Page 25 of Bluebeard’s Key

“Agreed. Speaking of things below the belt, while I have you here, do you want to help me assay a few more samples?”

“Always, although we need to talk about refractory periods. I mean I’m as virile as the next guy, but that’s a lot of up and down without any resolution.”

Tom grinned at this and said, “No worries. I only have a couple dozen, and I think only five or six are going to be active. Fasten your seatbelt, and I’ll go get them.”

Tom sat him down at the lab bench, notebook in hand, passing one tube after the other to him and logging his response. As Tom mentioned, most smelled slightly of solvent and had no effect. The ones that did, though…wow. He was wracked with an instant hard-on and a mind-numbing rush of orgasmic pleasure.

After the third full response, he caught Tom watching as he absent-mindedly shifted everything around to relieve the insistent pressure in his pants. The multiple floods of pleasure were distracting him from his seductive duties, and he’d been simply letting himself enjoy the ride. Tom handed him another sample, and he thought he should make a pass, but—ohhhh!—maybe after the next sample. These ones were working for him. He was unforgivably stiff.

Damn! He was so crashingly horny now. The tight restraint of his pants was intolerable. He’d had nothing but his hand for company since arriving at the castle, and that was a rare occurrence for him. Back in the real world, he had dozens of options for a quick release. Go over, get off, and get out. Would that work with Tom? Could they set up something casual, with no emotional strings attached? That’s certainly not what Bluebeard wanted from him, but maybe the deeper attachment could grow from a sexual connection. That would be a win-win scenario, at least in his book.

Tom had gone uncharacteristically quiet, watching as he surfed the waves of pleasure. It was clear he was struggling with his hormones too, even without the chemical assist. Tom’s eyes scanned his body, watching him writhe, focusing on the tight tent struggling in his lap, now showing an incriminating stain of wetness.

As Zayan attempted to gather his thoughts enough to make a flirty pass, Tom stammered, “Um, Zayan, ah, can I give you some, er, help with that?”

Caught in the moment, he didn’t think twice. He unzipped and allowed himself to unfurl free, and Tom gave a very flattering sigh. Tom took him in hand and was moving his tongue into position when they heard Bluebeard’s bellow out in the courtyard.

“Where is my blasted apprentice? The putrefaction needs attention, now!”

Tom tragically unhanded him, looking like his dog had died, and said, “Go. Duty calls.”

He simply could not stand to see that disappointed look on Tom’s face, but strangely, he was also glad. Maybe he didn’t want their first experience to be a chemistry-fueled quickie while sniffing samples in the lab. Tom deserved more than that, and so did he.

CHAPTER 18

What was he thinking, forcing himself on Zayan for sex? Well, more like a quickie, but still, Tom hoped he hadn’t ruined everything. They were building a solid friendship, or at least he thought they were. Damn it all, he needed a friend in the decidedly weird atmosphere of Château des Fleurs, and a blowjob would have been such a selfish and stupid way to torpedo it.

He was worried. On top of the obvious oddities of teleporting boats and towns stuck in the Middle Ages, there was something off at the castle. Beatrice’s questioning and Zayan’s evasion of his questions, and Bluebeard, always hovering, always demanding, and Thierry, like a ghost haunting the entire proceedings, seeing all. He couldn’t quite figure out how it all added up, but there was something going on, and he didn’t like it.

But this was all something to ponder in the future. For days, Zayan had been glued to his alchemy lab, and the elusive carrier molecules of the erotogenic scent had demanded his own full attention. But today, after the almost-sex they nearly had in his laboratory, he couldn’t seem to concentrate. A minor distraction was exactly what he needed, and Beatrice’s beard oil was just the ticket. Somehow, he was certain she had an ulterior motive too, but it didn’t matter. This was a perfect opportunity to do some fun and easy chemistry, and that always calmed his nerves.

When he got to the greenhouse and asked about the thyme, Hoyle said, “I have what you need out in the garden.”

And what a garden it was! He’d only had time to wander around Hoyle’s botanical jewel a few times, what with his duties in the lab. Three large terraces, together easily the size of the castle courtyard, stepped down from the greenhouse, bounded on the far side by the sheer cliffs that rose from the sea. Hoyle’s care was evident in the neat rows of vegetables and flowers, in the espaliered pears and apples, in the strictly trained blackberry and raspberry vines. He led Tom to the massive herb garden, resplendent in full sun and encompassing nearly the entire lower terrace.

“Your garden is so lovely,” Tom said, trying to encompass it with his eyes. There was too much. He recognized maybe a quarter of the plants—a dozen types of sage, tall fennels and anise, and several plants that looked disturbingly like deadly nightshade. The rest were a mystery to him.

“Here it is,” Hoyle said, pointing to an unassuming clump of small bushes. “Wood thyme. It’s endemic to Greenhaven and has a unique scent.”

Tom crushed a few leaves between his fingers and said, “Nice! It’s like French thyme, but with a woody undertone, maybe leathery. Very masculine.”

“If you need more, there’s a ton of it growing along the promontory trail. Go out the gate and across the bridge, and you can’t miss it on the right. If you don’t mind my asking, what is it for?”

“Something for the Mage, but I can’t say more. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

“Gotcha. I didn’t hear anything.”

“But I could use some advice. I haven’t extracted essential oils since I was an undergrad. I was thinking of a steam distillation…”

After some friendly advice from Hoyle, Tom returned to his lab with a bag of thyme and a firm plan in mind. He found a cobalt blue dropper bottle sitting on his desk, simple and elegant, and estimated it would take only a few days to fill it with spice-scented beard oil. Now, if only he had a similarly straightforward plan to negotiate his friendship with Zayan.

Tom lamented. Why had he ever thought anything would be simple and straightforward? He would do an enjoyable steam distillation, and then he’d be done and back to his real work. But no. Like all castles, there was bound to be palace intrigue, and he was quickly finding it to be true at Château des Fleurs.

For the past few days, Zayan had been avoiding him, or maybe he was too tired to manage anything apart from his training with Bluebeard. He looked exhausted at breakfast and dinner, saying barely a word to him, and disappeared into the dungeon for the entire day and most of the night. Bluebeard was also completely absent, and when he was around, he always wore a vile frown, poised to boil over into a rage. Along with working up the beard oil, Tom was making steady progress on his erotogenics, but he hadn’t updated Bluebeard in days. He was afraid to poke that bear right now.

On top of all that, the simple matter of Beatrice’s gift quickly spiraled into a nightmare. She soon informed him that no, she was very sorry, but it wasn’t going to be her gift. It was going to be Thierry’s gift to his master. And goodness no, she couldn’t possibly be the one to suggest it to Thierry. Surely not. That wouldn’t do at all. The person who created this lovely oil must be the one to suggest it. And so, he found himself knocking on Thierry’s door in the gatehouse, trying to figure out how he was going to explain the bottle and beards and gifts and all the rest, without saying Beatrice’s name.

Thierry was his efficient self, greeting him in his efficient way. “Doctor Dalton, please come in. How may I help you? Do you require anything for your work?”