Free Bound in Moonlight by Louisa Burton

mold, he and old Walt. How do you know Hickley, anyway?”
    â€œHe's asked me to marry him.”
    Inigo winced, no doubt recalling his revelation about Hickley's mistress.
    â€œI'm not going to,” I said.
    He turned that smile on. “Oh, I do love brainy women.”
    Slumping down, I said, “I'm going to end up a brainy old maid. I'm beginning to wonder if I wouldn't have been better off being dumb and beautiful.”
    â€œBut you
are
beautiful.”
    I shook my head. “If I had a figure, perhaps, and paler skin, thicker hair . . .”
    â€œThe current vogue is for big, soft, pigeon-breasted females, but it won't last. It never does.” He launched into an amusing but surprisingly learned discourse on the various trends in female beauty in different eras and cultures. It was the first time I'd been introduced to that concept.
    I said, “That's all very fascinating, but unfortunately for me, I'm living in the Western world at the turn of the twentieth century, and every man I meet thinks I'm skinny and plain.”
    Moving a little closer to me, Inigo said, “I think you're beautiful.”
    â€œYou just feel sorry for me.”
    â€œIf I felt sorry for you, would I be dying to kiss you?”
    â€œYou don't want to kiss me.”
    About a second later, I was in his arms, getting the kiss to end all kisses. His mouth was so amazingly warm, and he really knew what he was doing with his lips and tongue (just a little tongue, a soft lick along the inner part of my upper lip, not enough to scare me, just enough to stop my heart). I don't know how long it went on, but before it was over, I heard a pounding in my ears, and I swear to God the room was spinning. I know I ended up lying on the couch with him half on top of me and no recollection as to how we ended up that way.
    â€œCan I touch you?” he asked, a little breathlessly.
    â€œWhere?”
    That melting smile. “It would take less time to list the places I
don't
want to touch you.”
    I returned the smile. “Where
don't
you want to touch me?”
    â€œNowhere.”
    I chuckled, biting my lip. Through my sensible skirt and petticoat, I could feel his erection pressing against my thigh. It felt like an oak branch. This was all happening so fast, and I wasn't at all sure I was ready for it.
    â€œI've been thinking about making love to you ever since I first saw you,” he murmured, moving against me in a frankly sexual way as he gathered up my skirt. “In my mind, I've had you standing, sitting, from behind, bent over the—”
    â€œI'm a virgin.”
    He stopped moving. “Hmm.”
    â€œYou're disappointed.”
    â€œNo.” He braced himself on his elbows to look at me. “Yes.”
    â€œBecause what you'd hoped would be a nice, quick, friendly fuck”—the first time I ever used that word— “has suddenly gotten all complicated and—”
    â€œI like sex when it's complicated,” he said. “I like it when it's simple. I like it when it's sweet, I like it when it's dirty, I like it fast, I like it slow . . . What I don't like is when the woman I'm making love to weeps with pain, and if your first time was with me . . .” He shook his head.
    â€œIsn't it
always
painful?”
    He flipped open his trouser buttons and withdrew a good eleven or twelve inches of thick, hard cock.
    I stared at it. My sexual inexperience notwithstanding, I knew I was in the presence of something exquisitely abnormal. Looking back, even the veins snaking beneath the surface of the shiny, taut skin were unusually fat. The head itself was like a peach, but with a damp little slit at the top. I shrank back from it even as I ached to touch it.
    Sitting up to re-button his trousers, he said, “I haven't taken a virginity in . . . Well, let's just say you wouldn't believe how long it's been. I gravitate toward experienced women. I'm less likely to hurt them, and