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Author: St Margarets Story: Roger and Lisa, A Romance Rating: Teens Setting: Pre-DH Status: Completed Reviews: 5 Words: 94,210
A/N: Since this is a story about a romance, desire naturally comes into play. There is more to Roger and Lisa’s relationship, of course, but if I am going to be true to the various stages of a relationship, I felt I had to show (and not tell) this aspect. Thanks to Sherry for working this story into her busy schedule! Finally it’s Monday, Roger thought as he unlocked the door to his office. Then he smiled to himself as the five owls that had been circling in the corridor dropped heavy rolls of parchment on his desk and at least twenty paper airplane memos from the Ministry zoomed into his in-box. He was happy it was Monday because he was going to see Lisa again – not because it was the beginning of the work week. Richard, true to form, had already made the coffee and had suggestions for how Roger should arrange his week. “If you would do the research on liquor import regulations, that would help me with Vladimir’s testimony,” he said, handing Roger a steaming mug. “How far back?” Roger asked suspiciously. “Since vodka first reached the British Isles,” Richard answered vaguely, shifting through a sheaf of parchments. “How am I supposed to find that out?” he protested. “It was probably brought in by some hairy, illiterate Viking. And what does the history of vodka imports have to do with Stoly’s lawsuit over vanishing vodka?” “Hmm?” Richard looked up and then grinned. “Oh, I need to show precedent that vanishing has always been an – er – side-effect of the alcohol and that the authorities in Britain have always winked at it.” “I see.” It was obvious that Vladimir was guilty as hell. “Of course that side-effect is all but guaranteed if you use leprechaun potatoes instead of the real thing from the old sod,” Richard added. Roger laughed and shook his head. Richard would turn on the charm and with a few interesting anecdotes (found by Roger) concerning other mishaps in vodka brewing, he would get his client off with a fine and a lot of free publicity. “I wish I had your gift of gab.” Richard wasn’t listening. “I just received this in the post. It seems there is a Lady DuSult who is having trouble with her landlord over the lease to her dress shop. It further appears that a Miss Lisa Turpin recommended me – Richard Davies – as just the gentleman to attend to this matter.” He looked Roger in the eye. “Can you explain how and why my name came to be recommended by Miss Lisa Turpin and not yours?” “No,” Roger answered, “I can’t. But I’m guessing that she was angry with me at the time.” “Is she still?” “No.” “Good, then I can turn the little seamstress over to you –” Roger was just about to take the letter, when there was a soft rap at the open door. A dark-haired witch in deep green robes peeked into the office. “I’m looking for Richard Davies. His door is open, but there’s no one in his office.” “I’m Richard Davies.” Roger watched as his brother leapt to his feet and gave her a charming grin. “Gabriella DuSult,” she said in a husky voice, holding out her hand. “Of Lady DuSult’s?” Richard asked. When she nodded, he ushered her into his office without a backwards glance. Roger grinned. The “little seamstress” was exactly Richard’s type – tall and striking rather than girlishly pretty. He looked across at the closed door of his brother’s office knowing that although he wouldn’t have to review any leases today, he still hadn’t found a way to wriggle out of researching past import cases. * Roger was hunting for a clean sheet of parchment when he was interrupted again. This time the diversion wasn’t as pleasant as Lady DuSult. Nigel Anderson, a short, bandy-legged wizard with a scraggly mustache marched into his office and dumped a box of scrolls on Roger’s desk. “Here they are,” he practically shouted. “I found them in the cupboard where that addle-brained witch was storing her umbrella.” He lowered his voice, although his face was still red. “I do not like being accused – even in a subtle way – of highjacking someone else’s research. Useless as that research was.” “Excellent,” Roger said calmly as Nigel Anderson paused to draw a breath. “Just what Miss Turpin has wanted for the past six months. Amazing how writing a letter will bring results.” “That letter,” Mr. Anderson sputtered. “There was no need to copy it to the Ministry. The relationship between two such venerable institutes is a delicate thing.” “Oh, how so?” Roger asked. “And you –” Mr. Anderson stabbed a finger at him. “We’re practically related now that my son is married to your cousin. I’m surprised you didn’t go about this more discreetly.” “I’m surprised you didn’t give Miss Turpin more cooperation since she was practically your daughter-in-law.” “Oh that –” Mr. Anderson waved a hand and sat in the straight chair across from Roger. “Melinda needn’t worry, even though Barry became rather fond of the girl.” He slouched comfortably and gave Roger a conspiratorial grin. “I wanted Barry to cultivate Miss Turpin in the first place because of her connection to a cottage at Studlands. We both thought she owned it.” “Oh?” Roger tried to keep his voice calm so that Anderson would keep talking. “Turns out the mother owned it,” Mr. Anderson crowed. “And she was dying.” He sighed with satisfaction. “Barry is the charmer, I’ll say so myself.” Incredibly, he winked at Roger, all anger forgotten at the remembered success of this venture. “Barry spent some quality time with the dear lady at St. Mungo’s and she willed the building and the land to him. It’s too bad he had to waste all that time on the daughter.” He shook his head in regret. “Barry works for Bobbin’s then?” Roger didn’t want to seem too interested in the cottage, even though Anderson had just admitted that his son had defrauded a dying woman. “Top apothecary salesman in all of Britain,” Nigel Anderson said proudly. “And now he’s married the daughter of the owner. He and Melinda will run the company eventually.” Roger tried not to stare. Even though he had had his suspicions about Barry, to hear them confirmed was still a bit shocking. Mr. Anderson didn’t seem to notice. He leaned over Roger’s desk. “It’s taken a long time for the Ministry to release that cottage. Any idea how long these things usually take?” “The wheels grind slowly in the summer,” he answered smoothly. Nigel Anderson nodded. “True enough.” With a slap of his hands on the arms of the chair, he got to his feet. “My inbox is overflowing after a week’s holiday – and now I’ve lost Miss Turpin back to the Ministry –” He shook his head. “I can’t believe they finally noticed she was gone – quiet mousy thing. Still, she kept my office in good order.” After he pushed in his chair, he waggled a finger at Roger. “Now, no more demands on official letterhead – or I’ll tell your Aunt Griselda. We’re to keep all of our laundry – clean or dirty – in the family.” Roger stood up as Nigel Anderson moved toward the door. “Don’t see me out. I’m sure you have work to do. It’s good to know we have lawyers in the family to call upon.” “You’re going to need one,” Roger muttered as he fought the urge to throw something at Nigel Anderson’s smug back. * When Roger marched into his office and told Richard the story, his brother didn’t share his outrage. “Lisa is back at the Ministry,” Richard said reasonably. “Anderson returned her research. And soon she’ll have her cottage back.” He steepled his fingers and regarded Roger narrowly. “In all honesty, I don’t think you could have wished for a better outcome.” Roger stopped in mid-pace. “They lied to Lisa! They scammed a terminally-ill patient to change her will!” “Stop looming over me,” Richard said, his lips twitching. “And you’re wearing out my rug.” Roger stood up straight and tried to calm down – tried to look at the situation from the legal point of view – and failed miserably. “What they did was wrong. They shouldn’t get away with treating Lisa like that.” “They haven’t got a thing, thanks to you.” His brother’s voice was gentler. “The law isn’t a remedy for every bit of bad behavior.” Roger sighed and looked out Richard’s window. He could see the visitors’ entrance to the Ministry. The glare from the sun hitting that Muggle box hurt his eyes. “Tell you what,” Richard said. “Take those parchments over to Lisa now. And then take her out for a little celebratory lunch.” “But –” “And don’t you dare tell her what Nigel Anderson said.” “I’m not that daft.” “You’re a little too honest for your own good, Roger. No woman wants to hear that she was pursued because of a cottage.” “Why would they want that cottage so badly?” Roger pounced on this. Richard shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe Anderson wants a retirement place. You’re looking for conspiracies where there aren’t any.” Roger winced and looked out the window again. “Well, I’m off to lunch,” Richard said into the silence. “And you’re not invited.” “Oh? Can I ask who is invited?” Richard grinned. “You can guess.” “Don’t get any food stains on that lease. Very unprofessional.” “I’ll keep that in mind,” Richard said. * The circular entrance to the Department of Mysteries had the same cathedral silence that had greeted Roger the week before, but this time it didn’t make him nervous. Maybe because he knew Lisa was in there somewhere or maybe because he welcomed a little bit of quiet after his agitation from the morning. In any event, he knew how to work the doors that were spinning past him. “Lisa Turpin,” he said. The doors stopped whirling around him and one opened with a whisper. This wasn’t the same room as Mr. Johnson’s office. There were numerous clocks lining the walls, what looked to be an étagère full of hourglasses, and in the center of the room was a large bell-jar full of glittering light. Hoisting the box of parchments under one arm, Roger went to have a closer look. There was a golden egg at the bottom, which hatched while he was watching. A golden bird tottered out, flapped its wings and ascended to the top of the bell-jar where it disappeared. The egg was then momentarily intact before a bird pecked its way out again. It was strangely hypnotic to watch. Lisa had said it was accelerated time – but Roger wondered what all the diamond bright particles of light were. So far, no one seemed aware of his presence except for a yellow cuckoo in the carved clock on the wall. It was one o’clock; perhaps Lisa was on her lunch hour? He wondered toward the back of the room and found an open door leading to a small book-lined office. The desk was full of papers and books and little piles of sand. Roger didn’t dare disturb whatever order she had imposed, so he set the box of parchments on the floor and shamelessly craned his neck to see what she was working on. Tar sand – one thousand particles. One hundred and twenty minutes under the light. N/C. He was just wondering what n/c meant when he heard light footsteps behind him. “Roger!” She smiled delightedly and clutched a small notebook and quill to her chest. “I was just doing my hourly observations. What brings you here?” “I brought your research back.” “Really?” She knelt next to box and eagerly touched the scrolls. He tried not to feel too pleased at her obvious happiness. While he was glad to have her research restored, he still felt he hadn’t done enough. “Lisa,” he interrupted her raptures. “You ought to double check that it’s all there. I mean every page. I don’t know why but –” He stopped, wondering if she would think he was looking for conspiracies when there weren’t any. “I will,” she said quietly, looking up at him. “Did Mr. Anderson deliver them himself?” “Yes.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her more, but he remembered what Richard told him. “I don’t suppose I should ask what he said about me.” She stood up awkwardly with her notebook still in her hand. “No.” He hoped to God she didn’t ask. She nodded with wide, hurt eyes and hugged the notebook to her chest. What was wrong with him? He bent to kiss her cheek. “Hello there. I forgot to say that.” “So did I.” Her laugh was tremulous. At that he gathered her in his arms, feeling suddenly tender. “Richard said I should take you out to lunch.” “Did he?” she asked into his chest. “You can’t go?” “No. I’m in the middle of things.” She waved vaguely at her desk. “I see that.” He had his arm across her shoulders now so they could both look at the piles of sand on her desk. With his free hand, he picked up the only photograph on her desk. “Is this Studlands?” he asked. “It’s the view from the cottage,” Lisa answered with a lilt in voice. “See how it shows the entire curve of the beach?” She traced the white sand crescent with her finger. Then the picture changed so that Roger could see the top of the cliffs and the red flowers that were blowing in the breeze. “Wow, look at all the Amaranth. Professor Sprout only had two planters of it in the greenhouse at Hogwarts,” he said as the picture faded back to the beach scene. “You know,” Lisa said thoughtfully, “It wasn’t the view Mr. Anderson commented on when he saw that snap, it was the plants.” “Was that your first day at St. Mungo’s?” “Practically.” She frowned. “In any event, it was the next day when he introduced me to Barry. He was very keen that I meet him.” “What about the research? How long did you work at St. Mungo’s before they allegedly tried the Charm?” “About three months,” she answered. “It wouldn’t have taken so long except they had to have special permission to borrow a Time-Turner.” “They used a Time-Turner?” he asked sharply. “Oh, yes – it was necessary to the Charm.” She frowned up at him. “Why do you ask?” “I don’t know….” He was thinking furiously. Nigel Anderson hadn’t said a word about malpractice or any mistake Lisa had ever made. In fact, he had tried to pass off the missing research as misplacement rather than a punishment. “Was the Time-Turner returned?” he asked. “I think so,” Lisa said worriedly. “I’ll go check.” She hurried over to the étagère, not sparing the bell-jar a glance. “They’re all here,” she said as she counted. “All twenty.” “Which one did they use?” Roger asked. “This one,” Lisa said, reaching for an hourglass that was about a foot in height. She heaved it into his hands. It was very heavy – from the sand it contained and from the thick glass. “How far back in time could you go with this?” he asked. “Twenty-four hours with one turn.” She was chewing on her lip, staring at the top of the Time-Turner. “Um, can you tilt that – just a bit – not too much?” She was running her fingers over the golden top of the hourglass. “This isn’t a Time-Turner,” she said flatly. “What is it then?” She took out her wand and ran it over the device, muttering something under her breath. “It’s a Pop-out Portkey.” “What? That’s a child’s toy.” “Try it,” she answered grimly. He turned the heavy hourglass so that the sand swiftly began to fill the bottom; then he felt a pull on his navel and saw swirling colors before he felt his feet touch the ground. He was in Lisa office. She stared at him from the étagère. “It’s a Portkey that will take you to the next room.” Roger walked back to her side. “And this wasn’t a Portkey when Nigel Anderson checked it out of the Ministry?” “No. But when he returned it, I was still at St. Mungo’s and there was no one here who would have recognized that it was a fake.” She ran her hand through her hair. “How am I going to prove this? I know Mr. Anderson will just say that it was never a Time-Turner all along and that’s why the Charm didn’t work.” She was trembling. Roger hastily set the fake Time-Turner back on the shelf. “You believe me, don’t you?” she asked. “Of course I believe you,” he blurted before he had time to ponder all the implications of what he was saying. Then he sighed and put both hands on her upper arms and looked into her eyes. “But now that I think about it, I don’t know if any one else would.” She flinched but didn’t look away. “Nigel Anderson is very convincing,” Roger continued. “He made it sound as if you had forgotten your research along with your umbrella.” “I don’t have an umbrella,” Lisa said huskily. “Right.” He hugged her. “I don’t need an umbrella.” “I know.” “I can Apparate out of the rain.” “Yes, you can.” “But I can’t –” “I’ll help,” Roger whispered. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise. But it will take some time.” The clocks suddenly struck the half hour with discordant chimes, dings, bongs, and whistles. Lisa raised her tear-stained face. “It always comes down to time, doesn’t it?” He had no idea what she meant by that, so he kissed the top of her head instead, not wanting to voice the absurd hope that the truth would somehow win in the end. * Roger almost regretted his hasty words to Lisa as he waited in the Registry of Parchments Office of the Ministry three days later. His work was piling up because he was leaving right at the tick of five each day to spend his evenings with Lisa, and he had had no time to do any research into the goings on at the St. Mungo’s Charms department. To further complicate things, he didn’t feel he could confide in Richard after his brother had told him to drop the entire subject of Nigel Anderson and conspiracy theories. The only reason that he didn’t wholly regret his promise to help Lisa find out about the Time-Turner was that he believed her. Luckily Mr. Johnson also believed her, but didn’t have a practical idea for how to solve this mystery. Roger shuffled his feet moodily as he stood at the glassed-in counter. From the clock on the clerk’s desk, it had been ten minutes – nothing, by Ministry standards – but they had owled and said that he could pick up the key to the Aerie immediately. Ten minutes was not immediately. His eyes drifted back to the baby picture on the clerk’s desk. It looked like a normal baby until you noticed the weird pulsing in its forehead. “Roger?” the clerk hurried from the backroom with a sheaf of papers. He hated to be called by his first name during business. “Here’s the notarized copy of the deed,” said the clerk. “And here’s the key.” Her hand lingered over his. “The Probate Charms have been lowered.” “Thanks.” He glanced at the nameplate to make sure he had it right. “Ms. Parkinson.” “You can call me Patricia.” She batted her eyes. He raised his eyebrows. “Have a good Balantine Weekend,” she said, undeterred by his silence. “You, too, Ms. Parkinson.” He smirked as he turned away. Now he remembered who she was. She was the woman with Phillip Goyle at Melinda’s wedding. No wonder she made his skin crawl – and no wonder her adopted baby was strange. Then he promptly forgot about the flirty clerk as he realized that tomorrow was the Summer Solstice and he had a three-day weekend to look forward to. * Lisa was gratifyingly speechless when he dropped the key in her hand. “It’s finally yours,” he said, breaking the silence. Richard had long left the office – the only sounds were the owls stirring in the corridor and the incessant Muggle traffic below. “Oh,” she breathed, looking up at him. “I haven’t been to Studland in so long.” She put her hand on his arm. “Come with me. I want to show you the Aerie.” “Okay.” He smiled. “When?” “Tonight. We can take brooms,” she answered, her eyes sparkling. “Brooms? That’s a good two hour ride and we can’t leave until midnight.” “I know.” Lisa blushed. “But we always took brooms every summer when I was a child. It’s really the best way to see the Aerie.” “We’d have to spend the night,” he pointed out. Her blush deepened. “I know. There are two bedrooms.” Then she bit her lip. “Unless you have plans this weekend.” Of course he didn’t have plans. * After a leisurely dinner they separated so that they could pack for a weekend away. Then Lisa was to Floo to his flat. Since she had never visited his place, he felt the need to at least make his bed and try out some of those Cleaning Charms he had learned the week before. So he was still wasn’t packed by the time she stumbled from his fireplace with her broom in one hand and a small trunk in the other. “Staying awhile, are you?” he asked. “I wasn’t sure what was still at the cottage,” she explained, “– you know, sheets and towels and that sort of thing.” She was looking around his sitting room, which was furnished with a settee and the best model Quidditch set money could buy. “It plays any match that comes over the Wireless,” Roger told her as she touched one of hoops. “So you can watch a match from the comfort of your settee?” Lisa asked with a smile. “It’s brilliant,” Roger said. “It even follows the weekly highlights show.” “Exciting.” “You don’t like listening to Quidditch?” “I like it just fine, just not enough to turn my entire sitting room over to it.” He shrugged. “Decorating isn’t my thing.” “Cleaning must be your thing then,” Lisa remarked looking at the curtain-less windows that glittered in the fading light. “I thought I’d practice those Cleaning Charms.” “So you know more than the words,” Lisa said softly. How could blue eyes look so warm? Roger thought irrelevantly. He cleared his throat. “I took the nap off that rug over in the corner.” Lisa started and then she turned to look at the rug. “That happens when you accent the first syllable of vaccus.” “I found that out.” He moved to finish his packing in the bedroom. “Bring a bathing costume,” she called. “Right.” “And some Muggle clothes. There’s lots of Muggles on the beach – although –” “Although what?” She said something, but her voice was muffled. “Lisa, come in here and talk to me, I can’t hear.” “Is this your lair?” she asked, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed in front of her. He waggled his eyebrows and folded a pair of socks. “Who are they?” She pointed to his poster of the Holyrod Harpies, her mouth twisted in distaste. “Just the greatest Chaser team ever to fly.” “Oh. I didn’t think you chose them for their – er – pin up value.” Roger grinned at the Harpies who were now tossing their greasy hair at Lisa’s words. “It doesn’t matter what you look like when you play Quidditch as well as these girls. Right?” The witches mounted their brooms and began tossing their Quaffle about. He watched a perfect Porskoff Play and then went back to his packing. “So what were you trying to tell me about the Muggles?” “Oh, er –” Lisa was blushing again for some reason. In fact, now that Roger thought about it, she had been fairly nervous all evening. Almost skittish. “Well?” “Part of Studlands is a naturalist beach.” “What’s a naturalist?” “I don’t know exactly – something about vegetarian cookery and running around nude. They’re back to nature or something.” She rolled her eyes. “So you haven’t joined them?” He zipped his bag closed and hoisted it on his shoulder. She smiled mysteriously and tossed her head. ‘No, I’m not a vegetarian.” He laughed. At least Lisa wasn’t being prudish about naked Muggles. He wondered what it was that was bothering her. “Shall we go?” She took a deep breath and nodded gravely. They lashed the trunk to both of their brooms and then kicked off from the window. It was a beautiful night to fly: calm and warm. Unfortunately, most of magical London seemed to think so, too. They were surrounded by all sorts of witches and wizards flying west for the three-day weekend. “We can’t make record time tonight,” he said. They were flying so close together that their knees touched from time to time. “I forgot about the traffic,” Lisa said. “Maybe we should have Apparated.” “I don’t mind,” he said. And he really didn’t – not when she smiled at him like that. Really, was there anything more appealing than a witch on a broom with her hair flowing behind her? Unless it was a witch in his bed with her hair flowing over the pillow. Roger tried to shake that thought out of his head. Maybe that’s why Lisa was so nervous; she thought he was going to pounce on her. Lisa nudged his knee and he just avoided a slow-moving family on brooms with an Abraxon flying horse bringing up the rear. “Always fly over an Abraxon whilst passing,” Roger told her with a grin. “Never under.” Lisa giggled. Roger smiled back, wondering how he was going to keep his resolve not to pounce on her this weekend. * The Aerie was perched on a chalk cliff high above the beach below. It was so well camouflaged with magic that Roger never would have found it even in the daylight. When they clattered onto the wide wooden porch, a string of fairy lights on the railing lit up, revealing that the Aerie was circular as were the bowed windows and the plank door. As they dismounted their brooms, he could see their shadowy reflections in the glass from the large windows. “Can you hear the sea?” Lisa asked eagerly. He could hear quiet splashes from somewhere below and he could smell it – salt and tang and freshness. But the night was so still, that even on the shoreline, only the faintest breeze ruffled his hair. Lisa fished in her pockets and found the key. But she fumbled so badly trying to turn it in the lock that he had to take it from her and open the door. “Thanks,” she said huskily and stepped into the cottage. He followed, dragging her trunk on the wide boards. The large sitting room felt damp and had the stale smell of a place long in disuse. “It’s always like this after the winter,” Lisa said apologetically. She flicked her wand at the huge stone fireplace and a cheery fire bathed the room in a warm glow. The sitting room was all blonde wood and glass. Lisa was drawing the white coverings off the furniture. “It always looks a little forlorn the first time you see it,” she said quickly. “It’s a lovely place.” But she didn’t seem to be paying much attention; she was so intent on scurrying around making the place habitable. Then he caught one of the incantations she was muttering. “Lisa, it’s two o’clock in the morning – you don’t have to dust tonight!” She stopped in mid-wave of her wand and stared at him. “Oh. Right.” He held out his hand and she put her wand in it. “I reckon I’m a little excited about being here again.” “I reckon.” He studied her narrowly. “So,” she said brightly. “Are you tired? Hungry? Thirsty?” “No. No. And no.” She clamped her mouth shut and reached for her wand. “Not until you tell me what you’re going to do next,” he said holding it about his head. “Tile the roof maybe?” “Roger!” She was jumping now, trying to reach her wand. He tried not to enjoy the sensation of her chest brushing against him. “Lisa,” he chided. “What is going on with you? You’ve been jumpy all night.” She gulped and stared at him. “Maybe you could make some… tea?” she said tremulously. “While you do that, I can fix things in the loo and the bedrooms – you know, towels and things.” Then she grabbed the trunk and dragged it down the short corridor. He shook his head and wandered over to the kitchen end of the large front room. Cooking lessons with Lisa had resumed, but he seemed to be a better hand at Cleaning Charms. He poked through a few cupboards and found the kettle. Now he just had to remember the Charm for boiling water…. “Um, Roger?” she called from the bedroom, which was on the other side of the kitchen wall. “Could you help?” He pocketed his wand, glad he didn’t have to worry about setting the place on fire trying to make tea. He found her in a small bedroom, snapping a white sheet over a wide, low bed. “Could you tuck that side in? I can’t seem to get this centered.” She blushed. “I’m not used to making a big bed, I suppose.” Her behavior was getting a little too mysterious for Roger – but it was late so he only shrugged and complied. The top sheet followed and then she threw him a pillow and a pillowslip. He awkwardly worked the case over the pillow, noticing that the linen smelled clean and fresh. Lisa was done before him. Her pillow was already propped on the bed, plump and smooth. His pillow was little misshapen and bit wrinkled, but he put it on the bed anyway. Lisa stood in the torchlight chewing her lip and looking at the two pillows on the bed. For the first time he noticed that she had taken off her traveling robes and was dressed in a white Muggle t-shirt and jeans. Lisa looked fantastic in white – it made her dark hair darker and her blue eyes bluer. Her lips were red from the way she was biting the lower one. And really she should stop that because if anyone should be biting her lower lip it was he and…. He straightened his shoulders. “So, shall we make the other bed?” She jumped and stared at him with startled eyes. “Um.” She looked almost… fearful. “Sweetheart? “ “There isn’t another bed,” she blurted. Now she was as pale as her t-shirt. “I thought you said –” “I said there were two bedrooms,” she said breathlessly. “Which there are. But this is the only bed.” “So we have to share,” he said, catching on. She nodded, not looking him in the eye. He moved closer to her, the floorboards creaking under his feet. She crossed her arms. “If you’re not ready….” “I’m ready,” she said finally looking at him. “I just nev –” Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright. “I mean I don’t know –” He put his hands gently on her upper arms. “Don’t know what?” “What you like,” she blurted, looking at his chest. Something leaped inside of him at her words. The idea of her wanting to please him was unbearably exciting, but it also made him feel unbearably tender toward her. “I like witches with black hair and blue eyes who rope me into making the bed.” He ran his hands over her back. The cotton of her t-shirt was soft under his fingers. “Sorry I’ve been so….” “S’okay.” He rubbed slow little circles on each side of her spine. She shivered. “Cold?” She shook her head; her silky hair brushed under his chin. She smelled like the clean night air and that certain scent that was Lisa. Soon, very soon, he was going to have to stop caressing her back and decamp to the sitting room settee – or he was going to pull her into that smooth white bed. “What do you want, sweetheart?” Her chest pressed up against him, which matched the roundness of her hips under his hands. He was going to lose rational thought very, very soon. “Tell me to stay or tell me to go – just tell me something.” “I want you,” she whispered. “Are you sure?” he asked. Her shirt hiked up as he moved his hands to her bare waist, caressing that smooth skin. Then he skimmed his fingertips up over her ribs to brush the undersides of her bra. “I’m just not sure of how….” He caught her mouth and kissed her deeply, pulling at the clasp of her bra. Now his hands could skim her back without hindrance. “Make me forget,” she gasped in between kisses. “Make me forget I’m nervous.” He had to slow down. “Don’t be nervous,” he said into her neck. “It’s just me – just you.” He wouldn’t allow himself to touch her anywhere but her back. Because he had to slow down. She was nervous. She was also moaning, and running her hands through his hair. “Sweetheart.” He disentangled himself from her and realized that he was breathing heavily too. He was also very aroused and he still had his shoes on. For some reason this struck him as funny. When was the last time he had been that carried away? “What?” She was beautifully disheveled, her thin t-shirt in complete disarray. “I have to take off my shoes.” “Shoes?” she said blankly He sat on the edge of the bed. “Shoes don’t belong in bed.” “Oh.” She giggled and sat next to him, looking at his trainers. “So what’s the usual course of seduction? I pull at the laces with my teeth?” “Shoe foreplay,” he said, kicking off one trainer at a time, each hitting the bare floor with a thud. “That’s very advanced magic.” He smiled into her eyes and she smiled back, her breath making a little catching noise in the back of her throat. That little noise dove and leaped inside of him. Slow down. “Okay?” “You. It’s just you,” she whispered and reached for the fastening on his robes. Like her, he had a t-shirt and jeans under his Wizard attire. When she pulled his t-shirt up from the waistband of his jeans, he caught her wrist. Slow down. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t stop moving her palm over the planes of his stomach and up his chest. It felt so incredibly good that at this rate it was going to be over before it began. “You’re not nervous anymore?” She didn’t bother to answer him but slid onto his lap and moved her hands up his chest to his shoulders, stretching his t-shirt into a taunt line under his arms. Impatient with this, she tugged the shirt over his head and then sighed when she looked down at him. It was that look – that frank, warm gaze of appreciation – that almost undid him. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Her hair brushed his cheek before he could find her mouth. Slow down, a voice warned. But she was in a hurry, too; her hands were on her shirt along with his and together they pulled it over her head. At last he could feel her – feel the softness of her skin rubbing against his chest, beneath his fingertips. Slow down, he told himself. But she was wriggling out of her clothes with one hand on his shoulder. Slow down, the voice whimpered. But she was under him with her dark hair spread out on the pillow and her blue eyes glittering with passion. She was every schoolboy’s perfect fantasy – she was his schoolboy fantasy. Because she was Lisa. The voice gave up. There was no stopping now – no need to distinguish between fast and slow – because they were spiraling together in that place where time was suspended and sensation reigned supreme. His world narrowed to one. “Lisa,” he breathed.
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