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She stood next to the table now and turned to him. “I want you here,” she said. She rested her palm on the table and tilted her head just so.
Surrender is only a beginning.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 6
Jean-Pierre’s chest expanded at the sight of Fiona with her hand on his worktable, the place he had laid each timber of the house: measured, sawed, planed, sanded. It swelled again, as though with her words and the things she did, she kept breathing life into his heart, almost more than he could bear.
He did not refuse this invitation. He did not remark that the table, though not dirty, was not clean, either. He did not suggest his bed or even the soft couch in his living room.
No, he went to her thinking that this was good and right in a way his soul could understand even if his mind would have suggested other places to take this step on their journey.
He had built his house with his hands and now he would put his hands on her, and build something new.
He drew close, standing in front of her. He touched her face, her skin soft beneath his callused warrior hands. She turned her face into his hand and kissed the toughened ridges, shaped by the leather-wrapped grip of his sword for two centuries.
“You honor me,” he whispered.
Her lips were swollen now and her scent filled the room, buttery pastries. He knew what would happen as he leaned toward her. Little puffs of air left her mouth. Her scent thickened the space between. A light groan met his lips as he kissed her.
Jean-Pierre, she sent. You will make me come.
Come. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue between her lips. She cried out and he bored deeply. She clutched his arms as he brought her. She cried out again and again until she could barely stand. He slid his arm around her waist and drew back just enough so that he could look at her flushed cheeks and liquid eyes.
“How do you do that?”
“You ask me that every time. I think the better question must be, how do you do that, chérie? Was it this way between you and your husband, between you and Terence?”
She looked down, and he wished the words unsaid. Some memories took her back to unhappy times; this was one of those memories.
He put the side of his finger beneath her chin and lifted, forcing her to look at him. “I value your love for your husband.”
“Oh, Jean-Pierre, how you please my heart.” Tears swam in her eyes, a little ocean of pain. Then she laughed and wiped at her cheeks. “Terence used to tease me. I was always so ready for him. I seemed to be a little pile of kindling just waiting for the strike of a match. But doesn’t it bother you to hear that?”
He shook his head. “Of course not.” He smiled. “Well, perhaps a little but that is just the breh-hedden being absurd.”
She searched his eyes. “I don’t want you to take this moment too seriously.”
He shook his head. “I believe we feel the same way, desire but restraint, non?”
She nodded.
He put his hands around her small waist. He smiled because his fingers touched.
He unbuttoned her slacks and since he dipped his chin to work the front zipper, she leaned close and sniffed his skin all along his temple until chills chased one another down his neck and his chest.
His muscles flexed and released.
He pushed her pants to the floor, and she stepped out of them then kicked her heels off as well. He looked down, not at the floor but at the expanse of lovely pale skin, thigh to ankle. He ran a finger across first one warm thigh, then the other. She hissed softly and put her hands on his shoulders.
She leaned forward and nuzzled his neck again. “Take your hair from the cadroen,” she whispered. “I want to see your hair, to feel it between my fingers. I have wanted to do that for so long. For so long I’ve wanted to do so many things with you.”
She kissed his neck and licked and kissed. These small kitten-like ministrations built a fire in his body and weakened parts of him while strengthening others. For that reason, he had difficulty lifting his arms in order to obey her command. But he succeeded at last and freed his hair. He folded the cadroen to his bedroom.
Using both hands, she drew his hair forward. It was long now, in somewhat wild waves with a few errant curls here and there. The Warriors of the Blood all had long hair, an ancient ritual, the keeping of long hair to reflect strength and dedication. Her fingers sank into his hair on both sides and she dragged her hands lower and lower, the tips of her fingers poking through and connecting with his jacket.
But her fingers became knotted, of course, so he took her hands and untangled them. He held her gaze as he lifted both hands to his lips and kissed each finger, one after the other. Her breaths were light again and very quick.
Her lips parted. Her breath flowed toward him, a sweet scent of the patisserie. Shivers chased over his body. What she could do to him!
She was killing him so sweetly. Did she know how she affected him? That her gaze never strayed told him she did. She must have pleased her husband very much, and all, no doubt, without the smallest awareness of the effect. This he knew to be so very true about her—she had no guile and he loved her for that.
He released her hands and untied the small bow at her waist. He unbuttoned her blouse until he could push it apart. Her bra was cut low and made of a very fine cream lace. She had full br**sts, and his breathing changed at the sight of them. He dipped low and a soft sound swirled from her throat as his lips kissed each mound in turn. His hands became restless as he continued to kiss.
He thumbed her ni**les through the fabric and made them into hard beads. His touch, of lips and hands, drove new sounds from her throat, new cries and whimpers.
Her fingers worked through his hair again. “Jean-Pierre,” she murmured. He felt her lips then kisses on his head.
He pushed the bra over her left breast and took the nipple in his mouth. She gasped and cried out. “You will bring me again,” she said, panting.
Good, he sent.
He suckled, hard and fast.
Her body writhed. He vowed he had never known a woman to come so quickly but he suspected that these were but faint shadows, very small petits morts, and but a prelude to what he could accomplish with her body.
Would she let him? Could he sweep over her as he wanted to, a heavy wave across her body, of great pleasure, perhaps like nothing she had ever known?
* * *
Fiona was draped over Jean-Pierre, her arms wrapped around his bent shoulders as he slowed the suckling of her nipple. Her breath came in shallow pants, and her body had that sweet drift of lethargy that always accompanied such a swift climax.
