Read Online Unfinished (Historical Fiction) by Harper Alibeck - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Harper Alibeck
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have feelings deeper than the blood that would fill him enough to take what he wanted? She fought to be a modern woman, to claim that women could have what men had, yet here she struggled with very dainty feelings that threatened to reduce her to the sort of muddle-headed frivolity that she despised.
In the heat of her fury, her wanton reckless abandon, she composed a note and quickly handed it to a courier.
Dear Mr. Hillman,
My direct answer: yes.
And now, my direct question: are you mapping a path through Beacon Hill that will be marked by sexual encounters with women of increasing net worth? And if so, to what purpose? I assure you that John Stone has no interest in any man who considers his daughter's vagina a conduit for investment.
Sincerely,
Miss Stone
Bribing his way into John Stone's five-story Beacon Hill mansion had not been easy, but he knew too many people who knew a cousin who worked on Beacon Hill who knew a servant in the Stone family home for it to be impossible. A promise to help a friend's aunt's daughter's husband with an application for a clerk's position with his law firm was enough to get back door entry. Access was the grease that lubricated where money could not.
Here he stood, skulking about the servants' stairwell, squeezing into passages that threatened to cut off the blood supply to his arms. It was Thursday night, and he stood outside her door and tried to find a way to ask her if he could come inside and talk to her. He'd read the final letter and realized that this was what she did. She used a bitter, caustic sarcasm and wit to express her anger, then she'd cool down later. Right now he was as concerned with talking to her as he was with controlling his raging arousal. The angrier she got the more it excited him, and he wanted to strip off her clothes and take her right there on the hallway floor.
Moonlight poured into the hall through a warbled window, the light rippling and distorted, showcasing the glassmaker's imperfections. He looked outside and up, noting the cloudless sky. Stars appeared so close and their light diminished in comparison to the smiling moon.
Rap, rap rap . Thick knuckles made muffled sounds on the heavy oak door. Padded footsteps made their way and he felt the doorknob slide counter-clockwise in his hand. He held loosely, hoping to keep her quiet and calm lest he be revealed and subject him – and her – to the inevitable scandal that his discovery would provoke.
“James!” she hissed, surprise blasting from those glittering eyes, proper shock emanating from her pores. She stood straighter and leaned into his chest, looking up. “What on earth do you think you're doing here?”
Wisps of light cotton floated under a thick flannel gown lined with silk. So this is what that beautiful body looked like in simple form. She wore no undergarments and the hallway chill tightened her nipples enough so that he could see them, practically feel their texture in his mouth, a nub that –
Stronger than she looked, the force of her hand clenching his upper arm pulled him into her bedroom. She shut the door slowly, softly, behind her, then stood before him and crossed her arms over those arched nipples that possessed him.
“Are you mad? Breaking into my father's home?”
“You once asked whether I have a healthy fear of billionaire fathers,” he began.
She smirked and tipped her head to the left, like a wife evaluating her husband after a night out drinking with work friends. Her hair was mussed and the overall effect of her nightdress, the bed behind her, and his mad dash up the stairs as an intruder made him cross the simple feet between them and grasp her shoulders.
“My answer is 'no.'” And with that he leaned in and kissed her, pinning her arms to her chest for a few seconds before she wiggled and slid them around his waist, his hand cupping her jaw and bringing her lips to his. They were breaking so many rules in one embrace, here in her father's home, in her
In the heat of her fury, her wanton reckless abandon, she composed a note and quickly handed it to a courier.
Dear Mr. Hillman,
My direct answer: yes.
And now, my direct question: are you mapping a path through Beacon Hill that will be marked by sexual encounters with women of increasing net worth? And if so, to what purpose? I assure you that John Stone has no interest in any man who considers his daughter's vagina a conduit for investment.
Sincerely,
Miss Stone
Bribing his way into John Stone's five-story Beacon Hill mansion had not been easy, but he knew too many people who knew a cousin who worked on Beacon Hill who knew a servant in the Stone family home for it to be impossible. A promise to help a friend's aunt's daughter's husband with an application for a clerk's position with his law firm was enough to get back door entry. Access was the grease that lubricated where money could not.
Here he stood, skulking about the servants' stairwell, squeezing into passages that threatened to cut off the blood supply to his arms. It was Thursday night, and he stood outside her door and tried to find a way to ask her if he could come inside and talk to her. He'd read the final letter and realized that this was what she did. She used a bitter, caustic sarcasm and wit to express her anger, then she'd cool down later. Right now he was as concerned with talking to her as he was with controlling his raging arousal. The angrier she got the more it excited him, and he wanted to strip off her clothes and take her right there on the hallway floor.
Moonlight poured into the hall through a warbled window, the light rippling and distorted, showcasing the glassmaker's imperfections. He looked outside and up, noting the cloudless sky. Stars appeared so close and their light diminished in comparison to the smiling moon.
Rap, rap rap . Thick knuckles made muffled sounds on the heavy oak door. Padded footsteps made their way and he felt the doorknob slide counter-clockwise in his hand. He held loosely, hoping to keep her quiet and calm lest he be revealed and subject him – and her – to the inevitable scandal that his discovery would provoke.
“James!” she hissed, surprise blasting from those glittering eyes, proper shock emanating from her pores. She stood straighter and leaned into his chest, looking up. “What on earth do you think you're doing here?”
Wisps of light cotton floated under a thick flannel gown lined with silk. So this is what that beautiful body looked like in simple form. She wore no undergarments and the hallway chill tightened her nipples enough so that he could see them, practically feel their texture in his mouth, a nub that –
Stronger than she looked, the force of her hand clenching his upper arm pulled him into her bedroom. She shut the door slowly, softly, behind her, then stood before him and crossed her arms over those arched nipples that possessed him.
“Are you mad? Breaking into my father's home?”
“You once asked whether I have a healthy fear of billionaire fathers,” he began.
She smirked and tipped her head to the left, like a wife evaluating her husband after a night out drinking with work friends. Her hair was mussed and the overall effect of her nightdress, the bed behind her, and his mad dash up the stairs as an intruder made him cross the simple feet between them and grasp her shoulders.
“My answer is 'no.'” And with that he leaned in and kissed her, pinning her arms to her chest for a few seconds before she wiggled and slid them around his waist, his hand cupping her jaw and bringing her lips to his. They were breaking so many rules in one embrace, here in her father's home, in her
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