Despite her age, Marjorie Whitcomb is resigned to spinsterhood. One disastrous marriage has convinced her that the kind of man she wants does not exist. He is simply a figment of her imagination... and her fantasies.
Colton Mitchell has had Margie in his peripheral vision for two years. He always considered her 'quirky', with her vintage clothes and quiet manner. He never saw the real woman until he had to drive her home one night. From her vintage turquoise kitchen to her garter belt and stockings, he then realizes that she is a young woman with very old-fashioned ideas about love and marriage. And that's the very moment in which he decides that she isn't quirky, she is perfect!
But how close is Colton to Marjorie's idea of the perfect man?
He shouldn't have been surprised, yet he was by the absolute perfection of the area. Overstuffed furniture dominated the room. The dark wood accent pieces were polished to a high shine; crocheted doilies were placed on the arms of the furniture as well as under anything that could possibly scratch the surface of the antique pieces. There was a lovely bar set on a silver tray, complete with ice bucket and highball glasses. Several decanters of liquor with which to offer guests a choice of beverage were clustered on another tray. Photographs in ornate silver frames were scattered about the room and he watched fascinated as Marjorie dropped gracefully to her knees in front of the fireplace and quickly started a fire.
"I would have done that," he offered gently when he found his voice.
"I'm used to it," she replied rising. "Would you still like coffee, or something stronger?" she asked, looking at her toes.
Colton considered for but a moment before answering.
"Coffee if that's not too much trouble," he replied. A cocktail could be made much too quickly.
"Not at all, I'll just be a few minutes."
"May I come with you? I'd like to see more of this remarkable house."
Margie paused as though considering and then shrugged her shoulders before motioning for him to follow her. He wasn't disappointed. They passed through a lovely dining room and he absorbed as many details as he could. It was purely Victorian, the china closet fair to bursting with china, teapots and silver accessories. A richly colored oriental carpet covered the center of a gleaming hardwood floor and the table and chairs were heavy mahogany. A huge etched mirror hovered over the sideboard reflecting the soft lights of the chandelier she switched on as they passed through.
It was the kitchen that had his mouth dropping open. Several generations ahead of the rest of the furnishings, it was straight out of the 1950s and top of the line.
Large black and white tiles in a checkerboard pattern made up the floor. All the appliances were turquoise, even the sink. The dining set was chrome with turquoise and white leather seats.
"Have a seat, Mr. Mitchell," she suggested as she washed her hands at the sink and dried them with a white towel that hung from a three pronged rack. "This will take a bit."
Colton sat and watched as she pulled a vintage turquoise stool away from a corner of the kitchen and lifted the steps out. Before he could rise, she was standing on the seat and reaching into a cupboard over the refrigerator. Raising her arms high also made her dress creep up and he could see the lace edging on her black slip. On her tiptoes now, she reached for a stainless steel percolator and he smiled. This would take a while, he thought, delighted. He hadn't seen one of those since he was a child visiting his grandparents.
A split second later she teetered, and he lunged from his chair, grasping her around her hips. His hands hiked her dress higher and with her above him he could clearly see the tops of her stockings, lacy garters, and the sweet white curves of her inner thighs. Dry mouthed, he helped her down, his hands shaking as he tried to convince himself it had been an accident.
"I would have gotten that down for you," he scolded, not sure if he was angry at her or himself.
"I'm fine now," she squeaked out. "It was silly of me. Please sit."
Colton obeyed, watching as she filled the pot with cold water, scooped coffee into the steel basket and seated it in the pot before plugging it in. Efficiently, she moved around the kitchen, getting out cups and saucers, a sugar bowl, matching creamer and teaspoons. She placed a cloth napkin beside each of their places and a plate of cheese and crackers in the middle of the table.
"I'm hungry," she admitted as she nibbled on a cracker.
"Me too," he grinned as he helped himself.
Conversation lagged as they each watched the lightly colored brew begin to bubble up into the clear glass top of the pot. She evaded his personal questions but seemed willing to discuss the house. It had been left to her by her Aunt and Uncle whom she'd lived with since the loss of her husband, caring for them right up until the end. Questions about her marriage were deflected but she agreed with him that it was a fabulous house. She adored anything from the Victorian Era and was fascinated by the fifties, remarking that it seemed a much simpler time during which the roles of men and women were clearly defined.
"Would you have liked to live back then?" he asked her smoothly when the color of the coffee suited her and she unplugged the pot.
"I think I would," she replied, not turning to look at him. "This will have to sit a few minutes or it will be full of grounds," she explained as she busied herself at the sink.
"I'm in no hurry," he replied.
Finally, she brought the pot to the table, setting it on a hot pad. Carefully, she poured each of them a cup before sitting down again.
"Miss Whitcomb," he remarked after taking a sip, "this is delicious, but it occurs to me you've forgotten to call the garage about your car."
"Oh damn," she cried, setting her cup down with a clatter and scurrying across the kitchen to the rotary telephone hanging on the wall. Flipping up the calendar she located and dialed a number and waited, nibbling her nail. After several minutes she hung up.
"They're closed," she sighed as she returned to her chair.
"I imagine so, it's after seven," Colton replied. Taking another sip, he hid a grin and continued. "You know, Miss Whitcomb, were we really living in the fifties, a man might spank his woman for uttering such language and forgetting something as important as having her car serviced. Not to mention climbing on that stool and risking injury," he finished calmly.
Watching her carefully, he took note of the way her wide blue eyes flew to his face in shock. The hand holding her cup began to tremble and she used both hands to carefully set it back on its saucer, but not before spilling a significant amount. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were open as though she wanted to say something but couldn't. Gently, he reached across the table and with a finger under her chin, closed her mouth.
"There would have been no point in arguing. As you suggested, roles were clearly defined in those days. Yes, I would have been justified in taking your hand, guiding you over my knees and lifting your skirts. If you were very naughty, I would have pulled down your panties and painted your bottom a charming shade of red. Depending on the serious nature of your offenses, I may have had you stand in a corner, holding up your dress and displaying your red cheeks for my pleasure. What have you to say about that, Miss Whitcomb? Still have an affinity for the fifties?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.
A Timeless Woman is now available on:
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Note: I previously posted that the title of this book would be, His Little Margie. The title was change when we realized the title implied the book might be an age-play novel, which it is not. Sorry for any confusion.
Professor Ian MacDermot is pleased when a beautiful young woman is turned over to him for individual instruction by the Dean of a private school for girls. His task, to teach her to be a dutiful wife.
The fiercely independent-thinking Sarah MacDonald is having none of it. She vowed never to marry and become a 'sex slave' to any man, but Ian MacDermot is not just any man. Confined to his quarters over the carriage house, Sarah is haunted by a dark experience from her past and confused by her feelings for Ian.
When Ian reads the instructions written by the Dean of the school, detailing exactly what he is expected to do to train her, he and Sarah develop a passion for one another and embark on an impossible mission to bring the Dean to justice. They know they may not succeed but time will tell...and timing is everything.
Set in Scotland in 1912, On Loving A Woman is filled with romance and suspense that will keep you turning the pages.
Sarah, this could all be so simple. All ye have to do is read the material I gave ye and answer the questions correctly. You’ll pass the class and graduate with your class in June. I know how ye feel about marriage but this is information ye need to know. And I might add we are the only school that teaches this class and ye will no find this information presented in such an acceptable and courteous manner. Many young women learn these facts from men on the streets—quite unsavory characters at best. If ye are lucky enough to marry a man without having learned of your duties, he will likely turn ye over to woman who will teach you. I’m hesitant to speak of the degradation that comes with that sort of instruction.”
“And do you believe, Professor, there is no degradation here? If so, you are highly mistaken.”
“Lassie, I am no aware of any degradation taking place here,” he replied. “I have been polite and courteous and I understand the sensitive nature of these questions. I might add, Sarah, these are no my questions. This course was designed by the Dean. Do ye think this is easy for me?”
“With all due respect, you are blind. I’ll repeat again, I do not need to know about wifely duties,” Sarah ground out.
Nearing the end of his patience, Professor MacDermot removed a test paper from her file. “Earlier ye stated that ye knew the answers I expect ye to give. Let’s try this test orally and we will see. If it will help ye, I will turn my back.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she snapped.
“Shall we begin?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Sure, why not? If I answer correctly, may I leave?”
“Of course,” he replied and began to read the questions. “How often shall a wife submit to her husband’s request for intercourse?”
“Whenever he wishes her to submit,” Sarah answered without hesitancy. “However, if she is ill or menstruating, she may ask to be excused.”
“Very good,” he continued. “How shall a wife relieve her husband if he is aroused but not interested in intercourse?”
Sarah squirmed in her chair. “She shall relieve him as he wishes. She may use her hands, her mouth, or allow him to release between her breasts.”
“Excellent!” He was pleased to see that she did, in fact, know the material. “Now, Sarah, how shall a wife relieve her husband using her hands?”
“She shall ask her husband how he wants her to stroke his member. She shall wrap her hands around his member and stroke him up and down as he dictates until he releases.” Peeking up through her long dark lashes, she studied his face. He seemed very pleased and she wondered how he would ask her to stroke him.
“Ye know all the answers; there was really no reason for ye to fail this test,” he smiled. “Now, in more detail, explain how a wife shall relieve her husband using her mouth?” God, he thought, they should not have a class asking young women to explain such things. If he was honest with himself, he found it unnecessary.
Gross, she thought as she shivered. She didn’t want him to be too pleased as that might be the end of private instruction, which in spite of rumors, appeared to be going better than she feared.
“Well,” she paused, “she shall ask her husband if he would prefer to recline on the bed or perhaps the sofa. She shall kneel beside him, between his legs, or kneel before him if he has chosen a sitting position. She shall take note as to the state of his member and if he is flaccid, she shall use her hands first until he is erect. Then, when he is fully erect and relaxed, when he is not looking, she shall put a handful of sharp upholstery tacks into her mouth and…”
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Mac isn't surprised at Annie's reaction when he tells her he doesn't want to consummate
their marriage yet. He expected it, but he has plans to wait until they arrive at the MacDermot Castle. His cousins, Kade and Aidan, have the honeymoon suite ready for them.
But, plans often go awry. The MacDermot keep has been haunted for years and when Annie
goes missing Mac fears he may never see her alive again.
Annie's screams for Mac's help go unanswered. She has no other choice than to follow the
strange man's voice as he leads her down a dark secret passageway. He claims to need her help to keep a promise he made years ago. Will Annie survive to deliver the message this
seemingly kind voice wants his descendants to hear?
Annie finished washing her hair and stepped out of the shower. She decided to forego the blow dryer and most of her makeup as they were planning to lounge around the bed and breakfast today. Wrapped in her towel, she stood and took in the room. It was so wonderful to be here; she walked about, her hands tracing the stone walls as though she wanted to absorb everything and take it home with her. Dropping her towel to the floor, she pressed her back against the cool wall.
Soak in this place, the school, and the carriage house; it will be a long time before ye are here again. Take in everythin’. Find and remember my words.
It wasn’t quite an audible voice but as clear in her mind as though it had been and a chill came over her. She walked to the fire long grown cold. What was going on? Why would she have such a thought—one that didn’t make sense. What school and carriage house? Stepping up on the hearth, she studied the pictures of Mac’s ancestors, brave warriors all. One in particular drew her in, a picture of a handsome man in a kilt, his lovely bride standing beside him. She was beautiful and the MacDermot beside her could have been Mac’s twin. Slowly turning the frame over she read the names on the back—Ian and Sarah MacDermot.
Find and remember my words. Ye must do this or I’ll no be set free.
While spoken in a near whisper, this time the voice was clear as day. She heard him and she had to tell Mac his beloved keep was haunted. He probably wouldn’t believe her but she knew what she heard.
“What words do I need to find? How will I remember them?” Annie asked aloud in wonder, never expecting an answer.
I will lead ye. I will no harm ye. Ye must no be afraid.
A long shiver went down her spine; this was getting scary. Running quickly around the foot of the bed, she was planning to get her jeans and sweater from the wardrobe and get to the kitchen. She didn’t know Mac wasn’t wearing his boots until they tipped over directly in front of her. She tripped over them and went sailing toward the wall. As in an out of body experience, suddenly she could see herself in slow motion, raising her hands to cushion the blow to her face she saw coming before it happened. She was moving, the wall was turning and she was turning with it. As her naked body slid down the jagged rock, the last thing she remembered was the sunlight fading into total darkness.
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Hi, I'm Stevie MacFarlane and I write sweet erotic romance and D/D, occasionally with a touch of kink.