I picked up the text block and turned at random to one of the middle pages and began to read, translating as I went along. I lost track of time as I studied the romantic French phrases and meticulously wrote out the English translations in my notebook. I had progressed from the chapter that emphasized sharing love and mutual commitment to the beginning of the section on the sixty-four elements of sexual loving, but now I struggled with one line.
The lingam soothes the fire in the yoni, and their union appeases . . . Appeases what? I couldn’t make out the French words.
Yesterday, I didn’t have a clue what a lingam was, never mind a yoni. Now I blushed whenever I came upon the words, but at least I knew what body parts they referred to. I had managed to translate another page when the front door opened and Derek walked inside.
“Hello, darling, are you still working?” he said as he strolled over and kissed me. Then he noticed what I was reading and a slow smile formed. “Ah. Do you need help with that?”
I met his smile with one of my own. “I do. I’m sure you must know twenty different languages, but how are you at reading Old French?”
“Do you believe the book is that old?” He placed his briefcase on the desk and took off his jacket. “I’m no expert, but didn’t Old French fade out with the bubonic plague?”
I chuckled. “No, the book isn’t that old, but I’m wondering if some of the archaic language was chosen deliberately.”
“Let’s find out, shall we?”
I slanted the page so he could read it and pointed to the sentence I’d given up on a little while ago. “It’s this word that’s giving me trouble. Arracher.”
He squinted at the word, then glanced up. “Arracher. To extract. To pull out.”
“Right.” Why did it sound so sexual when he said it? “I did a Google search and found this 1887 French dictionary. Its first definition is ‘to pluck out.’ But in context with the sentence . . .”
“ ‘Arracher la mangue meür,’ ” he read, finishing the phrase. “La mangue is mango, of course. But I don’t recognize meür.”
I scanned the 1887 dictionary. “Here it is. That spelling is out of use. The modern word is m?rs, which means ‘ripe.’ ”
“Ah, that makes sense. ‘Pluck the ripe mango.’ ” He raised one eyebrow. “Lovely visual.”
“Um . . . yes.” Was it getting hotter in here or what? “I guess I was overcomplicating the phrases.”
“What else have you translated?”
Pointing to a previous illustration, I said, “I’ve got this one worked out. It’s, um, ‘ride the wild stallion.’ ”
“Stallion.” He nodded, fighting back a smile. “Of course. Go on.”
“They’re a little obsessed with animals in here,” I muttered, my throat suddenly dry. I turned the pages and pointed to the various animals I’d translated. “Here’s a cow, a dog, a crab, a cat, a goat, a crow.”
“The crow is not to be missed.”
“Well,” I whispered, then coughed to clear my throat. “Maybe we’ve seen enough.”
“Hardly.” He turned the page and we both gazed at a couple enjoying a position as old as time. Beneath was a phrase I hadn’t yet translated.
“Ah, ‘driving the nail home,’ ” Derek translated easily, and shot me a lopsided grin. “An old favorite of mine.”
My vision was starting to fog up, making it difficult to write in my notebook. “I really should check on dinner.”
“How about that one?” he asked, pointing to a picture on the opposite page.
“You’re taunting me, right?”
“Yes.” He shifted closer, lifted my hair, and planted kisses on my neck.
I groaned, then focused my energies on my three highest chakras in order to keep from melting into a pool of lust on my clean floor. Fine. Two could play at this game, right? But it was getting harder to concentrate. I turned reluctantly and read the French words under the rather graphic illustration he’d pointed to. “That one is known as ‘trapping the snake.’ ”
He nuzzled my neck as he reached for the top button of my shirt. “And exactly what are they doing there?”
I didn’t have to look too carefully at the drawing of two people, one on top of the other, lying in opposite directions. I’d already spent way too much time studying it. “Each person holds on to their partner’s feet. The movement is more of a rocking motion. It’s supposed to be . . . more pleasurable for the woman.”
“I’m in favor of that,” he whispered in my ear, causing a few of my synapses to snap and fire.
“Yeah, me, too.” Did I really say all that out loud? Were we having a conversation? Why wasn’t he tearing my clothes off and driving the nail home? But wait. Dinner was cooking in the oven. Oh, God.
He’d finished with my buttons and was pushing my blouse off my shoulders. “Do I smell something cooking?” he murmured against my skin as his mouth traveled along my jawline.
I barely heard him through a fog of pleasure. “What?”
His deep chuckle reverberated as he raised his head and gazed into my eyes. “I said, I’m going to kiss you again. Then I’m going to pick you up and carry you to the bedroom, where we’ll conduct research for your book.”
“Oh, yes, research,” I said, smiling up at him. “But dinner . . .”
“I’ll turn off the oven.”