soon as they boarded the ferry to Belfast.  She never wanted to go home, back to school, where she had yet to pick a major, back to her parents who had been distinctly unimpressed by every major she’d picked so far.  They wanted her to be like Nick, her older brother, and pick something practical and civic and preferably with something that had a heroic bent to it.  

   “You coming?” Nick asked, walking back up to her.  They were with a large group, fifty or sixty in fact, and Evangeline knew she couldn’t stand in the rain forever, not matter how much she wanted to.

   She pulled up the lapels of her trench, suddenly cold, and smiled.  “Yeah.  I’m coming.”

   The Tube was less crowded than it had been at rush hour, but their party soon rectified that.  Soon, the swaying car was jammed full of off-duty cops—British and American—on their way from an open bar at New Scotland Yard to a pub near Queen’s Park.  Her brother and the others had traveled to London for some sort of convention for cops of Irish descent, and while some of them brought their wives or girlfriends, Nick—being a good Catholic boy—brought his sister.  Partly to be nice and partly to continue his never-ending quest to get Evangeline to marry one of his friends, even though she had only just turned twenty.  As a bonus, they’d planned a whole tour of the UK and Ireland before the convention, just her and Nick and two of his closest co-workers.

   She needed no excuse to while away her summer break abroad, but the constant flirting of Nick’s two single friends was starting to wear her down and she was a little worried she might end up hooking up with one of them before the trip was through.  Which was theoretically what Nick wanted, but Evangeline had already had two boyfriends who’d seen the business end of Nick’s fists, and she didn’t want to be the cause of that again, not between his friends.

   She tried to keep her distance from Scott and Trent, and instead chatted with some female cops from Minneapolis, who, by the sounds of them, were hoping to score some British law enforcement tail by the end of the night.  Inwardly, she shook her head.  Cops.  Male or female, British or American: they were the same everywhere.

   The pub was crowded and noisy; a football match between Ireland and Germany was on, and Ireland was winning, not that Evangeline could tell, since neither team had scored any points.  She grabbed a pint of Guinness and sat with the lady cops at corner table.

   “That one,” one of the women said, pointing at a tall British cop who was still in uniform.  “I heard someone else say he just separated from his wife.”

   Her friend scoffed.  “You can do better than a rebound hook-up.”

   “What if I want a re-bound hook-up?  My flight leaves in two days, it’s not exactly like I’m wanting a proposal.  Just a little souvenir from London.”

   “Good point.  Damn, there are a lot of cute guys here.  What about that one?”

   “Is he British?  I thought he was from California.”

   Evangeline tuned out the rest of their conversation.  There were a lot of cute guys here, and she was just as susceptible to the British accents as the other ladies, but she also knew Nick would skin any guy alive that touched her that hadn’t been pre-approved by him.  Her lack of activity in the boyfriend department this semester meant that she definitely wouldn’t mind letting off a little steam, but it was all so much work.  The drinking and the flirting and the bra-adjusting in the bathroom mirror.  And then the sloppy making out, and then the awkward small talk about where to go, and since she was traveling, it would have to be her hotel room, which was a long tube ride away, not to mention next to her brother’s hotel room.

   What she wanted, and it made her flush a little to think about it, was something quick with someone she didn’t know.  Something carnal and not pre-planned at all.  No words, no work, and no way her brother could find out.

   She looked over at Trent, who was looking her up and down appreciatively.  She knew she looked good; high heels and a short black dress that she’d chosen because it didn’t wrinkle, that dipped very low in the chest and rode up dangerously high on her thighs when she sat.  She smiled at him and he came over and leaned against the bar, blocking out the Minnesota cops with his broad back.

   “So when are you coming home with me?” he asked, flashing a big smile full of white teeth.  His muscles were thick and prominent under his shirt, and she felt the familiar pang of lust.

   “When are you hiring a bodyguard to protect you from my brother?”

   “Oh come on, now,” he coaxed.  “I’ve got Nick’s blessing.”

   “As long as you marry me and make lots of Catholic babies.”

   He leaned in.  “How about we just get to the babies part and skip the rest?”

   Evangeline finished her pint.  “You’re going to end up with a black eye, talking like that.”

   “It’d be worth it.”

   For a moment, she considered it.  Either Trent or Scott would be happy to take her to her hotel room, strip her down and quell the knot that had settled at the base of her spine this last year.  And they might even hit it off, and keep it going back home.  But it wouldn’t last, she knew it wouldn’t, and she wouldn’t be the reason her brother fought with any of his friends.  Not again.  Never again.

   Trent slid his hand down her bare arm and she knew she had to go, or she was going to let that unsettled knot dictate her night, and undo all her hard work, and there would have been no point denying herself like a saint these past two weeks if it ended in Nick fighting anyway.

   “Good night, Trent,” she said, and left a pound coin on the bar.

   He handed her her coat.  “Good night, Evangeline,” he said.  He was resigned but not offended.  She squeezed his arm and turned away, half wishing things were different and half grateful that they weren’t.

Jane Eyre Fanfic!

This honestly has no purpose, other than I wanted to write it and I'm procrastinating on revising a YA project, which has angst, but alas, no Rochester.

I've always felt like Jane Eyre had a latent feeling of eroticism about it--most Gothic novels do.  You have a young girl, an older man, lots of tension and atmosphere...it sort of comes with the territory.  So I'm definitely guilty of having plenty of JE fantasies in my day (and Rebecca fantasies but I digress.)  But when I first saw the 2011 Jane Eyre with Michael Fassbender, it was like all my fantasies had joined into one giant super-fantasy, not unlike the bigass Power Ranger that the other Power Rangers could morph into, and then that giant super-fantasy was in the throes of Fass-passion (fassion?) the entire film.

But this scene in particular.  Oh my god this scene:

*dies*
*dies again*

I know, I know, I know that the reason that this makes me die, the reason this is so goddamn sexy, the reason that this is one of my favorite scenes in the book is the restraint, the almost-but-not-quite of it.  And when I write my "actual" books, I play with that dynamic constantly, because it's my jam.

But.  This is my happy place and this is also the internet, so screw restraint and also Charlotte Bronte having seven hundred simultaneous heart attacks if she read this (because let's face it, she would have banged Rochester too, if he'd been real, and she also would have banged that guy in Belgium.)

So here you go!