Page 13 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

Weeks.

No wonder my body all but screams at me to keep up the fun. No wonder I answer with higher gasps and quickening rubs.

I fall back onto the bed and let my legs dangle over the side of the plush mattress. I spread my thighs, exposing more for my fingers to touch…and arouse. I emit a longer moan while palming my breasts through my T-shirt. Squeezing them. Pinching them. Hardening them.

Vaguely, I realize that I actually remembered to pack my vibrator on this trip. But I’m too far gone to go looking for the thing. With tight, fast circles, I work my frantic fingertips over my tingling clit. Faster still. Faster. I sigh. I hum. I mewl.

Yes.

I’m almost there.

So close.

Almost…there.

Damn it. Yesssss…

Wait.

What the hell?

I sit up. Hold my breath. I’m not the only one generating sound in this room.

What on earth is going on?

Who’s making all those strange, soft hums? And where are they making them?

I swallow hard, forcing myself to look at the towering wardrobe in the corner. The pachyderm of a cabinet is stunning but daunting. Its front panels are testaments to the craftsmen of centuries past, inlaid with mother-of-pearl pictures. Naked angels are dancing with moonbeams in different shades of the shiny nacre. But that’s the extent of my observation about the handiwork of the thing for now. I’m mesmerized—hypnotized—by the wardrobe for a different reason.

Because…

“Holy. Shit.”

Is the damn thing…calling to me? Singing to me?

The sound, a blend of electrical resonance and a harpsichord melody, is like no music I’ve ever heard. The song has no structure or rhythm but compels me like a symphony written solely for my cells, my soul, my spirit. No part of me can ignore it.

“What…the…”

I can’t finish because the chest starts to shake.

No more midnight roses.

My heart thunders with primal terror.

Still, I scoot to my feet and walk toward the damn thing.

Pulled by the golden light that glows from behind the eight-foot doors…

Light?

“Oh, my God,” I rasp. “Okay, Allie. You are either seriously drunk or damn deranged.” I hope for the former but suspect the latter. With every step I take, the suspicion intensifies.

I reach for one of the wrought-iron handles. I’m dazzled by the sunlight still effusing from beyond, consuming the silhouettes of my fingers.

I pull the door open.

And at once am tackled by the sun.