Monday, September 22, 2008

A History Mystery: Day Three / Part Two

The Personal Journals of Morgan Victoria Beauchamp

Sunday, October 26

Dearest Mama,

Definitely, this time I write to you. I’m sure Papa would understand that there are times when a woman to woman talk is needed.

Erotic dreams of my pirate entertained me all night and I woke gasping and shaking from what I’m sure was one of the most intense orgasms of my life. I’ve never experienced such a dream before! All thoughts of easing my agony with the thoroughly willing Mattias have died completely. I ran into him at the library where he was working on his dissertation and I felt not one ounce of attraction for him. Instead, my eyes kept searching for my dark stranger. As if I’d find him among the stacks of the library.

I had the misfortune to run into a colleague as I was leaving the library. Charles Stratham at once made his opinions of not only my paper, but my latest lecture very clear. My work, he said, while clever and entertaining, lacked a professional quality. Maybe I should pursue a career as either a historical romance writer or a play writer, he suggested. I could write a one woman play and deliver my romantic theories to Broadway and leave the serious research to the professionals. Not only that, he said my public lectures might fill the hall to overflowing once a semester, but they were an embarrassment to the department. The university wanted to be known for serious work and not theatrics, unless of course, I wanted to change to the theater department, after all, I made a charming actress, but no one with any historical learning took me seriously.

There went my dreamy disposition. After several hours bending over ancient journals, I was in no mood for his condescending smirks. One day soon, I hope, he’ll wake up and realize most of his students consider him in his dotage and get some of their best sleep in his lectures. They say the ponderous text book for the class makes an excellent pillow. However, trained and genteel southern gentlewoman that I am, I smiled, thanked him for his opinion, and suggested he might need to get not only his glasses checked, but a hearing aid might do him some good as well. At least I left him frowning in confusion and managed to glide, yes glide, across the lobby and out the door. I even managed to save my temper tantrum until I drove away from campus.

As dusk was upon us by then, I headed for the river with the vague idea of dropping in at Café du Monde in hopes a plate or two of beignets would calm me. I never made it there. Instead, I parked near the mall and headed for the Riverwalk. Walking being better than pigging out, right? I’m sure I scared a few people with the intense scowl on my face, but I stomped my way up and down the walk until I felt a little winded. I certainly wasn’t cold. I was however glad that the cool evening kept the crowds to a minimum. Most were in the French Quarter seeking libations and dancing to keep warm. That suited me just fine.

When I at last tired myself out, I stumbled to the Spanish Plaza hoping to find a spot to sit and watch the nighttime show of the fountain. Less than half of the seats were occupied, but there was one section that seemed a little darker and emptier. Indeed, I thought I’d find seclusion there until I tripped over a foot which was not retracted fast enough. Only the incredible strength and speed of my tripper cum savoir kept me from falling flat on my face. Strong arms reached out and, as if I weighed no more than a toddler, they lifted me and sat me down. In a blink, I determined that I sat on the lap, and was held in the arms, of my mystery man of two nights ago.

Those dark brooding eyes gave him away. I couldn’t resist a coquettish smile as his eyes widened in surprise. I was most happy to link my hands behind his neck and settle myself a little more comfortably on his lap. I was also a little breathless from my furious walking, which I’m sure added to my Marilyn-like voice at the moment as I thanked him for saving me.

Is there nothing more delightful than a man confused by a woman? He looked torn between wanting to thrust me away from him and pulling me closer. Much like I dreamed my pirate might have looked. And when he spoke, oh that voice, accented like you only hear from the best New Orleans families. Centuries of Creole breeding with a touch of Cajun, spoken softly in a deep voice that rumbled to my toes. In the shadows, he definitely looked like a pirate from another age. I swear, for Halloween I’m making him dress as Jean Baptiste Morgane. In fact, when we introduced ourselves, he told me his name is Jean Baptiste! Named after one of the city’s founding fathers, and not the pirate, no less. How more Old World New Orleans can one get? However, he asked me to call him John Morgan, saying it was easier on the tongue.

Oh, and why do I get to dress him for Halloween? I guess I jumped ahead of myself. The searing attraction that had jumped between us night before last was even stronger in closer proximity. Yes, as I sat there, everywhere our bodies touched, fires burned. My blood already hot from my fury over Stratham’s stupid comments and the sting of hurt feelings, I was daring and bold. I swooped down on my rescuer and rewarded him with a kiss. It was meant to be thorough, but I didn’t count on incinerating! I give the man credit for a hesitation of only half a heartbeat, but once he reacted, oh Mama… Can you hear my sigh of feminine satisfaction?

I don’t know how long we kissed and I don’t care. We were practically making love there on the tiled seats before we noticed the chuckles, catcalls and whistles around us. My pirate could only hold his scowl at the interruption for a moment, but we both laughed and acknowledged our audience with short bows before he took my hand and led me off to deeper shadows. That was when we finally introduced ourselves. A handshake seemed silly at that point, so we kissed again and I found myself pressed up against the side of a building in a very dark corner. Had I been wearing a skirt and not jeans, I’m sure we would have had sex right there, but somewhere, somehow, he pulled together enough self restraint to lower the heat to a slow simmer instead of a raging cauldron. Even now as dawn breaks, I’m still bubbling from his touch and doubt I’ll need sleep to see me through the day.

We talked. For hours. From dusk until just a few minutes ago, when he saw me to my car. He told me he’d been to my last public lecture and seeking a bit of praise to erase the criticism I’d received earlier, I told him all and purged the humiliation I’d suffered. He assured me, as a student of that age himself, that I’d nailed more facts, provided more authentic feeling, than any other professor on the subject than he’d ever witnessed. As he could quote lectures from some of my professors and scholars before them, I believed him. Maybe also because I wanted to believe him. But the way he told me how I brought dusty history to life thrilled him to the marrow, melted me completely. I know empty praise when I hear it, and Jean Baptiste did not offer vague platitudes. I just had to kiss him again for that. Ah yes, I feel most sluttish, but this man merely has to look at me and I feel as if I’m on the edge of an orgasm much less touch or kiss him.

Tomorrow (today?) I have only two classes, both lectures, which I may let Mattias give for me. It’s my birthday and I’m meeting Jean Baptiste for dinner. I intend to make it a night never to be forgotten. Starting with a trip to Riverside Spa for the full treatment. I’m two years away from forty, I intend to treat myself right for a change. Jean Baptiste, I sure hope you’re ready for me – as my students would say - LOL.


Maithe said...

Morgan, I am so caught-up with this story! I can't wait for the next part. *G*



Morgan O'Reilly said...


and next week things get soooo much more.... well, you'll have to wait and see, now won't you??

Thanks for reading along! Jmo and I are having a blast writing this!