Chapter 8 – On the Origins of Devils #7
That made him laugh so hard she actually gained a little distance.
Remin accelerated after her, his heavy boots crunching leaves and branches underfoot.
Ophele was a flurry of green skirts and flying hair, her eyes glowing with delight at this play, fleet as a deer.
In a small grove of birches, he cornered her, and Ophele retreated, so light and quick on her feet that he knew she would eel past him if he gave her the least opening.
He had never expected her to give him such a chase.
“Where will you go now?” he asked, his teeth flashing in a predatory grin. The chase had excited him in more ways than one. The sight of her flushed and breathless and retreating before him fired his blood.
“I think—” Her eyes flicked right and she went left, a clever feint that left Remin momentarily grasping air. With another lunge, he was on her before she had gone a half dozen paces, and she squealed and struggled as he snatched her off the ground.
“Got you,” he rumbled.
“What will you do?” she asked, turning her head to look up at him. Her voice was suddenly altered, soft and breathy and tempting.
“I shall have to punish you, of course.” Just saying those words made him harden like an oak. His hands slid down her body, holding her tight against him. Remin bit the back of her neck. “No one can hear you scream out here, wife.”
“Here? Now?” she breathed as his fingers pushed between her legs, and he had to catch her as her knees wobbled, both of them tumbling into the grass.
Here. Now. He hadn’t planned for this to happen, but he was not at all averse to it. Remin bent over her to cup her breasts from behind, his hips pushing into her clothed backside. He was so aroused he couldn’t think straight .
Which was probably good, or he might not have had the guts to do it, out in the open in the middle of the day.
Dragging her skirts up, he yanked at the laces of his breeches and thrust into her.
He had just enough sense not to damage her clothes, but oh, how he wanted all that soft, tempting skin, and he brushed her hair over her shoulders to leave the marks of his mouth all over her neck, his breath scorching her. Oh, stars, it felt so good.
“Remin…” Her hips moved under him, a sinuous roll backward, and Remin drew back and thrust deep.
“Be loud,” he ordered.
It was like a dream. A wild golden dream where they were the only people in the world, a fantasy of dappled leaf shadows shifting on her skin as they moved frantically together.
The sound of her voice unstrung spurred him to go harder, faster, his own groans bursting from his deep chest with every stroke.
“Hard—harder,” she begged, the words broken between hammering thrusts. “Oh, more, Remin, more!”
Could he really? There was no squeaky bed to stop him here. Some rudimentary caution sounded as he increased his speed, and her hips moved under him, eager. Remin lost every remnant of his reason and pounded them both into oblivion.
Lying in a tangle of clothing afterward, he felt absurdly as if he had been caught at some mischief. It was the most erotic thing they had ever done together.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked when she shifted under him, all but hidden beneath his body.
“No…” she purred, nestling into him like a kitten. “Sooooooo good…”
“I am glad,” he said, amused and relieved, and turned to sit them both against a tree.
He was still a little light-headed, and he was reluctant for this interlude to end, a wordless togetherness no less intimate than the joining of their bodies.
For a long and peaceful time, it was only the two of them, his lips brushing her forehead, her cheeks, her eyes.
It was just what they needed, Remin thought, nuzzling into her soft hair. Feeling her in his arms, the soft, warm weight of her. A breath for themselves, before they must part. In this place, they could just be Ophele and Remin, with no greater responsibility than the hazelnuts .
“Do you want to go back home, wife?” he asked as they washed in a nearby stream. Ophele’s knees were considerably grass stained.
“Could we stay a little longer?” she asked hopefully. “There’s still plenty of hazelnuts on the ground, and in the trees…”
“And we need enough to last the winter,” he agreed, lacing his fingers in hers.
* * *
The first blessing of Brother Oleare was made beneath the stars.
Bundled up against the cold, they gathered the next morning an hour before dawn, the forest beyond Shepherd’s Gate curiously quiet of devils.
There was no great ceremony planned; only Juste, Edemir, and Ophele were there to see them off, standing in the forecourt of the gatehouse with torches whiffing in the breeze.
The soldiers were arrayed in marching order, with each man checking his own gear and his neighbor’s, and more men moving up and down the line to fill waterskins, hitch up the horses, and make final inspections of the wagons.
Everyone knew their tasks and moved efficiently, with habits long ingrained by war.
It was strange but comforting to see a Celestial Brother descend from Genon’s hospital wagon, dressed in his blue-and-white cassock, as ancient and weathered as the old trees of the forest.