Bending Tyme by Maria-Claire Payne

while he held the reins and his mount steady. Esme shook in the chill air and Logan, cursing under his breath, pulled her closer against his body.
    “Why does each day and night begin with such a display between us?”
    Esme looked up into his troubled face, torn between wanting to slap him and just…wanting him. “I don’t know, Logan. Maybe because I’m a bad fit for this time and place.”
    Hurt, Logan looked away. “Yet I think you an excellent fit for me.”
    Esme turned her head. “Oh, Logan…”
    “I lack any skill to return you to your own time, but I can return you to more familiar territory, perhaps. I will make arrangements for us to travel to Boston.”

      “These rooms seem a bit tight but I thought we’d share one, especially with no other passengers to outrage with our scandalous behaviour,” Esme suggested, tentatively—that clenched jaw of Logan’s boded ill. She reached out to him. “Long trip ahead of us…”
    Esme stopped talking.
    “I will have all of you, or none of you.”
    Her chin lifted. “Some people might suggest that’s cutting off your nose to spite your face.”
    Logan pushed her hands away.
    “I know not how to be casual in any bed we share, Esme.”
    “Fine,” she muttered, walking away. “As always, as you wish, Lord Davenport.”

    Logan returned to his stateroom, furious—with himself or with Esme, he did not know. Watching her on deck—this ship moving her ever closer to leaving him—had left him raging. Logan poured a liberal measure of brandy and stretched out on the small bed, the steady rocking of the ship reminding him of the rhythm of their lovemaking, how she felt in his arms, how he felt deep inside her…
    He snatched up his riding crop, testing the popper against a teacup, cracking it in two, the sound fuelling his frustration.
    Logan lowered his breeches, intending to force a quick release of the tension building within, but he closed his eyes, slowing his hand, imagining her fingers, not his own, wrapped around his cock. His other hand closed on the locket he carried with him always—no need to gaze on the face within. He had memorised each curve, the reality of her a revelation after long years of wondering…
    Logan spread his legs, cupping his balls, feeling her mouth licking, sucking, one finger stroking that sensitive skin between his testicles and his anus, where no one else had touched him before Esme.
    Logan groaned, rock-hard, his hand moving faster now, his fist rolling over the head of his cock, imagining her mouth on his erect length while he tongued her wet depths, the scent of her passion filling his nostrils…
    Dropping the locket, his free hand closed on his riding crop, envisioning the worn leather against her fair arse. Logan came, calling her name, his seed spilling over his fist and into his bed, where he lay…alone.

    Pondering one of their conversations, Byron stood on deck with Esme during the final hours of the interminable journey, watching the stars overhead.
    Byron scowled, noticing the dark circles shadowing Esme’s eyes that attested to her sad mood. “You decry your modern interpretation of the fairy tales inspired by the inimitable Brothers Grimm, yet you still wish Logan to appear from his chamber to sweep you from your feet for a happily-ever-after.”
    Esme frowned. “My head tells me fairytale endings don’t happen, but my heart still wants one.”
    Byron shook his head. “Society bound you by its peculiar conventions in your time. You say your success depended in part on your abiding by sets of rules—it is no different to the way Logan is bound by the conventions of his station, in this time.”
      “Logan was born to privilege. I worked hard to be successful in my own time, George.”
    Byron looked down at her. “And how was that working out for you?”
    Esme frowned, hearing her own words echoed back at her, the truth offering no comfort.
    “Ah, Esme, time bent once before to bring you here. Can Tyme