A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest (15 page)

“Death by tickle!” he cries through his laughter.

"Uncle! Uncle!" I cry, knowing he won't understand my plea. "I surrender! I surrender! No one can withstand tickle torture!"

He stops. His hair has come undone from its ponytail and has fallen into his face as he stares down at me. His laughter fades and his look is dead serious.
Dead sexy. I can feel his hot breath on my face, strands of hair tickling my cheeks. Before I can do anything, say anything, he leans down and presses his mouth hard against mine.

Oh my god. What is he doing? I mean, it's very apparent what he's doing, crushing me with a kiss, stealing my breath, pinning me to the straw bed. But he thinks I'm a boy. Could he be gay? Is this time-travel trip suddenly turning into an episode of Brokeback Forest? God help me if the legendary Robin Hood suddenly wishes he could quit me.

What am I to do? His lips feel amazing. His tongue demands entrance. I can't help it. It's been so long since I had a first kiss. I submit. I open my mouth and allow him to take control. His tongue ravages mine, devours me as if I'm some sort of vital nourishment and he hasn't eaten in a year.

Then, just as suddenly as he began, he stops. Robin scrambles off me to his feet and retreats to the other side of the room. He leans down, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Looking everywhere but at me.

"Robin—" I start, realizing this is the perfect time to tell him the truth. Don't worry, dude. You're not gay. Or whatever they call it in Sherwood Forest. I'm a chick. One hundred percent woman. But he waves a hand at me, cutting off my words.

"Don't say anything!” he growls, his eyes fierce with anger. "Just leave."

"But—"

"
Begone!" he bellows.

I'm half afraid he's going to hit me—kill me, even—so I don't address the fact that he, in his mind, just made out with a guy. I pick up my skirts and flee the tower, running down the stairs, through the passage, out the door and into the courtyard. Tears stream down my face as I pass the guard and run into the field. I don't know where I'm going. I can barely see. I trip again, falling to my knees in the dirt. Unable to run any more, I allow sobs to overtake me, wracking my body, tearing at my soul.

What have I done? How did I let this happen? I hope the gypsy's not looking down on me now, shaking her head, unbelieving that someone could possibly make such a mess of a simple time-travel trip. I mean, really! How did a quest to save my coworker turn into a drama of "As the Wood Turns" proportions? All I wanted to do was find the Holy Grail. I never expected to lose my heart in the process.

At this moment, on my knees in the middle of a 12th-century English moor, I don't care much about my mission.
Or about my 21st-century life, for that matter. All I can focus on, all I can wrap my head around, is the rejection slamming into my stomach with the force of a championship boxer's' fist. Rejection from a man I've totally fallen for.

Why didn't I just tell him the truth from the start? Well, okay, maybe not the whole truth and nothing but the time-traveling truth. But I could have at least shared the fact that I have female body parts.

Stupid, Chrissie. Truly stupid.

I stumble back to my feet, my eyes too bleary from my tears to focus on which direction I should walk. I've got to get out of here.
Somewhere, anywhere. Alone. Away from this place.

"Christian, wait!"

I turn and see Robin running after me. I know I must look a total sight. Tear-stained face and red nose... I never look glamorous when I cry, like the heroines in movies always seem to do without any effort. They cry and they take on a beautiful sorrow—pale face, delicate tears. Me? I start looking like a waterlogged Bozo the Clown.

I sink back to my knees, realizing I can't escape, can't run away anymore. I have to face this. I have to tell him the truth.

Robin stands above me for a moment, hands on his hips, then sighs and scrambles down on the ground next to me. He puts a hesitant arm around my shoulder, patting me gently. It's awkward, for sure, but I can't help but lean into him a little, a desperate attempt to absorb some of his strength.

"I apologize, Christian," he says in a soothing voice. " 'Twill not happen again, I swear it. After all, I am not the sort of man who lies with boys. I just—you just—oh Mary, mother of God!" he cries, running a hand through his loose hair. "I am so sorry if I frightened you."

"I'm a girl!" I cry, unable to keep the secret a second longer. I rip out of his embrace and gesture to my body. "I'm not a boy or a man or a eunuch or anything that has even remotely to do with a Y chromosome. I'm female through and through and always have been."

"What?" he asks, disbelieving and
incredulous. "What are you going on about?"

"Don't you get it?" I ask, tears in my eyes, a lump in my throat. "I just pretended I was a boy so you wouldn't kick me out of camp. Like you did with Much the Miller's wife. You say women aren't welcome and I didn't have anyplace else to go. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lie. It's just—"

And that's all I can get out before his mouth is on mine once again, kissing me with a passion I've never felt before.

"God's teeth! How could I have been so blind?" Robin murmurs, pulling away for a moment to examine my face. His hands grip my shoulder blades. "
‘Tis so obvious. You're sweet and beautiful and fair...." He takes my face in his hands, his own inches away. I can feel his hot breath steam my lips as he studies me with his emerald eyes. "I've been fighting this ever since that day on the log. When you dove into the water to save me. I thought I was going mad. I'd never been one of those men who liked lads. But you, there is something about you, Christian—" He stops and cocks his head. "What is your true name then?"

"Chrissie," I say. "Well, technically it's Christine."

"Christine," he murmurs, reaching behind me to undo my ponytail, allowing red curls to tumble around my face. He runs his fingers through the strands in an almost worshipful caress. "Oh, Christine." He leans forward and presses a small kiss against my lips, then pulls away.

"What?" I ask, not wanting any of this to stop, even for a millisecond.

"I forget myself," he says, releasing me. "The mere fact that you are a woman does not mean you desire me. And I have never been the type to force my affections."

"Are you kidding me?" I ask. "I've wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you. Do you know how hard it's been to act like a boy this whole time?"

"I cannot imagine, my dear," Robin says fondly. "Though I must say, you did a very good job of it. I feel like quite the fool to not have guessed."

"Oh yes, you are very foolish. Very foolish indeed." I playfully plant a kiss on his nose. He smirks and returns the gesture, adding a loud smacking sound effect.

I giggle, throwing my hands above my head and collapsing into the grass—all the weight and stress of my secret lifted from my shoulders. I feel light enough to fly. And certainly happy enough. What had I been so afraid of? He's not mad I'm a girl. If anything, he's overjoyed.

Robin pulls on my hand, bringing me back up to a seated position. I study his face. His smile has faded and in its place is a serious, contemplative look. I open my mouth to ask him what's wrong, but before I can speak, he takes my face in his hands and presses his lips against mine.

Ooh, time for kiss number two. And this time there's no shocking secrets to interrupt us.

This is not the crush of mouths we experienced earlier, either. Now his mouth is soft, gentle. His lips are inquiring; they move in an almost reverential caress. I allow myself a small moan as he trails kisses along my cheekbone. He nibbles my ear. He's barely touched me and already my insides are completely
melty. How can one man's kiss stir such instamatic passion?

Kisses were never like this with Danny. He always treated them as an obligatory routine—a means to an orgasmic end. Warm me up with a few kisses,
then move in for the kill. But Robin seems disinterested in hurrying to the main event. In fact, his soft groans make me believe he's enjoying the foreplay as much as I am.

In a way it's strange, really, to kiss a stranger like this, someone other than Danny. After all, Danny was my first. The one I thought would be 'til death. But I'm not dead. In fact, I can't remember a time when I felt more alive.

Robin's hands run through my hair, separating each strand, then lower to my shoulders, dusting my arms with light dancing fingers, tickling my suddenly sensitive skin. Slowly exploring. Caressing. Taking his time. I let out a gasp of pleasure at the tingly sensation his touch evokes.

He reaches my hands, intertwining his fingers with mine while his mouth tastes my neck. Soft, feather light kisses dance across my skin.

He lowers me gently to the grass. Somehow it's sweet smelling, of honeysuckle. Musky, of desire. Hands still holding mine, he pulls my arms above my head, effectively but gently pinning me down. He crawls on top of me, separating my legs with his knee. I attempt to stay calm. To not squirm against him as desire takes hold. I can feel his erection rubbing against my thigh. Strong, hard—in sharp contrast with his caress. He's making an effort to be gentle. Holding himself back.

"Oh lady," he groans, confirming my suspicion of his current state of sacrifice. "You tempt me sorely. But, I do not want to be the man to... steal your honor."

I look up in surprise. Oh. He must think I'm a virgin or something. After all, women back in these times didn't hook up 'til they were married. Er, how am I going to explain this without sounding like a Sherwood slut?

"Don't worry," I encourage, freeing my hand from his grasp and reaching up to loosen his hair from its leather tie. It falls into his face and he grins, shaking it aside. "I'm a ... widow." That was almost true, considering that while Danny may be technically still breathing, at this moment he's definitely dead to me.

Evidently satisfied by my explanation, Robin drags his fingers down the insides of my arms until they reach my breasts. He cups them in his hands, his fingers lightly stroking the tips. I squirm at the sensation, barely able to control myself.

"And to think I stuck apples down your dress," he chuckles between kisses. His mouth lowers to my throat, to my chest. His fingers pull at the neckline of the gown.

"Yeah, well, I know I'm not exactly blessed in the chest department," I say, feeling suddenly a bit inadequate, exposed.

"Ah, be quiet, woman. You are more beautiful than my favorite star," he murmurs, taking my left breast in his mouth. I bite my lower lip to hold back a moan as my fingers claw at the grass, the dirt, anything within reach.

Robin's mouth is hot, wet—magic—as it teases my nipple into a rock-hard peak. His other hand finds my right breast, stroking it into submission. I involuntarily push myself against his thigh, desperate to relieve the exquisite torment his touch invokes. He pushes back. Solid, firm. "Oh God," he mouths against my breast. "I have to have you. Now."

And I, I realize, have to be had.

He abandons my breasts, mashing his mouth against mine, his tongue diving in with seemingly relentless desire. He grabs at my skirts, desperately trying to pull them up. I can't help myself—I reach to pull down his calfskin trousers. I remember wondering that first day if he had stuck a sock in his tights. I now realize he did no such thing. He's magnificent. Absolutely magnificent.

Unclothed and free, he pushes himself inside me. Filling me. Completing me. I gasp as our bodies become one. He's deep inside me now—solid, hard, mine. He moans, his face a mask of concentration as he struggles to control his desire.
To slow his pleasure for my sake. I feel a strange sense of power well up inside of me. I'm making him feel like this. I'm responsible for his groans of pleasure. Little old me has made the legendary Robin Hood rock hard and ready to go.

His movements are gentle at first, rocking against me, pressing himself deeper, then pulling back, then deeper again until I feel he's found my very core. I match his thrusts with my own, arching my back in delicious agony at the sensations electrifying every inch of my skin. His hand reaches down to stroke my sex, fingers masterfully dancing over my most sensitive flesh and I bite my lower lip to keep from screaming.

At this moment, there's no past, no future. Just delicious sensations. Timeless, eternal. Here. Now.

I want to laugh. I want to cry. I'm frightened to death and elated beyond measure. I feel more comfortable and happy in his arms than I ever did with Danny in all our years together.

He starts thrusting again. Faster, harder, our bodies slapping against one another. Fire blazes through my insides. My skin is hot and dewy. My mouth is open. My eyes are closed. The sensation is better than anything I can describe. I'm blazing hot but shivering. I'm struck by lightning, but drowned in the sea.

I gasp and scream. Can anyone hear me? I don't care. I dig my nails into his shoulders as I'm consumed by the tidal wave of ecstasy.

A moment later he lets go, shuddering, crying out, as pleasure takes him over the edge. He collapses against me, his whole body shaking, his breathing hard yet shallow. I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight against me.