Sandra Cranston, an elementary teacher on leave, discovers a carriage deep in the woods. Inside is a man, Jerrod Ross, who fuels all of her wicked Regency dreams and fantasies.
Ross has been torn from the only world he has ever known—1821 Cornwall, England. How will he adjust to the future and his growing desire for the lovely lady who found him? More importantly, how will he ever return to his time?
Jerrod pulled on the black 'jeans', as Sandra called them. They were as form fitting as any of his breeches, very form fitting. Sandra had shown him how to operate the zipper contraption, amazing really. He grasped the metal tab and pulled, taking a slice of skin off his finger in the process.
Sandra came running in when she heard the cursing.
"Damn and blast! One can suffer serious injury just dressing."
His irritation dissipated as he followed her gaze toward the matter of his undress. He was quite exposed, even though he was wearing those 'boxer briefs' she had given him. They too, were quite snug. He rarely wore undergarments under his breeches. He hated the loose, flowing small clothes that tied at the sides. He had to admit, the under wear, as she called them, was like a second skin. He liked the feel of it, and obviously it was needed to protect one's privates from these dangerous metal teeth of the zipper. He winced inwardly at the thought of his tackle being caught in such a device.
"I can't work the dammed thing," he snarled quietly. “Would you mind?"
He could have sworn her mouth dropped open. But, to her credit, she did not hesitate. She walked toward him and reached for the tab of the zipper. Her fingers lightly brushed past his cock, his reaction was immediate and very noticeable, making putting up the zipper even more of a challenge. He drew a ragged breath. She stepped closer, lowering her head. The flowery scent from her hair was tantalizing. She pulled. The zipper stuck.
Jerrod heard her sigh. She pulled and tried again. It went up half way. She stepped back quickly like she had been burned.
"You can manage the rest," she mumbled. “The shaving cream and razor are in the bathroom, call if you need me.” Sandra turned as if to flee, but he reached out and softly held her wrist. God's blood, he was aroused.
“Stay, Sandra, please,” he managed. He reached for her hand. Was it his fervent imagination, or was her hand trembling as well? She nodded, and he took her hand. It was small, warm, and feminine, nearly disappearing in his. It felt as if it belonged in his. He let go, quickly buttoned the shirt and stuffed it under the waistband of his jeans, then continued to fight with the zipper. Finally, he got it up.
He rubbed the quite visible whiskers now showing on his face. He was anxious to shave. “Come with me, Sandra?”
Once they reached the bathroom he looked around. Where was the razor? Letting go of Sandra’s hand, he picked up a cylindrical object, and pressed the button on the top. A mighty exhale of air was quickly followed by a mass of white cream. He sniffed, almost a minty odor. Was this the shaving cream she spoke of? He rubbed it between his fingers. Most interesting. Still, he saw no razor. There was something with a handle next to the cream. Jerrod laid down the cream, it went all over the wall, and himself. Grumbling, he reached for a towel and began to wipe.
A sexy laugh bubbled from Sandra, a sensual sound that went straight to his cock, hardening it even more. Her laugh was glorious, but she made no move to assist him. She just crossed her arms and watched him, a sexy, amused grin on her lovely face. Minx. After he removed the mess, he reached for the handled object. He stroked a finger over the top, slicing his skin. A small dot of blood rose to the surface. He sucked on it, while staring at the object. Not a straight razor as he was used to, but some sort of razor nonetheless. He pressed a button and the bloody thing began to vibrate in his hand. He shouted and dropped it like he was handling hot coals.
“The bloody thing is alive!” he cried out.
Sandra bent down to pick it up. She flicked the button and turned it off. “It’s a Gillette Fusion razor, it vibrates, to give you a closer shave. See? Five blades.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Five blades? I am hardly a suckling pig to be carved into bits. Do you perhaps have a straight razor?”
Sandra laughed again. It was such a pleasurable sound, he longed for it to continue. “Only serial killers use those. Is that what you used? It’s a wonder you didn’t lop your head off.”
Jerrod’s handsome face twisted in confusion, frustration and irritation. He felt out of his element, as he had ever since he awoke in her room. She stepped in close, the razor still in her hand. Her countenance was playful, her eyes mischievous. Or was it desire?
“Would you like me to shave you?”Her voice was deep, husky, he would daresay, suggestive.
Jerrod playfully leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Do you make a habit of this? Offering to assist a man in his toilette?” His breath fanned her cheek like a wave of hot sex, covering her body like a cloak. The room became close, the air vibrating with sexual tension and raw, desirous heat. “You do have experience in this, I trust.”
“I shave myself, how different can it be?”
He cocked his brow. “Indeed? And where do you…shave?”
Her face was aflame. She slammed the toilet lid down and pushed him none too gently onto the closed seat. “My legs. Women shave their legs in this time.”
He gave her his sexy, lop-sided grin. “Indeed? Now I am very intrigued.”
Sandra picked up the shave cream and spritzed some into her hands, mixed it between her palms, and leaned down to spread a thin film over his face. He spread his long legs wide, allowing her to step in closer to him. He wanted her as close as she could get. His cock was hard as stone. He looked up at her.
She looked nervous, and excited, he could see desire in her lovely gray eyes. Picking up the Fusion, she flicked on the button, and a low hum filled the silence surrounding them. Her breasts slightly brushed by his cheek, a low growl rumbled deep in his chest. Jerrod reached over with a long finger and swiped the bit of shave cream that was on her sweater, right on the nipple. Barely there contact, but enough to have that flame between them roar to life. He smiled seductively as he wiped the cream on his own throat.
He slid over on the closed toilet seat, so that his thighs were touching her leg, reached behind her back, and eased her down until she was sitting on his leg.
“Shave me,” he whispered hoarsely.