Free Unfinished (Historical Fiction) by Harper Alibeck

bedroom, his hands roaming down her back, embracing her and bringing her in to him, hips pressing against him as she stood on tip-toe.
    Somehow they found their way to the bed, her mouth matching his with passion, her hands roaming through his hair, their short breaths the only sound as the moon watched from afar. “Come here,” she said in her signature sultry tone, the voice matching her taste. He kissed her, his hands burying in her soft, curly hair. Soon naked before each other, they pulled back and he saw her teasing smile, realized that what he wanted was, for once, to have all the control.
    He was a live, bulging wire. He wanted to make love to this woman who was giving him so much pleasure, who had given herself to him earlier and who now tweaked and perfected his arousal with such mastery. What he wanted, more than anything, was to make her match how she was making him feel right now.
    He felt large and lumbering over her frame, his hands covering the terrain of her soft flesh with roaming fingers and an eager tongue. One hand floated down her breastbone, over her navel, and found her warm and wanting as he slipped one finger in. He could feel her wall of muscle tightening against his finger as his tongue wandered lazily down past the ribs under her breasts, across her navel, over one hip. He explored her, teasing through soft curls to find her swollen and ready.
    Every woman had a distinct taste, and she tasted like a deep, musky wine with a hint of cinnamon. He wanted to be in her, could feel the blood rushing to make him turgid and ready as he fought back a rush of urgency.
    She spread her legs and he used his tongue and finger with the mastery that came from knowing a woman's body well; so many lovers before her had given him an education no formal institution could provide. Soon he felt the familiar clench as she seized with ecstasy and then something more, a new sensation he'd never experienced with any woman, a rush of fluid from her, a sweet liquid that spotted her sheets with plate-sized circles. Her nipple was rock hard under his fingers and the taste of her fluid filled his mouth. The sudden warmth and wet enveloping him so swiftly and abruptly that he nearly came himself that second.
    Not like this, though; he didn't want to come like this. He wanted to be in her, but he couldn't control himself for much longer.

    Lilith sat upright and nearly died from humiliation, forcing James to pull back and shoot her a perplexed look.
    “What was that? Did I? Oh, my God!” Hands flew to her face, covering it to spare her the embarrassment of having James look at her.
    She had urinated during sex. How horrid. Whispers about such incontinence were common among her mother's friends; she'd heard them discussing the need for pessaries after a fifth child, or how to fold a cloth napkin discreetly to catch small indiscretions of the bladder. But Lilith had an unstressed uterus and, until her trip to McLean seven years ago, had not had an accident since she was a wee child being trained by her nanny long before memory.
    In her brief interlude with Jack Reed she'd done no such thing. What a monstrosity. She couldn't even succeed at the most basic, instinctual act of all mammals. Her father was right: she was a complete fraud as a woman. The wetting incidents had been confined to night time, a once-a-month affliction that brought the sweet-scented fluid, the spot of shame so great that it transferred from her sheets to her soul. Passion and frustration seemed to bring them out after fitful dreams that lured her in but never remained in her memory when she awoke, chilled by a sticky release and contentment that quickly turned to horror when she wiped sleep from her eyes and found evidence of the night's reveries.
    If she'd been a man, she'd have understood the affliction. But in a woman, this was physical madness, undocumented in any physiology book she'd examined at Wellesley. Her father was right: she should have been a