Bending Tyme

A Total-E-Bound Publication

www.total-e-bound.com

Bending Tyme

ISBN #
978-0-85715-790-4

©Copyright Maria-Claire Payne 2011

Cover Art by April Martinez ©Copyright October 2011

Edited by Rebecca Hill

Total-E-Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.
 
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing.
 
Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2011 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a
heat rating
of
Total-e-sizzling
and a
sexometer
of
2.

BENDING TYME

Maria-Claire Payne

His soul-mate predicted to come “from afar”, will Logan, Earl of Davenport, aided by his friend Lord Byron—and Logan’s favourite riding crop—find his destiny when the independent Esme Tyme finds herself transported from contemporary Boston, Massachusetts to Regency England?

Esme Tyme, CEO of her antiques business, eschews romance in favour of building her success and asserting her independence by day. By night, her need for control at odds with her predilection for spankings and riding crops, her philosophy towards love is pure twenty-first century cynic—she wants her men to hit it (literally) and quit it.

Logan Davenport, hot—and hot-blooded—lord of the manor, channels his passion into breeding horses, resigning himself to the endless parade of insipid society women competing to attain his titles and his wealth, none caring to capture his heart.

To discover the love Logan’s mother, blessed with the second sight, predicted would come to him “from afar,” the couple, with a bit of help from one George Gordon, the Lord Byron, must reconcile Esme’s twenty-first century sensibilities with Logan’s high-bred sense when Esme finds herself transported from contemporary Boston, Massachusetts to Regency England—and into Lord Davenport’s bed.

Dedication

For T.

Given a do-over, he would, without a moment’s hesitation,

drop my snarky, independent, obstinate ass

in that river…

and then pull me up again.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmark mentioned in this work of fiction:

Mustang: Ford Motor Company

Chapter One

Esme pulled her favourite vintage quilt over her head, her peace disturbed by the cell phone set to vibrate and engaging in a jumping-bean dance on her nightstand. Reluctant to emerge from the delicious fantasy she had spun during those pre-dawn minutes, Esme nonetheless groped for the phone and read the latest in a stream of texts from her best friend—
former
best friend, Esme decided.

The text would probably contain the usual tirade from Charisse. She had only grown worse since Esme had announced the grand opening of their Massachusetts office to her Canadian staff.

Getting off to your ‘Lord of the Locket’ works great for your fantasy life, Esme, but let’s find you a man with a heartbeat for this party.
To Esme’s chagrin, Charisse had compiled a list of suitable candidates as soon as Esme had made the announcement.

Sure enough, this latest message from Charisse read,
C nu list—BB4B
, Charisse’s text-talk for ‘buff bachelors for boffing’. Esme turned her cell off, eyeing the early nineteenth-century ball gown and undergarments gracing the mannequin across the room. She grimaced at the corset laces hanging down the wire form, wondering how many awkward turns around the dance hall would result in her breasts popping right over the top of the bodice. Not for the first time, Esme regretted her decision to let Charisse take the reins for this launch party. Ah well… Esme let her gaze fall to the itinerary on her nightstand. Just this one bash stood between her and a much-anticipated three-month globe-trotting vacation while she turned the reins over to Charisse and her husband Timone. Esme eyed the corset again.
I can handle even that for just one night.

At least the heirloom locket draped around the wire neck of her body-double was intriguing. Esme climbed out of bed, snagged the locket and stretched the nude length of her body before sinking down on the tufted stool in front of her vanity and opening the ornate locket.

One side silver, the other gold, the unusual, mismatched ovals of the locket afforded a vexing puzzle even for Charisse and her husband—Esme’s resident experts in nineteenth-century antiques. However, three additional jewellers in the field had each documented the piece as genuine, despite its eccentric design. Esme’s interest, however, lay not in the unusual mix of metals or the locket’s certificates of authenticity, but in the miniature portrait nestled in the gold side of the locket.

This unique piece had come into Esme’s possession eight weeks ago. The crew she had hired to repair part of the foundation in the Boston office building had unearthed a small, metal box buried in one corner. Esme had broken open the decaying box to reveal the locket within. Every morning since, caught in that sleep-state where grudging awareness of fresh Earl Grey tea brewing in her kitchen skirmished with her desire to revel in her fantasies for a few minutes longer, she had made love to the man in the portrait.

Esme opened a drawer, rifling through its contents. She glanced at his portrait, considered the battery-operated vibrator she held, and put it down again. No toy stashed in
his
nightstand would take double As…

Esme shifted forward, cradling the locket in one hand, slipping the other between her legs. His eyes, an unusual aquamarine blue—artistic licence, Esme imagined—mesmerised her nonetheless. She traced his mouth with her gaze, imagining his lips on hers.

Esme dropped the locket, closing her eyes, still seeing each fine detail, spreading her pussy lips with one hand, stroking her clit with the other, surrendering to the heat spreading through her. She opened her legs wider now, moving her fingers in and out, slow and gentle, imagining him fingering her wet cunt, his face—not hers—reflected in the mirror in front of her.

Esme lifted her fingers to her tongue, the scent and taste of her own arousal exciting her further. She lost herself in the fantasy, imagining him there, beside her…

Watching her stroking herself made his eyes turn a deeper blue. He reached out to run his tongue over her mouth where her own wet fingers travelled. He kissed her—a sweet kiss. Esme caught his gaze, turned on by him watching her spread her legs wider still. She felt that rush of sweet tension rising within her as his cock rose, too, intrigued that such a soft kiss could leave her wanting so much more.

Esme closed her eyes, breathing in his clean, spicy scent as he covered her mouth with his again. He parted her lips just so with his tongue, this kiss harder, more insistent. She wondered if that was how his tongue would feel caressing her other lips…

She tipped her head back, moving her fingers faster, leaning in to him so he could bring his mouth down harder on hers, his erect length straining for release against her naked thigh. Filling her mouth, thrusting against her own, his tongue promised a taste of what Esme could expect if she took his cock in her mouth instead—firm, demanding, unrelenting, making her even wetter.

But she wanted to keep kissing him, so she took the turgid length of his cock in her hand, stroking him even as he deepened their kiss. Esme sighed—no one in the flesh ever made her this hot, this wet, this ready, so fast. She longed to feel his thick length pounding into her, filling her up… But then Esme paused, wondering if he’d prefer her to go down on him while he fingered her dripping pussy. Or maybe she would straddle his hips and ride him, first, to relieve the tension building between her thighs. Or she’d suck his cock, stopping right before he came so he could bend her over and fuck her from behind before he filled her up with the exploding warmth of his cum.

 
Esme moaned, the slamming crests of her orgasm threatening her unsteady perch on the stool.

She picked up the locket and lost herself in the incredible eyes staring back at her—through her.
He
made her come like this, touching nothing except her imagination.

She snapped the locket closed. She’d get no work done at all today before this infernal party if she had his portrait on her mind.

* * * *

Walking into the bedroom connected with Esme’s private office to hustle her along, Charisse burst into laughter. Her best friend—and boss—clutched her petticoat, corset laces streaming down her back, the utter confusion on her face not an expression Charisse recalled ever seeing there before.

“The chemise goes
under
the corset, darling.
Then
the petticoat.”

Esme grimaced. “I’ll wear the corset and these pantalettes, but I will
not
wear those
plus
a chemise
and
a frickin’ petticoat.”

Charisse smiled and started to lace her up. “Deal.”

Eventually, Esme slipped her feet into the satin slippers matching her ball gown, heaving a sigh of relief.

“Fuck me, Charisse! I got less of a workout with Chad this morning,” Esme grumbled.

 
“Quit flexing your guns!” Charisse shook her head

Well, the clothing might be authentic, but no one would mistake her hard-bodied friend for a delicate, nineteenth-century virgin—courtesy of her grinding mixed-martial arts workouts with the sadistic Chad, Esme sported a six-pack their male friends envied. Charisse sighed, watching Esme pulling at the curls in her hair—perhaps she spent so much energy competing for respect in the international antiques business she had forgotten how much fun playing dress-up could be.

* * * *

Esme scowled. Her dress and hair were a mild annoyance,
his
locket a major distraction, a heavier weight than she’d anticipated. The ornate piece of jewellery rested uneasily around her neck, an albatross compared to the fine chains she usually favoured.

She shook off the odd sensation, slipping several silicone Möbius strip bracelets around her wrist.

Charisse wrinkled her nose. “Well, you did look amazing—until you put those on.”

“These make excellent advertising, especially given our motto—‘Where Their Past Becomes Your Present.’ It’s creative anachronism.” Esme ran her finger along one of the bracelets, the half-twist creating a curious one-sidedness to the bracelet. Given the unique geometry of the Möbius phenomenon, the continuous surface flowed into one plane, resulting in twice the space to include information, their logo and website address streaming in an endless cycle around the impossible single surface of the silicone band.

Esme slipped on her mask. “Be sure to hand out a bracelet to everyone here,” she reminded Charisse.

Several hours into the evening, Esme noted every guest wore at least one of her bracelets, the incongruity with the period costumes and ornate masks giving Charisse cause to lift an eyebrow at Esme during one of the tiresome quadrilles. Esme ignored her, happy to put her contemporary mark on this event—also happy the tight corset had, so far, managed to keep her boobs in check.

The six-piece string ensemble struck up a waltz and Esme ducked into a corner, intent on avoiding any of Charisse’s BB4Bs seeking her out. No such luck—Esme watched the tall gentleman in the exquisite outfit approach her, a golden half-mask concealing much of his face, the faintest hint of a smile lifting the corners of his full lips. Her gaze wandered across the breadth of his shoulders, down to his waist and his long legs, his trim lines evident even through the layers of clothing he sported. He wore his costume with practiced ease, and Esme thought a professional had probably tailored the ensemble specifically for his exceptional physique.

He said nothing, but bowed in her direction. His intent was clear. Esme cursed under her breath, then dropped a small curtsy, looking up…

Into impossible aquamarine eyes. He took her hand and Esme danced the initial steps of the waltz, flustered, her partner silent.

She faltered, dizzy.

Now I know what ‘swooning’ feels like
, she thought, the room spinning.

His strong arms steadied her, but her rescuer said not a word, withdrawing his hand after he had helped Esme to lower herself onto a silk-cushioned chair. She looked up, riveted by the eyes behind the golden mask.

* * * *

Seeing Esme unsteady and alone, Charisse yelled for help, her voice lost in the swell of the music. She lifted her skirts, pushing her way through the crowd, hoping to catch Esme before she hit the floor.

By the time Charisse reached her, Esme had settled herself onto a nearby chair, so Charisse helped her to her feet and hustled her to her private suite.

“Where did he go?”

Charisse shook her head. “Who? You waltzed a few steps alone and just about keeled over.”

Esme sat on the four-poster bed dominating the room, looking confused.

Charisse watched her carefully. “Too much excitement, huh? New office, planning a three-month sabbatical…no wonder you’re exhausted. Sure you’re up to trekking across Nepal? Shall I cancel your flight?”

Esme shook her head. “Please make my excuses to the guests.” She smiled. “This is your party anyway, really.”

“Want me to send someone to keep an eye on you?” Charisse winked, a bit put out that her efforts at matchmaking had fallen short. Esme laughed. “I’m good. Just need sleep…”

Charisse helped Esme strip down to the corset and pantalettes she had donned earlier, helped her into bed and kissed her. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Esme made no response, exhausted and already lost in her dreams.

Charisse let herself into the office just after noon. “Esme?”

No answer.

She checked the showrooms, where the mess from the party had been cleared away by the crew she’d hired, and moved on to Esme’s private suite. Still no sign of her.

Charisse sighed. Last time Esme had taken an impromptu—albeit much needed—hiatus from work, she’d turned up in Italy weeks later, paying for lessons from street artists. This time, at least, Esme had left an itinerary.

Charisse popped off a text to Timone—
Boss left early
. Not the first time—and likely not the last.

Charisse locked up, concerned only that Esme enjoy her long-overdue vacation to faraway places.

Esme woke, out of sorts, conscious of some man across from her, his bulk dwarfing the side-chair where he reclined, clad in his ruffled shirt and velvet breeches. He sat barefoot, his expensive-looking boots and hosiery on the floor next to him. Esme recognised her earlier dance partner, much of his face still concealed behind the golden half-mask he continued to wear. Esme frowned—Charisse, the quintessential romantic, had sent one of her studs back in spite of Esme’s protests, or so it seemed… Well, why the hell not? Not sharing her friend’s optimism in love, Esme bit her lip, considering her own philosophy—hit it and quit it.

“So…you rank where on Charisse’s list? Let’s see—tall, dark, and handsome…” Esme slid off the bed as the stranger lifted himself from his chair and strode towards her. She paused to look up so she could see his eyes in the dim candlelight. “And great contacts, those.” Such aquamarine-coloured eyes did not occur in nature, Esme thought. Charisse had obviously tipped this dude off about her ‘Lord of the Locket’.

“Hmm…curls slicked back,” she continued, reaching out one hand, “six-pack abs. Nope, I stand corrected,” she muttered, sliding her hands under his shirt, then running her palms down his torso, caressing the muscular cuts creating further valleys right above his groin. “That’s a definite eight-pack I’m feeling. You must be bachelor numero uno, huh?” She patted the pantalettes and corset she still wore, searching for her cell phone to text Charisse. “Now where did I drop my phone…?”