Your Century or Mine

By Angela Claire

Ian McCullough is a man out of time. Really. Like literally. One minute, he's in 1891 working in London on a supposed time machine with a mad, old scientist, and, the next minute, he's 126 years into the future in an ocean-side mansion in Maine. The house and the fortune that comes with it are evidently his, all set up and waiting there for him when he arrives. But he has no idea how or why any of this came about, let alone what he’s supposed to do about it. Oh yeah, and no clue how the hell he's supposed to get back to his own time. His only ally is his friend, Robert, who unfortunately, died decades ago—not that that stops him from popping in to offer advice on Ian’s predicament. That's all Ian needs. A ghost for a confidant.

Genie Lindsay is an investment adviser who’s been hauled out of Manhattan to go all the way up to God-knows-where in Maine to meet a reclusive client. Like the man couldn't be bothered to get on a plane and come to New York where the civilized folks do their business? When she meets Ian, though, she's willing to cut him some slack. The man’s gorgeous. A little quirky and oddly sheltered, but gorgeous all the same. She's supposed to explain his finances to him, but she'd like to explain a few other things as well. When her “Girls Gone Wild” attempt at seduction falls curiously flat, she takes it a little personally. But as she gets to know Ian, she realizes he’s a man playing by a whole different set of rules—and a secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Decadent Publishing
• Release date: Nov 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781683611943

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Your Century or Mine

Copyright 2017 by Angela Claire

ISBN: 978-1-68361-194-3

Cover art by Ravensborn

Smashwords Edition

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Hi there,

I hope you enjoy Ian and Genie’s story. It’s got it all: time travel, ghosts, and hot romance! And let’s not forget the humor. If you like Your Century or Mine, you can check out my other romances at www.angelaclaireromance.com. I love to hear from readers, too. You can email me at [e-mail].

Your Century or Mine

Ian McCullough is a man out of time. Really. Like literally. One minute, he's in 1891 working in London on a supposed time machine with a mad, old scientist, and, the next minute, he's 126 years into the future in an ocean-side mansion in Maine. The house and the fortune that comes with it are evidently his, all set up and waiting there for him when he arrives. But he has no idea how or why any of this came about, let alone what he’s supposed to do about it. Oh yeah, and no clue how the hell he's supposed to get back to his own time. His only ally is his friend, Robert, who unfortunately, died decades ago—not that that stops him from popping in to offer advice on Ian’s predicament. That's all Ian needs. A ghost for a confidant.

Genie Lindsay is an investment adviser who’s been hauled out of Manhattan to go all the way up to God-knows-where in Maine to meet a reclusive client. Like the man couldn't be bothered to get on a plane and come to New York where the civilized folks do their business? When she meets Ian, though, she's willing to cut him some slack. The man’s gorgeous. A little quirky and oddly sheltered, but gorgeous all the same. She's supposed to explain his finances to him, but she'd like to explain a few other things as well. When her Girls Gone Wild attempt at seduction falls curiously flat, she takes it a little personally. But as she gets to know Ian, she realizes he’s a man playing by a whole different set of rules—and a secret.

Your Century or Mine?

By

Angela Claire

Dedication

To my wonderful story consultant, Colleen, who has stuck with me through it all.

Prologue

London, 1891

Sometimes Ian McCullough was sorry he even had a functioning penis. It distracted him from his work. There he was, on the verge of some momentous breakthrough in his understanding of the time and space continuum, and the darn thing pressed against his trousers, begging for attention. Instead of slogging away on the equations that he’d been perfecting for—well, for longer than he could remember—he found himself sketching…er…other things.

When the housemaid knocked on the study door and proceeded in with his dinner tray, he scrambled to crumple up the paper with the damning line drawings on it before the poor girl caught sight of them and fainted or ran screaming from the room or some such thing.

Will there be anything else, sir? the girl, Mary, asked politely.

A few shiny blonde curls tumbled out from under her cap, and a tightly tied apron accentuated her slender waist. The cook’s niece, he believed. Lovely young thing. Normally, he paid no attention to such matters, most people being practically invisible to him when he was working. But he was distracted by the longings of the aforesaid penis, the smooth skin of the girl’s neck above her starched collar, and the fresh bloom on her bow-shaped mouth.

Like every other respectable woman, this Mary was off-limits to him and his penis, at least without the benefit of marriage, an institution into which he sincerely hoped to never stumble. But she put him in mind of other women who were not.

No, nothing else, Mary. Thank you. You may go.

With half a mind to wank off and get on with it, he knew from past experience such a bloodless exercise probably wouldn’t satisfy the greedy thing. Pushing his dinner tray away, he got up and left the house, intent on satisfying a different appetite. Madame Tulle’s—complete with the consequent time involved in hailing a hansom cab at this time of evening—was what he required.

When he got there, he waited in the parlor as the madam herself poured him the requisite brandy and reassured herself through some mysterious method he hadn’t caught the clap since the last time he’d been around. Presumably, the fact he’d been holed up in his study for the entire time since he’d last enjoyed the favors of one of her soiled doves reassured her.

After he passed muster, she posed her usual final question. And is there a particular lady you had in mind for this evening?

No. Then he thought to add, Whoever’s the quickest.

I’ve always found the speed or lack thereof of the endeavor is usually the provenance of the gentleman, she quipped.

Following his interview, a bouncer showed him up to the appropriate room. Ian nodded his thanks and entered. The girl waiting for him in the red brocade bedroom looked vaguely familiar with her long inky curls, but he could not recollect how she had rated on that score. As the appendage who had engineered this whole distraction perked up at the sight of the girl’s plump white bosom peeking up from over her corset—although spilling out might be more accurate than peeking—he assumed he could get this over fairly expeditiously and be back to his equations before dawn.

He loosened his cravat as the girl smiled at him.

Nice to see you again, sir.

Yes, you, too, my dear… He tried to remember the name Madame Tulle had given him, but failed.

Bessie, she supplied.

Bessie. Yes, of course.

Will you be wanting anything extra tonight, sir?

His cravat unloosened, he went to work on the buttons of his shirt, annoyed he even bothered to undress completely. Sadly, once his small head got its way, nothing would suffice but naked skin to naked skin. No, thank you. Just undress if you please. I’m in a bit of a hurry.

The girl’s white fingers went to the red ties on the front of her corset. Always so much in a hurry, Mr. McCullough.

The corset opened, and her bountiful breasts made their entrance, one heavy, white globe at a time, the nipples red with what was probably a liberal amount of rouge. His cock jerked forward enthusiastically, and he quickly shoved his trousers and drawers down and off.

Last time you was here, it weren’t me, but Susie, who done seen to you. But she told me all about it. How nice and big you were. Her dark brown eyes viewed the evidence of her friend’s claim herself, and she nodded. And how you knew how to use it just right.

Ian ignored the flattering patter he knew the girls were coached to keep up. Her corset off, this Bessie had only her lacy drawers to keep him from getting to his business. Naked, he climbed onto the pink, silk-covered bed, not bothering to pull the coverlet down. She obligingly slid beneath him, her hands on his shoulders, her breasts spread out as she laid back, the nipples off-center with the heaviness of the globes. He reached between her legs—plump like her breasts, but long and silky-smooth—for the slit in her drawers. Finding she wasn’t quite sufficiently enthused to accommodate the girth of his fully erect penis, which he objectively knew was as big as she had cooed, he rubbed her little button of a clitoris with his thumb, his middle finger reaching into her vagina. Then he leaned down to kiss her, running his tongue lightly along her lips and into the deep warm cavity of her mouth.

The rush of lubrication below almost immediately coincided with her sigh. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he transferred his fingers to his own cock to feed it into her. Once appropriately engaged, Bessie accommodated him with ease, and he shoved in to the hilt with gratifying relief.

Oh, my, she breathed. So nice.

He pulled out enough to really feel the friction as he thrust back in…hard.

For all his intensity when he was deciphering mathematical enigmas and for all his enthusiasm in returning to it, he had to admit that once lost in the pleasures of the flesh, he was—er—lost in the pleasures of the flesh. It would probably be dawn before he exhausted his pesky cock.

Which was why, frankly, he sometimes wished he didn’t have one.

***

Ian consulted his pocket watch. He’d wasted hours. Of course, the sated feeling of well-being seeping right through to his bones disputed his brain’s evaluation of the exercise as wasted time, but he didn’t bother to let the warring factions of his constitution slow him down any further. He tucked his shirttail into his trousers and grabbed his coat.

Bessie, a sweet girl all in all, snored contentedly, face down in her full glory with the covers at the foot of the bed. Her fleshy white bottom beckoned him for a second, and he was almost tempted to give it another go, but, dash it all, he really did need to get back to it. Resolutely, he proceeded to the door, shrugging into his suit coat, and went into the deserted hallway, closing the door behind him. No raucous bacchanalian goings on this time of night, or morning rather, so it was easy to hear the sniffling as he passed by one of the closed doors.

Please, not again, sir, a small voice begged.

He could hear the tears in her tone. A snap followed. He stopped in his tracks. Unfortunately, his rather too commonplace childhood had ensured he would never mistake the sound of a whip against human flesh. It came again, and he clenched his jaw, his teeth on edge.

A hiccup of a sob came through the door this time. I can’t…. The little voice dropped off, and a grunt followed.

He should leave it alone. He really should. He knew some men paid for such a thing and, undoubtedly, Madame Tulle allowed it. A monetary transaction of satisfaction and pleasure in exchange for coin, no different from the one he had just engaged in.

Snap.

Oh, please…no….

Stay where you are, you little whore, or I’ll add bruises to these stripes.

No, it was different. Very different.

Ian tried the doorknob before he could even stop himself. It was locked as he suspected it would be, but his noisy attempt to gain entry caused a pause in the drama taking place in the locked room.

I’m not done here, the non-crying voice said gruffly through the door. Get gone with you. I paid for all night.

The sob at that pronouncement decided it.

Open the door. I want a word with you, sir, Ian said.

A word with me? Who the fuck are you? Get away from here.

It didn’t appear the blackguard was going to be reasonable. Perhaps he should go seek out someone to intervene. Surely, Madame Tulle didn’t— Another crack of the whip galvanized Ian, again before he’d really thought it through. He hoped this wasn’t going to cost him his privileges here.

He’d burst through a few doors in his time, mostly in attempts to extract his best friend, Robert Finnerly, from one mess or another. A by-blow of the wealthy and indulgent Lord Philipp, Robert lurched with good humor and daring from one ill-advised adventure to another, some of which involved Ian having to burst into rooms.

Surprisingly flimsier than most, the door flew against its hinges with one solid kick. The sight greeting him made him forget about the matter of privileges. A naked brute, hairy and brawnier than any dockworker he’d ever seen, held a horsewhip over a young girl whose back he’d already turned into strips of bloody red. She cowered under him, covering her small breasts.

For just a second, Ian could have been back in St. Mary’s Orphanage with one of the gentlemen patrons abusing one of the younger girls. Christ, what was wrong with these swine?

He wrenched the whip from the man’s upraised hand before the cur could even close his mouth, which had dropped open in utter incredulity at Ian’s entrance. Tempted to treat the man to his own medicine, Ian instead tossed the whip across the room and settled for a solid crack of his fist against the fellow’s jaw. The man staggered, and the girl squealed, running to a corner in an attempt to stay out of the melee.

It took his naked adversary only a second to recover then he charged against Ian, roaring in rage, and tackled him. They rolled on the floor, each getting a solid punch in here or there. Ian was taller and younger, but he didn’t have the brute strength the older man had evidently garnered in order to whip young girls senseless.

One solid thunk while Ian was on the bottom had him seeing stars before the man was suddenly hauled away from him by a scowling chap Ian recognized as Madame Tulle’s bouncer. Madame Tulle stood right behind. At first, Ian had some trouble recognizing her, not only due to the recent blows to his head, but also