Free The Escapement of Blackledge: a novella by Mary Robinette Kowal

the buttons on her trousers, his shirt gaping farther open with each rapid inhalation. As her own breeches loosened, Helena pushed the robe from his shoulders. He let it drop to the ground and fairly tore his shirt off over his head.
    Helena slid out of her breeches and faced him clad only in her stockings. With his hands caught in the waistband of his breeches, he stared and his attention was clearly engrossed. Stretching her arms over her head, Helena lowered her gaze as she slid into one of the simpler poses from the show, which was designed to be both demure and seductive at the same time.
    Weatherby’s breeches hit the floor.
    Helena brought her hands down to run them down the length of his bare torso. He was lean, as if he often forgot to take meals, and his work with automatons had left him finely muscled with truly magnificent arms. Those arms hung at his sides, fingers flexing. Helena leaned into him, warming herself against his fever-hot skin. She rose on her toes, sliding against him, and kissed his neck. He trembled. Tilting her head back, she found his earlobe and took it between her teeth.
    Groaning, he gripped her waist and lowered his head to find her lips. He tasted of salt and lingering brandy. Helena pulled his hips against hers. Keeping him trapped against her, Helena forced him back until his buttocks rested against the edge of the library table. She whispered against his lips, “Pendulum rod.”
    His hips bucked forward. She slid her free hand between them to grip his arbor vitae. Running her hand up the length of his shaft, she gave a gentle twist.
    “God.” Weatherby rested his forehead against hers, his breath ragged. “I might faint.”
    “Not yet.” Wrapping an arm around his neck, Helena drew one leg up to rest her foot on the table behind him. As if she were climbing a wall, she lifted herself up so his lips were between her breasts. The heat of his breath sent waves of yearning through her. She brought her other leg up to grip him between her thighs and then lowered herself, guiding the length of him into her.
    Weatherby’s head flew back, his spine arching. She leaned forward with his motion, following him down until he lay on the table, pinned beneath her. Between her legs, he quivered and bucked. Helena rode each piston thrust, as Weatherby called out to the Heavens.
    With only his head and buttocks touching the table, he gave a final surge and collapsed back onto the table.
    It was over too soon, which was unsurprising, but a delicious ache filled the space they shared within Helena and her muscles tightened with longing. Weatherby twitched beneath her, grunting. Sweat slicked his skin as she ran her hands over his chest, drawing circles.
    “That…” He wiped his hand down his face. “You… God.”
    “I think the usual term is Goddess.” She leaned down and kissed his neck.
    “Goddess.” Weatherby ran his hands up her thighs and found the place where they joined.
    The pleasure kicked Helena’s hips back and she closed her eyes. “Mm.”
    “Am I…” His thumb found a delightful spot. Weatherby cleared his throat. “Did my escapement fail?”
    Helena threw back her head and laughed. She bent forward, smiling at him, and kissed the frown line between his brows. “It only needed priming. Now… think of a gear train with large, deep cogs and let us see what we can do about our rotational frequency.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    Sly Dog
     
    As Helena slid down the drainpipe outside her apartment, the morning sun reflected off the windows and turned the dirt-streaked glass into a confection of pink and gold. She slipped over the sill with the still pleasant ache between her thighs.
    “Oh, thank God.” Mama Agnes stood up from the chair, hand pressed against her bosom. “Where the devil have you been!”
    “I was…” Helena took a step back. “You knew I’d gone to the Corke party.”
    “Last night! It’s going on eight in the morning and we