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There's a muted thudding sound. The slowly coalescing darkness and absence of a corresponding pain in her skull at least relieves Jennifer of the worry she's hungover.
She thinks back just to be sure, and - yes. She'd definitely only had one glass of champagne at the party. (Her husband's kisses were far more intoxicating.)
And what they'd gotten up to after the party had been... Oh.
Oh, dear, Jennifer thinks as the smile just beginning to bloom across her kiss-bruised lips drops back off. It happened again.
How it started exactly or why it keeps happening are not things they've figured out yet.
The first time, they'd woken from a post-coital doze in a "front parlour" in Regency-era England. Jonathan had forwarded the suggestion that they'd driven to one of those reenactment towns on a whim, but the poor housekeeper almost fainting over their strange (in more ways than one) appearance put paid to that in a hurry.
Worse, their wedding rings had been sitting in a pot of jeweler's wash on her vanity when they'd... left, and so the most the housekeeper would accept was that Mister Hart was betrothed but not married to Miss Edwards. The animated tea sandwich of a woman had proven a most variable chaperone, disappearing for hours yet popping into rooms with such stealth that it just kept the couple too on edge to fall into their typical pattern of constant and casual affection lest she catch them.
So Jennifer endured fussy little shoes and empire-waist gowns and bonnets, and rare soft presses of lips to the back of her gloved hand instead of anywhere else, and nights alone in a cloudlike bed while her body burned for her husband. She clung to her respectability (and sanity) by her fingernails at the sight of Jonathan in cutaway coats and breeches.
It was the polo pants all over again. Mr. Darcy could never.
After days of futile research and three nights spent talking through their locked adjoining door, Jennifer had finally gone the romantic foolhardy route and climbed the freshly finished trellis leading to Jonathan's room just so they could get a decent night's sleep in each other's arms.
A small part of Jennifer also hoped that the same circumstances that had seen them here might see them back. She awoke happier and much refreshed, but still in the same 'when' she'd gone to sleep in.
And nothing else was working. Naps in the parlour, half-remembered incantations, a visit to the apothecary, doing the hokey pokey backwards, and even clicking their heels and saying 'there's no place like home' had all had no effect. She missed their house, and their Max, and their little dog too.
(And, not to place too fine a point upon it, Jennifer Hart missed sex. She missed making love with her husband. She missed fucking her darling until they couldn't breathe and then snuggling until they could again. She missed carnality and intimacy, passionate kisses and the taste of sweat, the tangle of their fingers and the singular sensation of Jonathan's chest hair tickling her nipples.)
So it was that after a further three days, the novelty of gentle courtship had fully worn off and the worry over causing a scandal for whoever they were supposed to be had been bowled over as she launched herself at Jonathan in the drawing room like an orgasm-seeking missile.
Jennifer didn't need foreplay. Jennifer did not want foreplay. She'd had a week of jumbled emotions, academic futility, coy flirtations, and fantasies bordering on the deviant, and that splendid ass of his in a second skin of maddeningly soft material she could not touch that had left her perpetually wetter than a field at dawn.
Mouths devouring each other, his hands sweeping up the voluminous folds of her muslin dress while her fingers all but ripped the buttons on his placket in her haste to get at his engorgement, she'd hauled him in by his lapels for a bruising kiss, shoved him on the settee, climbed astride his lap, and sank onto him with a bone-deep sigh of relief before riding him in a frenzy to a hurried mutual completion.
She could breathe again. She felt whole again. His arms held her, his lips met hers while they came down from the universal heights - and just like that, they were home.
Making love had been the way home for them. It was sort of sweet, in a cosmic mystery kinda way.
As it happened, time also worked on a Narnia principle when they were... elsewhere. (Elsewhen?) The days that had passed before they landed back in their living room (presumably the closest modern equivalent) and in their modern clothes had been a handful of hours at home.
There had been a slight ruckus, which Max came to investigate brandishing a cast-iron pan and chomping a cigar. But the sight of Mrs. H in the lap of Mr. H on the couch was entirely unsurprising to him, and so he'd gone back to the kitchen to finish making lunch.
Weeks pass uneventfully before it happens again, and while it's never happened on a night they only fall asleep together, the Harts are not giving up their sex life on the off chance it makes the universe stop yo-yoing them around the timespace continuum.
Of the dozen occurrences thus far, they'd only taken the time to explore and "live the experience" once besides the first. Navigating a temporary existence like you'd been thrust onstage at the Pantages with no script was nerve-wracking, and they did have a life they genuinely loved to get back to. The jaunts to other times hadn't seemed to have influence over their current timeline, but they remembered butterfly wings and all that, just in case.
However, Versailles had been too incredible not to linger at least a little. A sort of second honeymoon in miniature, since Jonathan had taken her through a good chunk of Europe on their first go-round. And most days with her darling husband were a prolonged honeymoon anyway.
They'd had a ball roaming the grounds, playing croquet on the lawns, enjoying sumptuous meals, and driving each other wild with teasing touches and long passionate interludes that went right up to the line of triggering their return.
The sense memory of being taken in the Hall of Mirrors on their last night would stay burned in her mind until the day she died: the slide of cool glass against the bared patches of her fevered skin, scented beeswax and smoke from the candles shimmering like private stars mixing with the heady parfum naturel of their coupling, the sound of grunts and gasps and the soft scratch of nails over embroidered satin, and the mind-bending vision of their passion reflected a hundredfold.
But that was then.
Now, Jennifer eases up from the wooden tabletop she's currently draped over like a chaise longue, and begins to get her bearings.
She's in a conference room of sorts: a long table ringed with a blend of rolling and standard chairs, half-glass walls set in metal framing. The thudding isn't someone trying to break down the door (again) but rather the pulsing bass of some kind of music rising from the floor below. A party in a converted warehouse space. Interesting idea.
A calendar on the nearby wall informs her it's later than it's been the other times, about a decade ahead. First time in the future, but the wavering reflection on the shivering window looks the same. While she's looking forward to aging gracefully and seeing Jonathan as a full silver fox (though she'll love him even if he goes bald as a cue ball), she admits to herself she's a little glad they retain the bodies they went to sleep in. They may act like teenagers but haven't gone through the pain of adolescence again, and getting home doesn't have to be hard on the joints just yet.
She takes a few tentative steps forward to peek through the nearest window and sees an undulating wave of humanity in vibrant clothing gyrating to the beat. The faint purplish glow of the huge lightboxes coupled with the neon splashes of liquid landing on surfaces living and otherwise as people hammer on paint-filled drums lining the floor lead to the realization it's one of those... raves. It does look like messy fun, and if she were wearing something less structured, she could probably slide right in to the crush without anyone paying too much attention...
But she wants to find her husband. Jonathan has never been anywhere but right beside her, and they do have that stockholders meeting in the morning. It's probably advantageous to spend as many hours in their own bed as possible - whether they're sleeping or not.
Turning her back on the dayglo-a-gogo happening downstairs, Jennifer gasps. Seated in a highback armless chair near the other end of the table is Jonathan, the blacklight illuminating his shirt - and a few drops on his jacket that she prays are anything but blood.
His chin is on his chest. His wrists are bound to the chair legs.
"Darling!" She gasps, moving to his side. He jolts, lifts and shakes his head carefully, then fixes his eyes on hers. "Are you all right?"
Jonathan indulges in a sigh before replying. "I'm fine, darling. Just annoyed. This is not exactly how I pictured being tied up this evening."
At least he sounds close to his usual self, she thinks with relief as he delivers the requested rundown of what the hell was going on.
They hadn't arrived together this time. Jonathan had been found in a dark corner of the room, and the people who apparently own the place were not pleased about unexpected guests beyond the paying partiers downstairs. And he couldn't exactly tell them the truth, or use the get-out-of-jail-free card that his name usually is. When talking his way out had failed, Jonathan had tried to fight his way out. Two out of three had met his fists then the floor, but unfortunately the third had gotten the drop on him.
They'd worked him over a bit and tied him up out of the way, intending to come back and deal with him when the ravers departed.
There are a few pieces of good news. Jennifer had appeared only after the thugs had taken their leave, and his wallet, spare moneyclip, and the cache of cash he'd won during the poker game at the party are in her handbag. They hadn't been able to get off his wedding or signet rings, and the Rolex they had taken mostly has sentimental value. The few injuries they've sustained in other places never seem to follow them home, as though the time heals all wounds. And the thugs hadn't felt the need to post a guard.
She still has to get them out of here fast.
Moving behind him, she checks out the ropes. It's rough stuff, hurting her fingertips with little effort. The knots aren't expertly done, but they're holding fast and could easily snarl if attacked the wrong way. Her little nail file would take hours to cut through, she doesn't want to go blindly hunting for a knife or scissors, and she will not risk burning him with the flickable lighter she spots through the gloom.
A memory rises like a heat shimmer of the times they've played with ties and candlewax, but she shoves it down. Not the same, and not the time.
She stands, gets her fingers in his hair, pulls his head back and kisses him - hard once, then a string of light pecks around his mouth like she's framing a window at Christmas before she peppers a few along his jawline. Her teeth find that spot on his neck while her hands skim down his front, subtly probing for any severe injuries. Promising herself a more thorough examination once they're home again, she draws back up and walks around to stand before him.
The banded lycra of her pencil skirt comes up without much fuss, and he draws in a sharp breath at the sight of her. She hadn't bothered with underwear, avoiding pantylines and providing ease of access for her husband in one go. Jonathan takes a moment to marvel at the way the straps of the garter belt hold up the stockings hugging her legs and frame her center perfectly.
(She also has excellent muscle control, and the arousal that would leave her panties a soaked mess hasn't left a trace on her skirt.)
Her manicured nails drag over the superfine material of his trousers, and even in the erratic light she can tell he's good to go. Risks are usually calculated in their world, but danger has rarely been anathema to libido - save the rare exceptions she was truly in peril. Restorative lovemaking to resettle their equilibrium like the time that moronic bet had tried to force them apart was blessedly rare, and celebratory "that was fun and we didn't die!" sex tended to be wonderfully life-affirming.
Still, she takes a minute to give him a filthy kiss with plentiful flashes of tongue while she massages him through the fabric before undoing the clasp, drawing down the zip, and freeing his erection.
His body is tense as she shifts closer, teases herself a few times with his tip, lines them up, and takes him in, inch by torturous inch. It's been mere hours but God how her body has missed him.
Their eyes are locked onto one another as they share a breath, yet something feels... off. Other than the bizarre and slightly fraught circumstances, that is.
As she sinks down, she gives his shoulders a bracing and comforting squeeze. The soft fabric still covering the tops of his thighs tickles the skin on the back of hers as he fills her completely, and she takes a moment to breathe at the sensation but still can't put her finger on what feels- oh. His hands are missing.
There's no corresponding grip on her hips, no strong band of an arm around her waist, no soft scrape of nails making her shiver.
This is the first time they've been together that he isn't touching her. They've been handcuffed together, tied up together, and she doesn't have time to tally up the instances where one or the other took the lead or stayed out of reach while they wound each other up before giving in.
But the actual sex, the making of love between them has always had touching. Their hands were made to hold each other, always and in all ways.
And it's not as though he isn't trying. Over the crashing beats and booming bass she can feel echoing in her bones is the creaking of the ropes as he pulls, abrading the skin on his wrists, quietly desperate to get his hands on her.
Her heart swells with the love she holds for her man the way her lungs fill with the breath he's constantly stealing through gasps and giggles. Jennifer vows to make it good as she can now, to remake the experience (if he wants) into something playful later.
She moves. Her hands touch everywhere they can reach, alluring, reassuring, compensating. Her thighs burn as she rises and rolls over him, bringing him with her as they race for the peak. Her lips tingle from the answering pressure of his own until his mouth moves to trail kisses down the column of her throat. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, clinging tight as she stretches her neck a bit to whisper a loving command and get his earlobe between her teeth.
Jonathan groans an "I love you" against her skin and Jennifer shatters around him. He comes hard, deep within her. She can feel every molten spurt as he inscribes himself on a fresh page of the manuscript he's been writing in her soul since they met.
They're both trembling a little as they calm down, vibrating like violin strings after the last note has been played. Jennifer doesn't want to move, just wants to hold and be held by her husband and sleep for a week.
Soon.
Almost there. The lights and music are receding like a wave into the growing darkness, and there's a soft pop like a disappearing soap bubble.
They're home, Jonathan slumped in one of the carved chairs ringing their dining table, arms comfortably wound around the boneless wife in whom his still half-hard cock is happily nestled.
"Darling?" he murmurs against that one particular spot behind her ear.
A drawn-out "mmmmmm" is her reply as she stretches indolently like a sated feline, and he's subjected to some new and pleasurable sensations.
Jonathan appeases his previously thwarted desire to touch by mapping the planes of her back, holding her close and breathing her in before he molds his hands to her hips and lifts her off, eliciting a stretched out squeal of surprise that ends when she finds her feet, leaning against the table's edge.
"Something on your mind, sailor?" Her skirt is still rucked up, and he stares, fascinated, where she's clenched so tightly that not a single drop of them makes it past the sensual smear he's left glistening on the inside of her thighs.
"Well," he begins, smoothly surging to his feet like a jungle cat. "We worked up a bit of an appetite just now."
Hazel eyes glittering like gemstones, her response is practically purred. "Are you saying you're hungry again?"
"I'm definitely in the mood for a midnight snack, if you'd care to indulge me," he says with a thread of playful imperiousness, a king expressing delight with his queen.
She pushes off and starts to smooth down the fabric as she asks if he'd like her to ring for Max, but he stops her, cupping and squeezing her pert bottom as he urges her back to hop up on the polished hardwood. She lets out a giggle that turns into a sigh as he presses a hand over her heart (his heart) and feels the shared beats kiss his palm as he eases her down onto her back.
The look in her eyes levels him, and he silently swears he'll kiss her til they're both breathless. Later.
"Max is out for the night, darling. And I'd much prefer to... serve myself." The hand on her body takes the scenic route down as it tours the peak of a nipple and the valley between her breasts, and indulges in a tickling flutter just below her ribcage. He grips and stretches and eases the fabric over her hips, whipping the skirt down her legs and knocking her shoes off. His hands reverently caress her calves before hooking behind her knees to tug her closer to the edge as he resumes his seat at the head of the table.
"In that case..." Her legs part in blatant invitation as she plants the balls of her stockinged feet on the arms of his throne. "Bon appetit, mon coeur."
Jonathan licks his lips and breathes a quick word of thanks for the bounty he is about to receive before lowering his mouth to the feast.
And time stands still.