Maelstrom (2 page)

“Yes,” I said, and let him steer me
away.

Whyborne

Griffin led me to the discreet staff door in
the back of the foyer. The air on the other side was far cooler,
and I took a deep breath. “Damn Bradley,” I said. “Thank you for
your rescue.”

“Any time, my dear.” Griffin looked up at
me, but the dim light made it difficult to read his expression. He
moved closer, thighs almost touching mine. “Let’s go to your
office.”

“My office?” I blinked down at him. “I
thought we were going to the washroom to dry my shirt?”

“No,” Griffin murmured. His voice had taken
on a husky edge. “We were getting you away from Bradley before the
little breeze I noticed became a gale. Or you lost patience and
blasted the man with a lightning strike.” Heat laced the smile he
offered me. “He didn’t have the slightest idea what he was playing
with. But I did.”

“L-lightning isn’t easy to call down,” I
stuttered, my heart beating faster in response to his nearness, his
smile.

“We’ll discuss it in your office.” His hand
brushed across the front of my trousers. “Now.”

I hurried to comply. My hands trembled as I
unlocked the door. Moonlight streamed through the high windows,
illuminating the desk and chair. I tried to keep the place more
neatly than my old office in the basement, but my attempts had been
only half-hearted, and there were piles of papers stacked in the
visitor’s chair, on the floor, and over most of the desk.

“If not lightning, then setting him on
fire,” Griffin said. He closed the door behind us. The lock clicked
loudly.

I turned to see him stalking toward me. “Or
slamming him into the wall by manipulating the air,” he went on.
“Or bending the marble around his feet and ankles so he couldn’t
move.”

“Er.” I backed up until my hip met the edge
of my desk. “I hope I wouldn’t do such a thing just because Bradley
said something wretched to me.”

“Of course not.” Griffin stopped inches from
me, staring up but not touching. “And I know you wouldn’t. But I
could see the fire in you. So bright. Trembling. Begging for
release.”

A soft whimper escaped me.

“I’ve been watching you the whole evening,
you know.” He crowded in closer now, trapping me between his body
and the desk. His thigh slipped between mine, pressing and rocking
just right.

The room seemed suddenly as breathless as
the foyer had been. “O-oh?”

He rocked against me harder, sending jolts
of pleasure through my rapidly stiffening member. “Mmm hmm. I
watched you standing there with Mathison and the rest. Dr. Percival
Endicott Whyborne—so aloof. So untouchable.”

My heart beat faster, my skin more heated
than it had been before. “I’m not.”

“You look it, when you feel you’re on
display. Withdrawn and remote as a statue. None of them see what’s
underneath that marble shell. The fire just waiting for the right
moment to erupt into a blaze. Watching you keep it so tamped down
in public, so in control, knowing none of them guess I’d have you
on your knees, begging me to fuck your mouth.”

Lust tightened my throat—and my trousers.
But... “I have to go back out. We do, I mean. They’d see.”

The hard line of his erection pressed
against my own. “Oh yes. You’re right,” he purred in such a way I
knew he hadn’t forgotten for an instant. “We must keep your lips
clean, your hair unmussed. I suppose I’ll just have to fuck your
ass instead.”

I took a deep gulping breath against the
constriction in my throat. “I have oil in my desk. Used to keep
leather scrolls supple.”

He leaned in closer, almost but not quite
kissing me. His breath smelled faintly of champagne. “Then get
it.”

Griffin pulled back, just far enough to let
me turn around and bend over the desk to grapple with one of the
drawers. He took advantage, pressing against my backside in a most
distracting fashion, until I fumbled out the small bottle.

Griffin stripped off his gloves before
taking it. “Don’t move,” he ordered. “Stay bent over.”

I had just enough presence of mind to remove
my own gloves and take out a handkerchief. He shoved me against the
desk, kissed the back of my neck, then reached around to unbutton
my trousers. In short order, he had my suspenders unfastened, and
shoved trousers and drawers alike down. I spared a thought for the
cloth wrinkling, but his hands gripping my hips drove everything
out of my mind but him.

“You look so handsome,” he whispered. The
shadows of the museum seemed to swallow his words, as if taking our
secret into themselves, even as I took him into me. I gasped, the
scars on my right hand pulling as I gripped the desk.

The difference in our height made things
awkward, but did nothing to dissuade him. He groaned, leaning in to
me and lifting his heels off the floor to push further in. In a few
moments, he’d found his rhythm, his breath rough, his fingers
digging into my hips.

I bit my lip to keep from crying out, then
remembered I couldn’t leave a mark anyone would question once I
returned to the gathering. So instead I arched my head back, trying
to keep my moans quiet.

I’d waited to put a hand to myself, afraid
it would be over too soon, but the ache in my cock became too
insistent to ignore. “Yes,” Griffin gasped hoarsely. Our flesh
slapped together, sticky with oil and sweat. “Touch yourself. I
can’t wait to go back out there. Can’t wait to see them all look at
you, so cool and collected, the fire contained once again, and
never guess I’ve just come inside you.”

His words trailed off into a groan, body
stiffening, pushing in as far as he could while he spent himself. A
wave of pleasure shocked through me: his cry, his hands on my hips,
his rough speech, all excited my blood past enduring. My orgasm
rushed through me, and I barely remembered the handkerchief in time
to keep my spend from spilling onto the desk.

I blinked sluggishly, senses reeling. “God,”
I mumbled.

“Not quite, but the confusion is
understandable,” Griffin teased as he pulled free.

I snorted. “That’s the devil you’re thinking
of.”

“I’m wounded.” He smacked me lightly on the
bottom. “Clean up and let’s return to the gathering before anyone
wonders what’s taking so long.”

I unlocked the door with a far steadier
hand. To hell with Bradley. He might snipe and bark, but in the
end, his character was that of a schoolyard bully, easily cowed
when someone of authority chanced by. If nothing else, Dr. Hart
wouldn’t tolerate a scandal. If Bradley attempted to bring one upon
the museum by moving against me, he’d find himself short of a
job.

And, for all his bluster, Bradley wasn’t a
fool. He knew better than to antagonize the museum.

“Oh, hello there, Whyborne,” Christine said
as I stepped out into the hall. “I’d wondered where you’d gotten
off to.”

I jumped, heart pounding. “Oh! Christine. We
were just, um, drying off my shirt.” Which of course I’d not yet
had the chance to do, curse it.

She arched a brow. It was always strange to
see her in an elegant dress; she preferred far more practical
skirts, and wore trousers in the field. “I’m sure you were,” she
said in a tone meant to indicate she knew I was lying to her
face.

“And what are you doing back here?” Griffin
asked. He of course seemed perfectly at ease. “I rather thought
you’d be missed if you left the gathering.”

“Bah!” Christine scowled. “I’ve a bottle of
whiskey in my desk. After listening to everyone stand around, going
on and on about how grateful I should be to the graf for donating
the Daphne de Wisborg Memorial Collection, I needed a real drink.”
She pulled a flask from somewhere in the folds of her gown. “Care
to join me?”

Griffin took it from her and helped himself.
“I’m sorry, Christine. I know this can’t be easy for you.”

Her scowl only deepened. “Daphne tried to
murder us all. I don’t particularly care to memorialize her with
anything.”

“Nitocris had taken her over by then.”

“Don’t coddle me, Griffin, we both know that
isn’t true,” she said. Griffin passed the flask to her, and she
took a long pull before putting it away again. “We should return to
the lion’s den, before we’re missed. And Whyborne, I know it isn’t
your job, but if you could find a way to look at the books, I’d
appreciate it.”

“Mr. Quinn has already suggested it,” I
said.

“Well.” She looked mildly surprised. “The
man has far more sense than I imagined. Still, I’d take it as a
favor if you’d make it something of a priority. We don’t want
someone summoning Nitocris in the middle of Widdershins.”

“Dear heavens, no,” I agreed as we followed
her back out. “We’ve far too many home grown abominations as it
is.”

Whyborne

“Just look at it,” Griffin beamed. “Isn’t it
wonderful.”

“No,” I muttered under my breath.

“What was that, my dear?”

“I said it’s quite wonderful,” I replied.
“Yes.”

The object in question was a new Oldsmobile
Curved Dash motor car. The thing was painted a mixture of black and
shocking crimson, accented with the gleaming steel of the tiller
and axles.

Two very cheerful men had delivered it at
the crack of dawn, having brought it from the rail station. Griffin
sold off some of the stock Father gave him for his birthday to
purchase it, and had anticipated its arrival for weeks now. My own
quiet hopes, that the thing would be lost somewhere in transit, had
apparently been dashed.

“Where are we to keep it?” I asked. At the
moment, it was parked in front of our gate, but surely Griffin
didn’t mean to leave it there, exposed to the elements. I didn’t
think anyone would molest it, if only out of fear I might curse
them, but it was rather blocking the street.

Griffin gave me a slight frown. “We’re
renting Mr. Zanetti’s carriageway and carriage house, since he has
no use for it.” At my blank look, he added, “Mr. Zanetti? Our
next-door neighbor?”

“Oh.” Griffin was the gregarious one, not
I.

He let out a familiar sigh, the one that
meant I’d disappointed him in some respect. “Whyborne, you’ve lived
here almost as long as I have. Four years.”

“Three and a half.”

“And you still don’t know our neighbor’s
name?”

“I know Mrs. Yates,” I said, naming the
elderly lady across the street.

“Because she looks after Saul when we’re
gone.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Besides, don’t you
remember me mentioning this? I specifically said our budget could
afford the monthly fee he’s asking, and you agreed.”

“Erm...” It wasn’t that I didn’t listen to
Griffin. I did. But he’d always been quite happy to handle the
finances of our shared home, and I’d been equally happy to let him.
“The red color is very modern. I think all the other motor cars in
Widdershins are black.”

Thankfully he let himself be distracted. “It
is, isn’t it?” A pleased smile crossed his face, lightening his
green eyes. “Well, then. Get in.”

I blinked. “Get in?”

“Of course!” He handed me a pair of dust
goggles, before donning his own. “I’m going to drive you to the
museum.”

I stared suspiciously at the conveyance. I’d
ridden in Father’s motor car a few times, but it was three years
older and rather slower and more sedate, at least judging by what
I’d seen through the curtains when this one was delivered earlier.
“Do you even know how to manage it?” I asked.

“One of the fellows who delivered it showed
me, while you hid inside with breakfast,” Griffin replied. “We took
it up and down the neighborhood. Now climb up.”

Having no other choice, I picked up my
Gladstone bag and clambered in beside him. He cranked the engine,
and within moments it chugged loudly to life.

I’d barely settled the goggles on my face
before we were off. Griffin gleefully steered the contraption down
the street at a speed I found to be far in excess of safety,
honking the brass and rubber horn, and letting go of the tiller to
wave enthusiastically to gaping pedestrians.

Oh God. He was going to kill us both.

Water Street grew more crowded as we moved
out of the residential neighborhood and into one lined with shops
and businesses. Griffin dodged a trolley, shouted an apology at the
cab driver whose horse he spooked, and hastily swerved yet again to
avoid an elderly man making his way across the street. I clutched
my Gladstone in one hand, my hat in the other, and closed my eyes
so as not to see whatever object inevitably spelled our doom.

The motorcar’s abrupt halt jolted them open
once again. Somehow, we’d survived long enough to reach the marble
steps leading up to the museum’s grand front entrance.

“There now, that was much better than taking
the trolley, wasn’t it?” Griffin asked. His face was flushed, his
hair tousled by the wind where it stuck out past his flat cap. “I’m
sorry I won’t be able to come by for you this evening, but I have a
client and I’m not certain of my schedule.”

“That’s quite all right,” I assured him, as
I scrambled out.

“Oh look—there’s Christine and Iskander.”
Griffin honked the annoying horn yet again. “Christine!
Iskander!”

Everyone on the sidewalk and steps had
stopped to stare. I felt the tips of my ears going hot, and
wondered if anyone would believe I’d simply happened by and had no
connection whatsoever to the madman in the motor car. Probably
not.

Christine and Iskander hurried back down the
steps. Iskander generally walked to the museum with Christine in
the mornings, even if he had no particular business there that day.
His modest income from his lands back in England kept any money
woes at bay, so long as he watched his budget. Still, I knew he yet
hoped for a permanent position at the Ladysmith.