Джо Аберкромби - A Little Hatred - Book One (The Age of Madness)

By the dead, even the most thick-headed man in Adua – and Leo counted himself in the running – couldn’t have doubted what she was after. Probably there’d never been any doubt, but for some reason, he’d let himself think she might really want to give him a tour of a writer’s office. Here the pens, there the ink, now we can all go back to our separate beds and have a lovely sleep, entirely untroubled by worries over one’s abilities as a lover.

If anyone asked, Leo would always say he adored the ladies. But there’d been times when he worried that women didn’t quite … excite him the way they should. The way they did other men. Now it seemed his problem had simply been finding the right one. Rikke had been such easy company. One of the boys. Savine could scarcely have been more the opposite. He’d never met a woman who was more … woman .

‘Nervous?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he lied. His voice cracked a bit and she smiled. A hard little smile, as though she’d caught him out. Which she had, of course. He’d never been much of a liar.

The truth was, Leo had never been that comfortable around women. But perhaps comfortable is the last thing romance should be. Perhaps it should have an edge. And every moment with Savine felt as thrilling and dangerous as stepping into the Circle with the Great Wolf.

‘I … don’t think I ever met a woman like you before,’ he said.

‘Of course not.’ She threw her wine back in one easy motion, thin muscles in her neck fluttering as she swallowed. ‘I’m the only one.’ And she tossed the glass onto the leather top of the desk, where it rattled on its edge but by some sorcery stayed upright. She eased closer, pale chest rising and falling, soft skin gleaming with the lamplight and—

She was wearing a necklace that didn’t fit at all with her flawless tailoring. A twisted thong with bone tablets threaded onto it, jaggedly carved. The kind of thing Rikke used to wear in a rattling mass. Even through the drink and the excitement, that gave him a twinge of guilt.

‘Where did you get the runes?’

‘From the North,’ she said, vaguely, her eyes on his mouth.

‘What do they say?’ He wasn’t doing anything wrong, was he? Rikke had made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing more to—

Savine took him by the chin with a force that wasn’t to be resisted. ‘Who cares?’ Her thumbtip crept up his cheek, her narrowed eyes fixed on it, and the tip of her tongue showed between her lips as she found the fresh scar, stroked it gently, a little tickly, a little sore.

‘Did Stour Nightfall give you this?’ she asked.

‘With a few other keepsakes.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Only if you press— ah!’ She very deliberately pressed it, her teeth savagely bared for an instant, and made him flinch away, twisted even more uncomfortably over the desk.

He could hardly believe how slight she was, how slender, the sinews twitching in her bare shoulder. He hardly dared to touch her in case she snapped in his hands. But she was stronger than he’d expected. Far stronger. Far warmer. He caught a waft of her scent, mostly summer meadow, but with some harsh animal edge in it. He might’ve been more scared than excited but without doubt his cock was the other way around.

His throat was so tight he could hardly speak. He found himself wondering how much older she was than him. Five years? Ten? How much more experienced … ‘Are you sure this is a good idea—’

‘I’m sure it’s a terrible idea. That’s its appeal.’ She flipped open a little box, brought out a pinch of something between finger and thumb and lifted it to his face. She found a way to do even that gracefully. ‘Here.’

‘What is it?’

‘Pearl dust.’

‘The stuff artists use to make them more sensitive?’

‘What works for artists works just as well for the rest of us. They’re really a great deal less special than they like to think. Just sniff it.’

‘I’m not sure I—’

‘I thought you came for an adventure?’ And she pressed that pinch of powder to one of his nostrils while she squeezed the other shut with a fingertip. He really had no choice but to snort it up. The time for choices had been in the street outside—.

‘Ah, by the dead!’ Fire burned to the back of his throat, out into his ears, down into his teeth, brought tears to his eyes. A horrible sensation. ‘Why the hell would anyone—’

‘Other side,’ she hissed, twisting his head and near shoving her fingers up his other nostril. He hardly even knew she was undoing his sword-belt until he heard it clatter to the floor. Disarmed in every sense.

Bloody hell, he wanted to sneeze, stood for a moment with eyes closed, trying to smother it. When the urge passed, he found she was kissing him, gentle little nips at his mouth, then she twisted his face side on to hers, started lapping, sucking, biting at him.

He squeezed at her ribs but couldn’t really feel her, just a fortress of corsetry, stiff as armour. The burning in his face was fading, his head pleasantly spinning. His mouth moved mechanically, numb and clumsy. Lips all fizzy. He could taste wine on her tongue.

Whether it was her, or the drink, or the stuff for artists up his nose, Leo couldn’t say, but he’d started to feel bold. Wild. He was the bloody Young Lion, wasn’t he? He’d come for a fucking adventure! He was one of history’s great lovers, damn it!

He gave a lion’s growl as he caught her face, thumb under her jaw, caught the strap of her dress and gripped it, twisted it, his knuckles pressing hard into her shoulder, making her gasp, turning her, until he was the one shoving her up against the edge of the desk. He caught his foot on his sword, staggered, and she kicked it away with one pointed shoe, blade half falling out of the scabbard as it clattered into the lion-carved feet of the printing press.

His face didn’t hurt any more. Not one bit. He could hardly feel a thing from the neck up, but twice as much as usual from the waist down.

She grunted in her throat, lips curled back into something between a smile and a snarl as she nipped at him with her teeth. He felt her fumbling with his belt, dragging it open, felt his trousers sagging down until they were tangled with his boots. The air was cool on his arse, then her hand even cooler.

Any thought of saying no was long gone. Any thought at all, for that matter.

She wriggled nimbly back onto the desk, almost as if she’d had a lot of practice, skirts rustling as she pulled them up, pulled them up, and she dragged him after her, hand twisted in his hair.

Almost painful, but not quite.

Substitutes

‘By the dead,’ groaned Rikke.

She propped herself up on her elbows, tried to blow free the hair tangled across her face and failed. She had to drag it back with her fingers, squeeze her stinging eyes shut against the light then bit by tiny bit peel open just the one.

She was lying with a sheet tangled around her hips, one leg sticking out, which she knew must be hers ’cause she could wriggle the toes. She was stark naked but for her shirt, the sleeve all rucked up around one wrist and the rest spread out limp across the bed like a flag of surrender.

She frowned past the shirt, towards the window, then jerked up, staring about.

Where the bloody hell was she?

The room was big as a chieftain’s hall, acres of rich-coloured drapery stirring about the great windows. The far-off ceiling was all crusted with gilded leaves, the furniture all polished to a blinding sheen, the door high enough to be used by giants with a knob shaped like the sun of the Union.

It turned, and the door shuddered open as if from a kick.

Someone came in with a silver tray teetering on one hand, things sliding dangerously about on top. His crimson jacket, heavy with gold stitching, hung open to show a strip of pale and slightly hairy chest and belly. He turned slowly towards the bed, concentrating furiously on keeping his tray balanced.