Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

She nodded, hands still on his knees. He looked down at her tapered fingers curled around his joints. She tapped his knee and made a motion. He repeated, for if he didn’t, she would repeat it endlessly as if he were a dim child.

She sat up and slid her hands from his knees over his thighs. Her smile was softer and her eyes shadowed by her lashes. She tapped his leg and made a sign. He repeated it.

She scooted closer, touched his chest, and made the sign. She did not wait for him to repeat it when she reached up and touched his lips. She quickly made the sign with her other hand but did not take her fingers away. The fingers began a slow caress. He gave her a small smile and gently took her wrist, removing her hand. But as soon as he released her, her fingers were back, touching his lips and then his chin, the pads of her fingers catching on the stubble.

She withdrew a moment to touch her chest and made the sign of her name.

His voice was roughened when he pointed to himself. “I am Crispin.”

She made a sign for it and he repeated it.

She touched her lips and then touched his and made a sign.

“I don’t understand.”

She repeated the sign, repeated touching her lips and then his. He could not help but lean forward. “I’m sorry. I don’t think … I don’t understand.”

Her hand closed on his coat and dragged him forward. He nearly fell out of his chair when she pulled him farther until his lips touched hers. Startled, he tried to pull away, but her grip on his coat was surprisingly strong. She was gentle as their mouths slid together and then, teasingly, barely touched.

“Avelyn,” he murmured, lips tingling against her nibbling mouth. He took her upper arms in a gentle grasp, trying to push her back. “Avelyn, you shouldn’t be here.” She should be with her master. This was foolish. But the softness of her mouth, moving gently, patiently, over his, as patient as the motions and signs she taught him, grew captivating. Their noses prodded each other. He held his breath when she angled her head and pressed more firmly, hot breath searing his mouth. His lids drifted closed. Slowly, she opened her lips with maddening tenderness. Her tongue caressed. He resisted, but she swiped her tongue over his mouth again before snaking it forward, breaching the seam of his lips. She barely touched the tip of her tongue to his, but all at once, it seemed to be the invitation Crispin was waiting for. His arms enveloped her and he opened his mouth to cover hers.

He inhaled her warm scent and clenched his eyes, feeling little but their wet brush of tongues and the warmth of her breath on his cheek.

Her fingers unwound from his coat and slid up his chest, arms moving around his neck. Her body was suddenly pressed tight to the length of his. Small breasts crushed against his chest, and her spindly arms embraced. He pulled her up until he was sitting back against the chair and she was standing between his spread legs.

They kissed deeply with a mutual need that sent Crispin’s senses spiraling upward. Lips and mouths slid together and they knew nothing but each other’s breath and taste, felt their two bodies react to each other. His hands eased over her shoulders, back, buttocks.

He stood and held fast to her lithe frame, holding her so that her feet lifted from the floor. She was so small, like a child, and her kisses, too, were like a child’s in their sweetness while at the same time like a woman’s in their bold exploration.

He swung her around to the table and laid her down, pushing up her skirts, but she shook her head, rolling it from side to side, nearly toppling the candle. He drew back, perplexed, and she sat up, hopping off. Her wicked smile was back and she curled her fingers over Crispin’s belt and dragged him toward the bed.

He followed without complaint and stood over her as she sat on the straw-stuffed mattress. She busily unbuckled his belt and let it fall to the floor, then began on the buttons of his cotehardie from the bottom up, determined, it seemed, to unbutton each and every one slowly but efficiently.

She stood and peeled the coat off his shoulders and let that, too, fall. Digging into the laces of his linen chemise, she spread open the neckline and used both hands to push the fabric up his chest until Crispin took the hint and lifted it over his head himself, letting it join the cotehardie.

Standing in only his braies, stockings, and boots, he reached for her, but she stretched her open hands over his chest, sliding her fingers through his dark chest hair before they found the many scars puckering his flesh. Her fingers, touching light as a butterfly’s wings, skimmed over the knife wounds, the sword cuts, the burn marks of torture.

They told the story of his life, and her fingers moved over them as if reading their tales. He stiffened and didn’t move as her hands and fingers paused over each one. Her gaze was intent on his skin with parted mouth, until those large, luminous eyes flicked up to his face.

Her brow furrowed and she gestured as if to ask, “Why?”

He closed his hand over hers and breathed again, holding her small hand against his chest, which was rising and falling vigorously. “I was once a man of great property and responsibility. I was a knight. But I chose an ill-considered path and lost it all.”

She pulled her fingers loose from his hand and sketched the scars from the torture of ten years ago. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Those were inflicted upon me. They were deserved. I committed treason, after all. But I live, as you can see.”

Her face expressed her disbelief, but he offered a grim smile. “It’s quite true, I assure you.” He sat on the bed beside her. Her head came only to his shoulder. She wore no veil, and he looked down upon the shiny crown of her hair. It was gathered in one large plait at the back of her neck. He lifted it, feeling the heavy, silky braid. He wrapped it around his wrist, toying with it.

She reached around, grabbed the end of the braid, and slowly began to unwind it.

He watched her for some moments. Each strand of hair that was freed kinked and lay raggedly on her shoulder. His fingers found them and he ran the silken strands over the calluses on his palms and fingertips. “I know nothing about you,” he said, though she wasn’t watching his lips as he said it, so he knew she could not “hear” him. “You are from France, but that is all I know. I don’t know your age or your family or … anything else.”

She pulled her fingers through her hair, loosening it all, and shook it out. White hair, fine like spun silk, drifted over his hands, a waterfall of elfin silver. He twisted it in his fist and bent her head back, leaned in, and kissed her again. Her fingernails ran hard over his bare skin, raising gooseflesh.

He drew back. His fingers caressed her face where the red mark from his hand was fading. “I’m sorry for this.”

She blinked slowly and looked up at him with drowsy lids, breath slipping over her parted lips. Her tongue poked out and licked them to dampness, and he decided to speak no more.

He unbuttoned her cotehardie, laying open the rough-spun material and pushing it down her shoulders. She shifted to slip it farther. He didn’t wait. He attacked the laces of her chemise and opened it wide, reaching in with his hands and closing them on her small white breasts.

His face fell to her neck, nuzzling the musky scent of her. The fine strands of her hair fell over his nose and cheeks. She was silent, except for her ragged breathing and small sighs.

The captive looked up as the pale man returned, stomping through the dark room. His hands scrambled over the shelf, making noises of wood against stone, until a spark struck and he moved back within her vision and lit the cold hearth.