Read Online A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest by Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi - Free Book Online
Authors: Mari AKA Marianne Mancusi
Tags: Romance, Contemporary Romance, Love Story, medieval romance, Medieval England, time travel romance, Medieval Britain
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a bit squeamish if not running-screaming-from-the-tent-all-together-ish were I to suddenly attempt to molest him.
Still, he does smell good. Musky. Smoky. Of the earth, yet with a hint of sky. Eau du Outlaw. Not something they'd stock at Neiman's, but it's certainly turning me on. He stretches his arms above his head and his tunic tightens across his chest. I steeple my fingers to restrain myself from reaching out and touching someone. Him. I imagine tearing off his tunic, tracing his six-pack abs with eager fingers. Pushing him down onto the furs. Feeling him. Tasting him. Having him. His body growing hard as his desire for me builds. Rubbing against that hardness, rejoicing in the effect I'm having on him, until he can take no more. Then he’ll push me roughly onto my back and tear off my clothes just enough so he can slide himself inside of me. So he can take me as I've never been taken before.
Robin clears his throat, breaking through the thick walls of my ridiculous fantasy. I shake my head in disgust. What am I doing, going on about this guy? Sexually frustrated much, Chris? After all, I'm not even technically divorced yet. Not that Danny waited for such technicalities. Heck, he didn't even wait for the honeymoon credit card bills to be paid off. (Yes, we were married seven years, but paying the minimum each month doesn't exactly bring down your balance.) Still, I'm certainly not ready for a new relationship. I should be healing. Learning to live on my own, not going and jumping the first sexy legendary outlaw that crosses my path. Even were this guy Ryan Gosling himself, I'd do best to stay clear. (Hey girl, I want to be your merry man…)
Then again, there is that whole theory of rebound relationships. Maybe a romp in the forest with someone who lived and died eight hundred years before me could be just what the doctor ordered. After all, it's not like he could go all Fatal Attraction on me once I went back to the 21st century.
But it seems it's not meant to be. At least not tonight. Because, before I can say anything or do anything that I'd probably end up regretting, catcalls from the merry men suddenly erupt outside. Cheering, jeering, an all-around ruckus really. Loud as Red Sox fans after a game, and I half expect a "Yankees Suck!" chant to fly through the night. Robin's face lights up and he grabs me by the hand, pulling me to my feet.
"Something's afoot," he says gleefully, his somber spell broken. He's funny that way—his moods change from one to the other with hardly any warning. "Shall we see what it could be?"
I crawl out from under the blankets and scramble to my feet, following him through the tent curtains (no, I do not steal another glance at his butt, really!) into the outside air. It's gotten quite cold now that the sun has gone down, and I wrap my arms around my body in a feeble attempt to gamer some warmth. It had been summer back in New York; it's cold enough to be late autumn here. And there's no central heating in Sherwood Forest. Just like when my mother "forgot" to pay the gas bill for six months straight and they turned off our heat. I remember the ice crystals forming on the inside of the windows of our tiny Hoboken apartment, my little brother and I crawling under piles of ratty blankets, desperate to get warm. It wasn't long after that the DSS showed up. But once I got to my warm foster home, I realized I hadn't minded the cold that much.
The cooking fire's been built up to blazing proportions, reminding me of Woodstock 1999, where festival-goers gleefully burned down the Rome, New York, concert grounds during the Red Hot Chili Peppers set. However, this fire, while just as raging, thankfully seems under control. A good thing, too, since we can't exactly call 911 were it to suddenly start burning down the camp. Sure, I could then rightfully teach Alan a Dale the "Roof is on Fire" song, but I'm thinking the "burn motherfucker burn" lyrics might just blow my cover as a choirboy.
The
Still, he does smell good. Musky. Smoky. Of the earth, yet with a hint of sky. Eau du Outlaw. Not something they'd stock at Neiman's, but it's certainly turning me on. He stretches his arms above his head and his tunic tightens across his chest. I steeple my fingers to restrain myself from reaching out and touching someone. Him. I imagine tearing off his tunic, tracing his six-pack abs with eager fingers. Pushing him down onto the furs. Feeling him. Tasting him. Having him. His body growing hard as his desire for me builds. Rubbing against that hardness, rejoicing in the effect I'm having on him, until he can take no more. Then he’ll push me roughly onto my back and tear off my clothes just enough so he can slide himself inside of me. So he can take me as I've never been taken before.
Robin clears his throat, breaking through the thick walls of my ridiculous fantasy. I shake my head in disgust. What am I doing, going on about this guy? Sexually frustrated much, Chris? After all, I'm not even technically divorced yet. Not that Danny waited for such technicalities. Heck, he didn't even wait for the honeymoon credit card bills to be paid off. (Yes, we were married seven years, but paying the minimum each month doesn't exactly bring down your balance.) Still, I'm certainly not ready for a new relationship. I should be healing. Learning to live on my own, not going and jumping the first sexy legendary outlaw that crosses my path. Even were this guy Ryan Gosling himself, I'd do best to stay clear. (Hey girl, I want to be your merry man…)
Then again, there is that whole theory of rebound relationships. Maybe a romp in the forest with someone who lived and died eight hundred years before me could be just what the doctor ordered. After all, it's not like he could go all Fatal Attraction on me once I went back to the 21st century.
But it seems it's not meant to be. At least not tonight. Because, before I can say anything or do anything that I'd probably end up regretting, catcalls from the merry men suddenly erupt outside. Cheering, jeering, an all-around ruckus really. Loud as Red Sox fans after a game, and I half expect a "Yankees Suck!" chant to fly through the night. Robin's face lights up and he grabs me by the hand, pulling me to my feet.
"Something's afoot," he says gleefully, his somber spell broken. He's funny that way—his moods change from one to the other with hardly any warning. "Shall we see what it could be?"
I crawl out from under the blankets and scramble to my feet, following him through the tent curtains (no, I do not steal another glance at his butt, really!) into the outside air. It's gotten quite cold now that the sun has gone down, and I wrap my arms around my body in a feeble attempt to gamer some warmth. It had been summer back in New York; it's cold enough to be late autumn here. And there's no central heating in Sherwood Forest. Just like when my mother "forgot" to pay the gas bill for six months straight and they turned off our heat. I remember the ice crystals forming on the inside of the windows of our tiny Hoboken apartment, my little brother and I crawling under piles of ratty blankets, desperate to get warm. It wasn't long after that the DSS showed up. But once I got to my warm foster home, I realized I hadn't minded the cold that much.
The cooking fire's been built up to blazing proportions, reminding me of Woodstock 1999, where festival-goers gleefully burned down the Rome, New York, concert grounds during the Red Hot Chili Peppers set. However, this fire, while just as raging, thankfully seems under control. A good thing, too, since we can't exactly call 911 were it to suddenly start burning down the camp. Sure, I could then rightfully teach Alan a Dale the "Roof is on Fire" song, but I'm thinking the "burn motherfucker burn" lyrics might just blow my cover as a choirboy.
The
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