Remembered (Erotic Romance) (Bound By Time)

  Remembered

  (Erotic Romance)

  Book #1

  Bound By Time series

  Copyright © 2013 Victoria Jade

  All Rights Reserved

  www.victoriajade.com

  Contents

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Remembered

  Also by

  About the Author

  Victoria Jade

  www.victoriajade.com

  Victoria Jade has been reading romance novels since she can remember, and hasn't run across a romance genre she doesn't like.

  When not spending time with her hunky husband and spunky dog, Victoria can be found writing or traveling.

  Books by Victoria Jade include:

  Erotic Romance:

  Remembered, Book #1, Bound By Time series

  Torn, Book #2, Bound By Time series

  Matched, Book #3, Bound By Time series

  Destined, Book #4, Bound By Time series

  & an upcoming erotic romantic comedy series

  Single Romance titles:

  To be listed soon ...

  Remembered

  Book #1

  Bound By Time

  Present Tense

  Pierce trailed his full, supple lips from Deelia's willing mouth to the throbbing hollow at her throat. As she wound her fingers through his shoulder-length raven black hair, he moved his lips lower...

  "Really, Mac?" I said, turning away from my computer monitor.

  Truth be told, I was getting aroused ... and maybe a little embarrassed. Why? Because I knew Mac, the author of the erotica novel, personally.

  We usually worked together on historical or research projects. The erotic novel was a favor. He asked me to read it and give him my honest opinion. The trouble was, that I couldn't be objective. For some reason, I kept picturing myself as Deelia, and Mac as Pierce.

  I licked my parched lips and adjusted myself on my chair, which had suddenly become uncomfortable. After a deep breath, I turned back to read Mac's words.

  "Now, Pierce!" Deelia arched her back and directed his hungry mouth to her erect nipple. "Make love to me now!"

  As much as I fantasized about being that direct, I knew it was never gonna happen. For one thing, I'm more of a finisher than a starter. For another, I'm not movie star beautiful. I'm just average. The kind of sex that happened to Deelia and Pierce didn't happen to people like me.

  For starters, I'm 5' 9" and on the slender side. Not tall enough to be a runway model, or skinny enough, either. I've been told I have a nice smile and big brown eyes, but that's pretty much it. Even my ex-fiancé posted a FB status saying I was "nothing special."

  It probably should have hurt my feelings, but it really didn't. I am what I am. It is what it is.

  I do, however, have an enquiring mind, due in part to the fact that I'm a research writer. What do I research? Anything and everything. Sex to cinnamon. Time travel to ménage à trois. Guano to Gibraltar.

  But getting back to men and my lack of one: Most of the men I meet don't want to date "nothing special." They don't even want "nothing special" for a one-nighter. All the men I meet want someone who can knock their socks off at first glance. Then, someone who can blow their socks off -- if you get my drift.

  It's no wonder I'm single. But just to be clear: I'm not desperate, I'm single. There is a difference.

  My best friend, Annie, is gorgeous. Men-drop-to-their-knees-in-front-of-her gorgeous. The weird thing is, if Annie finds herself single for more than 24 hours, she's in a panic.

  "Any day now, someone is going to realize how pretty you really are," Annie tells me at least two or three times a month. "I just wish you'd let me help you with your makeup."

  As if makeup is what's holding me back. But if it is, I guess I'd rather be single than be with someone that shallow.

  Jeez! I'm beginning to sound sad even to myself. But all that's about to change, so bear with me.

  A little back-story: I live 1000 miles from my parents and four brothers. I live in Sioux Falls. Yes, South Dakota. So how did I leave one of the Midwest's biggest cities to settle here?

  Chance. At least it seemed that way to me when it happened. I got a job offer, loaded my car with my possessions, and drove here. Unfortunately, it only took a week before I decided I didn't like the job -- or more specifically, my new boss's groping hands.

  Long story short, I stayed. Or should I say Sioux Falls compelled me to stay. Each attempt I made to leave was met with abysmal failure. At least if felt that way at the time.

  But now that I think about it, I'd have to say the move to Sioux Falls was fated.

  Then, a few weeks ago, everything about my life changed.

  I'm writing this account immediately after I returned to the present -- the second time -- with the hope that reliving my incredible experience will help me decide what I should do.

  I mean, what would you do, if you had the best sex imaginable with someone you already knew and cared for, but in a different time, before you got to know him in the present? Then you met a second man who was just as perfect, but...

  It's complicated. To complicate matters even further, Mac lives across the pond. More precisely -- Wales. I'm talking about my good friend, Mac. Macsen Adda Yates, author of epics and erotica. The other man of my dreams enters the picture a little bit later, so hold tight.

  I know I should just make up my mind, but I'm spoiled with choices. Really fabulous choices. And I truly don't think there is just one right choice. Still, a couple is only two people, so someone's gonna end up the odd man (or woman) out.

  I challenge you to see if you would make the same choice at the end my travels.

  So without further ado, my account of the week before my first time travel experience...

  BP -- Before the Postcard

  As a research writer, I meet a lot of writers and wannabe writers from around the globe. That really is the best part of my job. I have friends from every corner of the world. Literally.

  The most famous of my friends is Mac Yates. I've already mentioned that he's a writer. He's from Conwy, Wales, and is known across Europe for his epic war and biographical historicals. I, and I alone, also know him for his erotic tales. I'll soon know him even more intimately.

  The Mac I know in the present looks a bit like a middle-aged James Bond. He's debonair, intelligent, and sexy as hell, though I've never intimated as much to him. Did I mention that he's charming, too? And he's said more than once that he is developing a crush on me, despite our age difference.

  Everyone says there's nothing more titillating than an encounter with a complete stranger. Not me. I think there's nothing sexier than connecting with someone you already know intimately.

  After Mac hired me to "Americanize" his writing for a New York publisher, we got to know each other personally, too. I learned that he's six feet tall, ruggedly handsome, has nice teeth, and salt and pepper hair. Add that to the other adjectives I mentioned earlier and you come up with dreamy. At any age.

  His last wife left him for another man a few years ago, and in his early thirties, he had his heart broken by an American woman. Mac said the American was the love of his life, but when he realized she wasn't coming back, he let his second and last wife convince him that he should wed her and be done stringing her along.

  Mac told me over the phone that the personal photos I sent him were now a cherished possession. When he told me in that sexy accent of his that I was as breathtaking to look at as I was to listen to, my knees went weak.

  I told you he was charming.

  After we ended the conversation, I was surprised to realize my he
art was beating double-time. I pictured him talking to me in person, wearing a tartan kilt, even though I knew kilts were more often associated with Scotsmen than with Welshmen.

  I pictured Mac pressing himself against me, face to face, and me brazenly running my hand down the back of his kilt and discovering that he wore nothing beneath. The sudden rush of desire shocked me.

  Mac was a dear friend.

  He was old enough to be my father.

  I was employed by him.

  Yet, just like the Deelia of his erotic novels, I realized that I truly wanted him. With me. In me. In every way possible.

  But maybe I was thinking about him in such an intimate way because I hadn't been on a real date in months. And during that time, Mac had been sending a nonstop stream of his erotica my way. So I guess it really wasn't that surprising that I was beginning to view him in such a sexual manner.

  "He's your boss!" I chided myself. "You're gonna screw up the best-paying job you ever had if you're not careful."

  Despite my self-warning, Mac was on my mind as my phone rang that evening.

  "Hello, love," Mac said, his sexy accent caressing over me like a sheet of fine silk.

  His brogue never got old. I immediately became Deelia, and my pussy began to tingle in anticipation even though I was in no position to be fulfilled by Pierce -- or Mac.

  "Those are the sweetest words I've heard all day. And night. What's up?"I asked breezily. I wasn't expecting a call because Mac called once a week to check in on me. He'd called three days ago.

  "I miss you, Penny."

  Mac's words were soft, yet held such a depth of feeling that it took my breath away.

  I'm sure there was a minute of dead air while I sorted through my brain for a translation of his words. When I couldn't think of anything beyond the literal, I then sorted through my brain for a suitable response.

  "I miss talking to you, too," I said.

  Mac laughed. God! Even his gravely laugh was sexy. I tried to swallow the lump in my suddenly dry throat.

  "That's not exactly what I was hopin' for, but it's a start," he said. "I'd like ye to come to Wales."

  I wasn't expecting those words, even though I'd fantasized about it plenty of times.

  "I'd like me to come to Wales, too," I said, my voice quivering just the tiniest bit. I hoped he didn't notice. He'd probably wonder what had gotten into his proper, capable Penelope Money.

  Yes, Penny Money. My real name is Penelope Money, but no one calls me Penelope. Not even my mom and dad. They named me that in a sort of dyslexic homage to Moneypenny of 007 fame. Shock of shocks, one of my brothers is named Edward (Eddie) Money. So I guess I got the better name. But just barely.

  The more I thought about it, the more I realized I really did want to go to Wales. To see Mac. And more than see him, if I was honest with myself. It didn't matter if Mac was 130 years old and I was 18. We had a connection. We really did.

  "I'd swim across the pond this very second if I could," I told Mac. "But right now I can't afford to travel." Which was a silly thing to say. The way I was going, I'd never be able to afford it. I was paying rent on my little house outside of town, eating, maintaining my car, and not a whole lot else.

  "And it would be improper for me to pay for the trip?" Mac asked, in a voice that didn't hold a trace of irritation. It was like he knew I was going to say it ahead of time, so he decided to get it out of the way before I voiced it.

  "Something like that," I said, hearing the smile in my voice.

  There was a pause again. Not uncomfortable. Just thoughtful.

  "What if I brought you here to do research for me? All expenses paid, of course."

  So tempting. But I knew he most likely couldn't afford it right now. He had a bunch of legal stuff going. People across the pond were just as nasty when it came to trying to weasel money away from someone if they thought they could.

  Macsen was embroiled in a family affair that left me feeling angry and incredulous. His adopted son was now trying to say Mac was incompetent and was trying to take over his estate.

  Not a good idea to visit him right now, I thought. If his son caught wind that Mac was trying to bring a much younger woman overseas to stay with him, Mac would undoubtedly have even more troubles heaped on his plate.

  "There's nothing I'd like more, Mac," I told him. "You know that."

  "I'm waiting for the but," he said, again the twinkling smile in his voice. "I know it's coming."

  "But," I said, unable to bite back a grin. "I just can't get away right at the moment."

  "Ahh," he said.

  The way he said ahh made me want to melt. It was gravelly and soft at the same time.

  "We'll meet in person one day soon," I said, as much to placate him as myself. Suddenly I couldn't think of one thing I wanted more than to meet him in person. I wanted to feel his arms around me in a welcome hug.

  I could feel it now: Mac holding me at arm's length, devouring me with his hungry gaze, before slowly leaning in to give me a kiss.

  Except his kiss didn't say, "I'm so glad to finally meet ye." It was a kiss that said I've waited for ye for what seems like an eternity. This is the beginning, Penny. Not the middle. Not the end.

  I had an odd feeling that all Mac's kisses would be like that.

  I blinked away my reverie and realized that there was nothing but silence and the sound of heavy breathing -- my own -- in my ear.

  "Sorry," I said. "I was distracted."

  "Now ye know how I feel," he said, his voice again all sexy and slow. Like he had just awoken from a nap. I pictured Mac in bed, naked, and ...

  Wait! What? Was Mac intimating that I was distracting, or was I just hoping he was intimating that I was distracting?

  I didn't want to jump to conclusions. We were literally worlds apart. We got mixed up talking about simple things like biscuits (cookies in America) and the boot of a car (the trunk of a car in the USA).

  "Actually, Penny Money. You've distracted me since the moment we discovered each other."

  Discovered each other? Before I could formulate an answer to his earnest and somewhat puzzling statement, he was already speaking again, his brogue making my belly and below tighten in anticipation.

  Maybe my friend, Annie was right. Maybe there really was such a thing as needing to get laid. Apparently when you didn't, little comments suddenly became grand statements that made you horny for no reason.

  "I-I don't know what to say," I said.

  He chuckled again. I wish I could tell you that it snapped me out of my lusty mood, but all it did was fan the flames. The way things were going, I was going to have to finish myself off after we quit talking.

  "Then it's probably time to let ye get back to yer projects," Mac said, amusement in his voice. "I'll check back in with ye later in the week." He paused. "By the way, I sent ye a postcard a few days ago. It's from a photo I took years ago. I think ye'll find it intriguing."

  A postcard? How odd. Mac started off the phone conversation by offering me a plane ticket to see him, and ended it with a postcard. Was this some sort of odd consolation prize? I wondered.

  It seemed odd to offer me a trip, then tell me he was sending me a postcard. But maybe the postcard tied in somehow with the trip he offered me.

  "The time I've spent with ye has been the happiest of my life," Mac said.

  As he ended the call, my heart skipped a beat.

  Mac's words could have made me sad if I took them to mean an ending of sorts, but I heard a promise. Like he hoped I would reconsider and take him up on his offer of a plane ticket so we could make even happier memories in person.

  I set the phone down with shaking hands and sat in the English antique chaise I'd found at a yard sale smack dab in the middle of Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

  I reran Mac's words through my mind. It was by far the shortest phone call we'd ever had. Most of them ran about a half hour or longer. But to me, this call was the most intense. Something hung between us that tran
scended mere words.

  "Get a grip!" I told myself.

  But my heart still thumped in my chest and the needy ache in the pit of my stomach had now spread to the V between my legs.

  I'm not really the masturbating kind of woman. The only time I resort to that is when I feel like a good bedding will cure what ails me.

  A good bedding? Cure what ails me? Jeez! Now I was using Mac's steamy erotica terminology.

  Mac believes sex should be the logical result of a real connection between two people -- not the other way around. At least that's the impression I get.

  No. We haven't discussed sex on the phone. It's what I took away from reading tome after tome of his collection of personal memoirs and erotica.

  Mac does have a point, though. Who doesn't want a bond so deep and real that you can share everything, from your deepest thoughts to sex, with nothing being off limits?

  I closed my eyes and eased my head back against the upholstery of my chaise.

  I thought about Mac and his words of a few moments ago, then the photos he'd sent me. Each of them was taken when Mac was between 25 and 35, except for a fairly recent one taken at one of his book signings. Nothing in between. So it shouldn't be surprising that when I picture Mac, I usually see him in my mind's eye at about 30 years old -- my age. I'll be 30 this year, anyway.

  Mac had a picture of me taken a few months ago. I was at a writers' retreat, staring off into the sunset. I was wearing a tank top and shorts because the retreat was held in the desert. At least my legs look long and toned. I sent it to Mac because it was the hottest picture of me I owned.

  Speaking of hot, the more I thought about Mac, the warmer I got. Eyes still closed, I began unbuttoning my top. It was short sleeved, with pearl buttons. I undid them slowly, one button at a time.

  As I undid the buttons with my eyes closed, I swear it wasn't my hand that was unbuttoning the buttons. It was Mac. And he looked exactly as he did in the photo taken in the Welsh countryside.