Chapter 12 #3
‘And that evening, in the hearth room, when your mother scolded you, put her hands on your face, I thought – I felt—’ Her breath falls short. ‘My sister mocked me for it. She is older and has known of others. She could see that I was dying for you.’
‘You said nothing.’
‘I was afraid. And a little jealous. Of your softness and your comfort. But mostly just – afraid. To love you is to think you above all others the best, the most beautiful. I feared the honesty would cost us.’
To love me.
My lips meet hers. We are knotted with need, desire pulls us taut and we cling to each other.
She bites my lip, sucks my tongue into her mouth and my body breathes though my lungs are empty.
The flickering thing I have felt is bright and sharp.
The thing between us, that budding, sprouting sapling, fertilized by blood and clarity, opens in full bloom.
Its petals are wide and fragrant, it is beading with nectar, it is basking in us as we bare ourselves.
‘Stand up.’
She obeys. I pull her kalasiris over her head, then take off my own.
I see her for the first time. I note where she becomes hard and soft, the bunch of her muscles melding with the steady slope of her breasts, their peaks high and dark.
I ache to touch her, but we are both new at this and I will not rush.
My eyes roam and I see hers doing the same, memorizing me, the undulation of my belly, the curvature of my hips.
It is entirely foreign, this looking; she takes me in, compulsive, reverent, seeing me as I have never been seen before.
Her thighs rise and fall, and I want to scale their swell.
I am intent on their valley and the sight of her dark hair is my unleashing.
I kneel in the water with her. Our arms encircle each other. She presses her forehead to mine.
‘I will swear you no oaths, for I have done with them, but everything that is mine to give, I offer you, my Meda.’
There is no blood, no ichor, only water and our bodies.
My hand cups her cheek, my other palm flattens over her breast. She sighs and flexes beneath me.
My hand travels further, gentle, exploring, I note where she shimmers.
I circle her waist again and lay her down before me.
Steam shrouds us, cocooning, protecting us from any eyes but each other’s.
I pull back to look at her once more. I have felt more than I have fathomed; once it would never have occurred to me to dream of this, but now, I am overcome by the sight of her, entirely wrecked by the passion of belonging.
My lips return to hers then journey down her throat as I have imagined; my tongue tastes her skin, salt and sun-heated earth and home.
My mouth closes over those sensitive peaks, dipping, licking until she writhes beneath me, fingers fluttering at my waist, my back, the sides of my breasts, in my hair, sweeping away all other touches, banishing them until I have only ever known their sweet skimming.
I am damp with the heat of the spring and my need.
I oscillate between impulse and response, my knowledge of my own body guiding my learning of hers.
We are question and answer run together, like this?
Yes, like that, yes, like that. I sketch stories into her skin and my mouth follows.
I take my time, wanting to stretch out each second that we are here, like this; she is dazed and bent before me, and my focus is a filthy, wicked thing.
My hand replaces my mouth at her breasts, and she moans when the other applies pressure at her neck, like this?
Yes, like that, yes, like that. She is responsive, twisting and beseeching.
I have striven for perfection all my life and this will be no different.
I find the places across the hard plane of her stomach that make her twitch, each gasp sending a shudder through me.
I am between her thighs now and, knowing what she wants, I resist a little while longer.
She is desperate, my unhurried pace sending ripples across her muscles, and when my gaze grazes the length of her, I find her mouth ripe with desire.
I worship each toe, the stretch between ankle and knee; I revel in her wordless pleas and kneel before her as if I am at prayer.
Then I hover there, inhaling her, tracing her edge, not quite giving in.
‘Meda,’ her voice is a raw cry, ‘Meda.’
I show her my teeth. I am feral for her.
‘Now, now, worm,’ I purr, ‘be a good girl, and ask nicely.’
‘Please.’
She is so soft, each delicately scalloped fold opening before me.
I am slow, carefully brushing her with a finger and then, taken once more by that fierce possession, I stroke her again with all my fingers.
It is just my fingertips and I am gentle, but it is a claiming nonetheless.
Mine. She is wet with wanting and moans again, please.
My fingers slide to find the pearly centre of her pleasure and she is rendered to quivering.
I skim it gently, so gently I barely touch it.
She pulses beneath me; she is the beating heart of the spring.
My fingers are ceaseless. She surges, rising like a tide, again and again.
She cries out. I continue, slow, light touches.
I do not want to hurt her, but her body is reaching for me, snatching and gluttonous.
I watch her, wide eyed, made breathless by her submission.
I bite her lip. Our tongues meet again and there is a binding as I increase my pace.
‘Meda, Meda, Meda.’ She chants my name.
‘My Ceto,’ I murmur against her mouth, ‘I would rather die as your Meda than live as anyone’s queen.’
I move down her once more, closer this time, and I flick my tongue.
Her voice is rasped, her tremors intense.
She is hot and sweet because something dormant has been roused and I want to drink it, drink all this awake-ness.
I flick my tongue again, linger longer this time.
Her cries blend into one, something halfway to a sob, her body tense and locked.
I do it again and again. I hold her tight, so tight that we might never be cleaved, might never not be together.
She cries as she opens. She fissures, she cracks.