This story copyright © 2003, 2004 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
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Steed treads emotional waters
Emma learns to row
Chapter 3
They walked to the Piazza San Marco to admire the horse statues stolen from ancient Constantinople and the massive campanile. Then they plunged into the narrow streets of that district, exploring the quiet alleys where no vendors hocked blown glass and few tourists ventured. Steed took Emma's hand as she descended a particularly steep set of steps on a tiny bridge over a narrow canal and kept holding it as they strolled on, absently stroking the back of it with his thumb.
"What do you want to do for dinner?" he asked. "We don't have a reservation, but I'm sure the hotel will accommodate us."
"I have read that the chef has created an amazing scallop dish," she replied. "It's one of the reasons I wanted to stay there."
"Sounds perfect," Steed smiled. "I don't suppose we could both order the same --," he stopped speaking, cocking his head to listen to raised voices coming from a dank calle just ahead. The altercation was being conducted in Italian. One of the speakers had an odd, high-pitched male voice. The other was most certainly British, and his Italian was limited. He had not, Emma thought as they hurried toward the source of the sound, learned it on the street. He seemed unable to summon a single expletive.
They entered the mouth of the calle. One of the buildings that formed it was set at an angle to the other, so the narrow alley actually widened further in. Clotheslines crisscrossed the space at the high level of the second floors, clean laundry fluttering in the evening breeze. As they paused in the shadows a woman leaned out of a tall second story window, glanced into the calle, then reached out and pulled the tall, narrow shutters shut with a thump. Beneath her window, a man had just grabbed the shirtfront of a boy.
"What's this?" Steed exclaimed, mostly just to attract their attention as he strode toward the pair. The man immediately let go of the boy, who turned toward Steed as he started to run. Emma dodged out of his way, seeing, as Steed had, that it was not a boy at all, but a dwarf with a close-cropped black beard dressed in the costume of a gondolier.
They both turned to the man and were even more shocked by him than by the dwarf boatman.
"Lord Gregory," Steed said, then immediately slipped into the deferential manner he used with all nobility, "Are you all right my Lord?"
Emma came over to them, studying the lord for signs of injury or distress.
"I'm fine," Lord Gregory said breathlessly. "Perfectly fine. He was a scoundrel, that's all. Asked me for money," he paused as if trying to formulate his next comment. "I gave him some. Five hundred Lire. But he wanted more."
"There is much poverty in this city," Emma said, "just as we have in Britain. You were kind to help him, but perhaps he has larger problems."
"He's mad!" Lord Gregory declared.
"Perhaps," Steed said, exchanging a glance with Emma. Lord Gregory was known for his support of programs that aided the poor. This reaction to a poor Venetian seemed uncharacteristic. Unless he was lying about the dwarf's intentions.
"We were just on our way to meet you for that drink," Emma said. "Perhaps you'd rather postpone it?"
"Not at all. Let's all walk back together," Lord Gregory said, tugging at his waistcoat and touching his cravat. "I have asked a friend to join us, so I would prefer not be late."
"Countess Rossi, allow me to introduce Mrs. Emma Peel and Mr. John Steed," Lord Gregory possessively held the raven-haired woman's hand as he introduced her.
"It is always a pleasure to meet Gregory's countrymen -- and women," the Countess said. Her heavily accented voice a sensual purr.
"Shall we sit here?" Lord Gregory motioned to a cocktail table surrounded by exquisite reproduction chairs. They all sat, Steed and Lord Gregory holding Emma and the Countess's chairs for them. A swarthy waiter approached and Steed suggested a bottle of proseco -- Italian sparkling wine. The others agreed.
The Countess asked Emma about the symposium, expressing admiration for any woman who was so highly regarded in a scientific profession. Emma admitted, not realizing how it sounded, that she was not a working physicist, only "dabbled" in it. Steed suppressed a smile, and the Countess looked amused.
"When I -- as you say, ‘dabble' -- I am fortunate not to injure myself!" she said and Lord Gregory laughed with her.
"The Countess thought to ‘dabble' with horses recently. She twisted a wrist in a fall and has refused to get on again."
"I know the feeling," Steed said sympathetically.
"Not good with horses?" Lord Gregory asked.
"On the contrary, my Lord. I'm very comfortable astride a horse. It's when they aren't comfortable with me that it hurts."
"You really should ride again soon," Emma said to the Countess.
"Oh yes, I know what they all say," the Countess waved a hand dismissively. "But that assumes that I am interested in doing more than ‘dabble.' I don't think I shall have need of horseback in the future." She concluded speaking directly to Lord Gregory. He smiled at her, a warm, intimate expression that made Emma look at Steed. She thought he had seen it too -- the connection between the two.
Watching Lord Gregory with the Countess Steed understood why he had not felt the usual little current of jealousy when the other man spoke to Emma. Lord Gregory was in love, and by the look of her, the Countess reciprocated. He suddenly wondered if he could possibly be telegraphing his emotions the same way. Do people look at Emma and me and see everything between us? He felt himself smiling. If they do, maybe somebody would be so kind as to explain it to me!
"She was quite pleasant," Emma said as they sat side-by-side on the banquette facing the dining room in the hotel restaurant. They had succumbed to temptation and both ordered the scallops, but they had diverged on the starters and were still negotiating the dolce. Steed had ordered his crisp little Veneto to go with the scallops, and they'd settled comfortably together to sip, people-watch, and compare notes.
Emma let her calf brush his beneath the table, concealed by the long, white tablecloth. She wasn't sure if her heart rate was increasing because of the wine or the deliciously illicit contact.
"For a dilettante," Steed said. She eyed him curiously. "That's what you wanted to say," he added with a little shrug.
"Don't put words in my mouth," Emma said. As he turned a rather lecherous grin on her she kicked him lightly under the table. "And don't you dare ask what you may put there instead," she added. He looked momentarily affronted, then took a sip of his wine and gazed across the room, silently changing the subject. She admired how he was able to do that.
"I ordered a background check on him when I went upstairs," he said. "Something is wrong."
"Because of the dwarf."
"Yes. No matter what he claims, that fellow was not a beggar. And have you ever seen a short gondolier? I don't think a man that size could handle a gondola."
"I agree. Although I suppose it would be convenient for going under the low bridges," Emma speculated. Steed cast her an aggravated glance.
She cast it back. "So you'll get your background check, and then what? This is not a working trip -- for you anyway. Remember?"
"I could contact Parker. I probably should -- where was he this evening, anyway?"
Emma frowned, only now remembering that the invisible agent Parker was supposed to be looking after Lord Gregory. "That's a very good question, Steed," she admitted, then sighed hopelessly when he flashed her a victorious grin. That was all it had taken to pique her interest and essentially agree that he should look into the situation.
But not this evening. Not if she could help it.
"Let's go for a boat ride," she said as they stepped out of the hotel with the plan of getting some air to aid their digestion.
"A gondola?" he asked, at once thinking it terribly cliché but also finding it rather appealing. Moonlight, still waters, the discrete gondolier pointedly ignoring his passengers. Maybe singing. Steed chucked at his imagination and saw Emma's disappointed expression.
"You think it's foolish," she sighed, putting her arm through his as they strolled. He bent his elbow up and caught her hand in his.
"No. I think it's the epitome of romance," he said.
"And therefore too cliché to consider."
"You, my dear, are jaded," he said, guiding her to the water's edge where, by coincidence, several gondolas were secured to rickety pilings and flimsy docks. The nearest gondolier greeted them, gesturing toward his boat. Steed handed Emma into it and she sat down while Steed quickly settled with the gondolier on a duration and price for their ride. Then he joined Emma, at first simply sitting beside her. But as the gondolier expertly maneuvered away from the docks Steed instinctively shifted, putting his arm around Emma's shoulder and drawing her close. She came willingly, her face turning to his with a smile.
"Sometimes you astonish me," she said softly.
"Good," he replied, kissing her. It lasted longer than he expected, felt more intense than he thought possible. He hardly realized that his other arm was wrapped around her until she pulled away, breathless, half lidded eyes concealing her own desire. Then her gaze flicked up at the silent boatman sculling his oar, and back to Steed. They shared a silent exchange -- a promise of pleasure to come -- and Emma half turned, laying the back of her head on his shoulder to look up at the ornate facades of the palaces lining the grand canal.
"Take me to bed," Emma breathed into Steed's ear as the lift ascended. They were alone in it. He turned his face, let his mouth cover hers, his tongue caressing her lips. She moaned softly into him and he kissed harder even as the lift bounced a bit and stopped. He broke it off to open the door, leading her along the corridor to their room.
She undressed herself for him, making a show of unbuttoning her blouse and pulling it out of her skirt, revealing a delicate white bra that supported her breasts from below, but left the tops bare nearly to the nipples. She unzipped her skirt and let it drop to the floor to reveal matching panties and a garter belt holding up her glistening hose.
Then she undressed him, carefully removing his jacket, his waistcoat, and his shirt, fondling him through is trousers while she worked, and pausing to lick his bare chest, tongue circling a solid little nipple then flicking at it urgently. He sucked in a breath and she smiled slyly as she felt his groin respond. She fondled him again, the feel of his great, hard penis sparking an ache between her legs.
He touched her then, his big hands running up her arms and across her shoulders, cupping her breasts as he bent to place kisses on them. Her nipples throbbed within her bra, but he avoided them, making her wait just a little while longer. They returned to kissing, more satisfying with bare flesh to fondle and caress, and with the freedom to reveal more.
They found their way to his bed, Steed stretching out with Emma on top of him, grinding herself against his erection still contained in his trousers. She sat up and straddled him to caress his chest and stomach, to tease his nipples, and to bend over him so that her hair tickled him as she explored his face with her tongue and lips.
He rolled with her, balanced over her on elbow and knees, sliding one hand down her stomach and into her panties so that she sucked in a deep breath. His hand hovered over her, tickling the curls between her thighs. He watched her eyes squeeze shut in anticipation, then pop open when he did not continue his caress. He grinned at her and she lifted her hips to him, pressing herself against his hand. He took her with fingers and mouth, driving her to distraction with gentle caresses and long, sucking kisses. She was warm and wet and he cold imagine how her genitals looked and tasted, and suddenly he craved her.
He moved down her body, pulling the panties to her thighs and then all the way off so that she could spread her knees wide. He opened her with his fingers, then bent to place kisses on the insides of her thighs and on her vulva. She shivered as he ran his tongue along the insides of her labia and her vagina flooded with warm, fragrant fluid. He spread her wider and plunged his tongue into her, sucking her clitoris until she groaned and came again and he looked up to see her caressing her own breasts through her bra. The sight inflamed him. His penis throbbed, demanding attention of the most intimate kind. He rolled off of her and she cried out, only half conscious, nearly subsumed in animal lust and fulfillment. He opened his fly and pulled down his trousers and underwear, sitting up to remove his shoes and clothes.
Then she was pulling him back, pressing him to the mattress, her attention focused on his groin. As hot as he was, her tongue on him was hotter, slipping up and down his shaft leaving trails of fire. He wanted it to go on forever. Surely it could, this delicious sensation on the edge of release, his body so taut he could hardly move, her body so close he could smell her, nearly taste her -- he wanted to taste her again. He reached out, wrapped his arms around her hips and pulled her to him. Dragging one leg across his face he pulled her down so that he could drink her in again. She sucked and licked at him, coaxing him toward rigid orgasm, then paused, blowing on his balls, pressing his overheated organ to her cool breasts until he could breathe again, could take her into his mouth and caress her as she had him. She came for him, crying out, throwing her head back, showering him with her searing essence. Her panting breath was hot on his quivering cock, and he thrust toward her mindlessly, his libido taking over. She took him into her mouth, sucking so hard it hurt, a searing white pain that filled him, overtook him, and resolved into a massive, driving orgasm. She held him through it, swallowing and sucking, moving up and down his slick, throbbing shaft over and over again until it was so sore, so spent, he rolled with her to the side, forcing her off of him, and they both lay helpless and senseless.
They were tangled together, arms around legs, faces against thighs, the smell of sex a thick miasma around them. Steed wiped his face with one hand and carefully sat up, reaching down to draw her soiled hair from across her face. Her eyes flickered open and she smiled contentedly.
"I've read it's good for the skin," she said, fingering the sticky strands.
"Have you? Where would you come across a piece of information like that?" he asked, truly curious. He'd found the usual sources as a young man -- the well thumbed "banned" books hidden in the stacks at Eton, read by flashlight under the covers and returned solemnly to their hiding place for the next curious student. Where there similar hidden treasures at the schools she'd attended in Switzerland?
"Biochemistry texts," she said. "Actually, I suppose none of them actually say that. But the data is there, if you look at the chemical makeup."
He burst out laughing, his hot little fantasy of young Emma hunched over a dirty book exploring her own body evaporating in the face of her intellect.
She grinned and sat up facing him, studying his face, tracing his jaw with a finger, then putting it under his chin and drawing him to her for a kiss.
"Oh, I've read those types of books too," she added and he got the distinct impression she'd read his mind. "Under the covers, checking to see if what I have matches what they describe, wondering if what you have could possibly look like they say . . ." she was caressing his thigh, kissing him between phrases. And as so often happened, re-igniting him when he thought he was sated.
"What did you read -- about how I should look?" he asked. She grinned, never taking her eyes off of his, slipping her hand between his legs to stroke his flaccid penis tenderly.
"Let's just say I have never been disappointed by you," she replied, kissing him again as he began to harden under her touch.
"Nor I you," he replied.
"Good," she whispered into his ear and he chuckled, knowing he'd been one-upped.
"Let's try it again in my room -- truly scandalize the maids," she said, climbing off the bed and taking his hand to pull him along. He followed, of course.
And he removed her lingerie, piece by piece, applying proper attention to each newly exposed expanse of flesh before returning to her face and her luscious mouth. She pulled him into herself, sucking his tongue and wrapping her legs around his waist so that he plunged into her, seeking and finding the warm, moist place where he always wanted to be. They moved together, enjoying the simplicity of sex, reassured by the enjoyment and knowing that they had not pressed one another so far that they required excess in order to be fulfilled. Just as their previous orgasms had been searing, almost painful, this time it was languorous, sweet, prolonged by careful movement and thoughtful caresses. Emma moaned deeply as a long shudder wracked her. Steed thrust into it, letting what little control he had go so that their essences mixed within her and he stirred them with sharp thrusts until he was soft and sensitive. He lifted his body, blowing air between them to dry the perspiration, then blowing on her face to make her smile.
After a while she rose and went to the toilet. When she returned she pressed a kiss to his lips and settled down on her side of the bed, fluffing the pillows to her liking. Steed lay very still behind her. She let her breathing slow, felt herself slipping into contented sleep. Eventually Steed rolled onto his side, pressed his lips to her exposed shoulder, and whispered, "Good night my love."
It was a secret ritual, one she was never to know about. But she had heard him many times while she lay on the verge of sleep. Perhaps it was his movement that inadvertently woke her just enough, or perhaps she was keeping herself awake, waiting for his words. But no matter the reason, each time she heard him utter that dear phrase it hurt more. Tonight the tears finally came, dripping from her eyes to the pillow. Why can't he say it when I'm awake? Will he never trust me with his heart? She rubbed her face on the pillow and tried not to sniffle. Behind her, he climbed out of bed and went into the toilet. She rolled onto her back. Who am I to call him coward? I can't say it at all. I trust him with my life, with my heart, but not with the three little words that lovers should be able to share. Fresh tears ran down her cheeks and she dabbed at them with the sheet. Steed came back from the toilet and stretched out beside her. She snuggled against him, realizing too late that he would feel her tears. Now. Tell him now.
"Good night my -- John," she whispered, pressing her mouth to his neck to stifle the sob that wanted to erupt. I can't do it.
"Shhh, Emma. It's all right," he replied, stroking her hair from her face. "I know your heart. And you know mine. Words don't matter. Nothing else matters."
She let the sob escape and he held her tight, stroking her back soothingly until she really was asleep. He had suspected for a while that she knew, that she had heard him once, and since then waited to hear him again and again. I'm a coward and she knows it. I don't deserve her telling me she loves me.