And then I hesitated. “Wait a second—”

“Oh, I agree. Leave it on.”

I stabbed him in the chest with my finger. “You’re still clothed. What, planning on bolting and leaving me here in my skivvies?”

“Hardly.” He pointed at the closet in the rear of the room. “With all the robes in there, it would be a pointless prank.”

Good call. “Then I think you’re overdressed.”

He spread his arms. “Help yourself.”

So I did, because peeling material off of George’s Adonis body is not exactly an undesirable task. I’m embarrassed to admit how many times I’ve imagined him naked, and happy to report the reality blew them all away. And once he was naked, and I was nearly so (he flatly refused to let me take off my panties), all teasing went out of the proceedings. The point of no return.

Then I learned George’s kisses were merely a prelude to the rest of the tricks in his repertoire. I’ve lived twenty-one years on this planet, and I think I’ve been around the block a couple of times (my C.B. audience can attest to this fact) and I never even knew some of the things he proceeded to do to me were physically possible. For instance:

Exhibit A: The throne on top of the dais is an antique, intricately carved affair, covered as it is with bas-relief scenes from the Grecian underworld and crowned by two large globes on the front of each armrest, which, it turns out, are great places to hook your calves when you’re in particularly intimate positions wherein you are on the chair and he is…well, not on the chair, but rather, on the dais. On his knees. It was a gorgeous piece of furniture really, probably part of a set along with that diamond-dust mirror down near the kitchen. The only thing that might have improved upon the whole experience was if we’d had the mirror nearby. But I digress. I’d never thought of the straight-backed throne as particularly comfortable, but now I don’t know if I’ll be able to consider it at all without immediately breaking out into a sweat.

Exhibit B: Sex on the conference table may be a bit of an old saw in the corporate world, but sex on the Rose & Grave conference table, beneath the starry dome, surrounded by wood paneling and oil masterworks and George, George, George…I think I owe the good Diggers a couple hundred bucks. At one point, I grabbed his shoulders and stopped him.

“Do you think this place is bugged?”

“That would be fun.” He swiveled a bit, demonstrating a move I swear is illegal in three out of five states.

“George! It’s not funny. I’m creeped out by the idea that this could wind up on tape.”

“Smile for the camera, ’boo.” He chuckled, then reached down between us and made me gasp. “Come on, you think we’d still be forced to do all that transcribing in the Black Books if they had the Inner Temple wired?”

“Good point,” I managed to get out in between labored breaths.

“Then again,” he said, and rolled us both on our sides, “see that third star over there? Looks suspiciously like a lens, don’t you think?” He pulled me on top of him and grabbed my hips. “I think this is my best angle.”

I promptly came, so it was clearly my best angle as well.

Exhibit C: We ended up on the floor of the Inner Temple, lying on top of an unused robe, directly beneath the oil painting of Connubial Bliss. And I still had my underwear on, mere technicality though it was. George seemed fascinated by it, constantly running his fingers beneath the straps at my hips and in the back, obviously pleased as punch the flimsy scraps of material weren’t in the least impeding his current activities. And I had to say, I was with him on that one. I’d always figured thongs were supposed to be sexy for the boys only; I’d never realized what a turn-on they were for me until George showed me their full potential.

“Remember what I said the other day?” His voice sounded gruff and breathless. “About what I was thinking during your report?”

“Yes,” I murmured, looking down at him through half-closed eyes.

“This is it. This is what I wanted. I saw you standing here in front of this painting, talking about those other guys, and I wanted you. Right here. Like this. This is my fantasy, ’boo. You are…my fantasy.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and I felt his chest shudder beneath my palms as his breath caught.

So I took over, happy to oblige any and all of this man’s fantasies. Because it was no longer a secret he’d satisfied all of mine.

I hereby confess:

What happens in the tomb

stays in the tomb.

Over the years, I’d heard many rumors about the wonders to be found in George Harrison Prescott’s bedroom, including, but not limited to: black satin sheets on the bed, mirrors on the ceiling, and a jukebox that only played Barry White.

Negative on all three. Well, there was a little mini-jukebox (which I later learned was a present from his father on the occasion of his father’s wedding), but it held a variety of songs by a variety of artists, and as far as I knew, “Fight for Your Right to Party” didn’t count as a make-out song. The sheets were standard university-issue blue, there was a normal mirror hanging on the inside of the closet, and I was spooning with George on the narrow single bed. His arm was draped loosely over my waist and the stubble on his chin was scratching my shoulder blade.

THOUGHTS I HAD THAT MORNING

1) Wow, did I really do all the things I did last night?

2) My thighs feel a little stiff.

3) This is nice. I could hang out here and cuddle with George all day.

4) Except I have that seminar at 10:15.

5) And I have to pee.

One moment more of relaxing in George’s arms, feeling our entire bodies pressed up against each other, back to chest, thigh to thigh. One moment more of hearing his breath in my ear and relishing his warm hand on my belly. And then I stretched a little and slipped out of bed.

I was buttoning my jeans when he blinked awake. “Morning.”

“Hi.” Dude, was that shyness? Wherefore had I suddenly become shy in front of George Harrison Prescott?

“Are you leaving?”

I giggled. Strike two. “Yeah, I’ve got work to do.”

He rolled onto his back and put his hands behind his head. “But I’ll see you tonight?”

My heart rate skyrocketed.

“At the meeting.”

Of course. The Thursday meeting. “George, I always go. Besides, it’s lobster night at the tomb.”

“Good point.” He smiled, but didn’t move from his prone position. “See you later, Boo.”

And that was it. I left his room, got out of the suite without any of his suitemates noticing me (no grist for the Prescott College gossip mill, thank you very much), and made it back to my suite. Lydia’s door was closed; I was safe. It was over.

But it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The next few weeks passed in a flurry of sexual activity. Ostensibly, I was still taking classes, writing papers, doing problem sets, and working on getting together a thesis topic. But I can barely remember classroom discussions and I’ll be the first to admit my papers weren’t exhibiting their usual level of literary passion.

Josh had stepped up his efforts to discover who was responsible for the leak to the website, and though we each devoted plenty of time to trying to find this guy (or girl, as Nikolos insisted on reminding us at every opportunity), the identity of our leak persisted in eluding us as efficiently as Jenny eluded every Diggirl who tried to corner her into a private conversation. (And, to be honest, shitty as it sounds, the more often she avoided us, the less we all felt inclined to speak with her about it. We already knew how she’d respond.)