Chapter 10
TEN
GWENNA
Well. That was…something.
I pick my way up the stairs on wobbly legs and stiff knees, still a little short of breath and still a lot dazed.
Maybe it was the relief that, in fact, there is no masked mysterious contingent of French monks on their way to snatch me up and...I don't know what. For the time being, anyway.
Maybe it was the way Kai looked just now, all intense and focused on the minute, undoubtedly finicky work of assembling weapons--there's just something about guys who are good with their hands, I guess.
Point is, I'm not fully sure what came over me just now.
But...
But I am sure what came into me.
Jesus, Gwenna. Where'd that come from? I almost laugh out loud as I step out of the stairwell into the kitchen.
Guess I am that kind of girl. On some level, anyway.
The kitchen is still, quiet, just late afternoon sunlight streaming weakly from the big windows, the usual neat ceramic bowls of fruit--winter citrus, still, even though it's April--on the counter and the air warm and vaguely fragrant, like coffee and cloves.
And here, on the terra firma of the first floor, I blow out a very long breath.
Because I have been left with a lingering problem.
I'm horny as fuck.
I lick my lips, considering. I could go, ah, take care of myself, I guess, but if I’m being completely honest, I’ve only ever been like a C+ masturbator at best. I'm not morally opposed, or anything--no more repressed than your average former Catholic schoolgirl, anyway. No, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is…just not that good at making herself come, I suppose. And I'm out of practice, besides; since moving into Camlann House permanently, with the four of them, it really hasn’t been something I’ve needed to do much.
Or, of course, I could do what a normal person does--what is probably much more in keeping with my actual nature, for that matter--and just go about my day, unobsessed with sex.
But normal people don't really find themselves in these situations in the first place, do they?
I hug my arms around myself, debating, and a little cold, as the low pad of footsteps approaches from the living room.
"Oh." Callahan straightens up, noticing my presence. "Hi." He's got a water bottle in one hand, which he sets on the gleaming countertop, abandoning his refill. "I didn't know you were home."
Home. I like how he says it. But it is, isn't it? This immaculate kitchen and all its polished appliances, its perennially stocked pantries, its warm browns and reds against the slate-colored bleakness outside. This whole house. The salle, the living rooms, the bedrooms...
A rush of heat surges to the center of me. I bite my lip again.
“You okay?” Cal asks.
“Uh huh.” I swallow. My throat is a little thick still for...reasons.
Suddenly, I wonder what would happen if I kissed Cal, right now. Freshly, you know, after. Would he notice?
Not like he doesn’t know what it tastes like.
Oh my God. What is wrong with me? I bug my eyes out, shaking my head, and as I do, Cal stares at me.
Concerned.
"You sure?" He steps closer to me, and, after a moment of hesitation, grips my shoulders. Searches my face. "You're feeling okay? Not sick?”
Not like Lanz, I hear without him needing to say it.
“I'm fine,” I say, more sharply than I mean to. “Let me go, Cal.”
He does. Quickly.
Very quickly.
His Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes huge behind his glasses.
His mouth a little open.
Oh.
Oh.
A possibility takes shape in my mind.
I glance at his water bottle. "Are you in the middle of something?"
Cal follows my gaze. Shakes his head. "Just studying."
"Ah." I nod, slowly. Breathe out.
Do it, Gwenna, I think. Do it now before you lose your nerve.
Cal retreats a step back. "Sorry to bother--"
I don't let him finish his sentence.
"Cal. Listen."
He stops. He's listening.
“I’m going to go up to my bedroom now.” I say it slowly and steadily as I can manage. "And you’re going to go up with me.”
He nods. Nods again. Doesn't speak.
"Do you understand?" I ask. My voice is almost shaking.
It takes him a moment. But not a long one.
“Oh," he murmurs. "Yeah. Yes. Yes, I--”
I don’t wait for him to finish his response before I turn on my heel for the staircase. And it’s thrilling, just leaving him there and expecting him to follow.
Because follow he does. At a clip: two long, loud strides and he’s at my side, only to hang back as we mount the stairs, like he isn’t sure if he should outpace me or not. If he’s allowed to outpace me or not.
Guess that’s up to me.
Heart thrumming against my ribs, I push open my bedroom door without even looking over my shoulder, just hearing him follow me.
“Close the door.”
He does.
"Kiss me."
He nods a few times. Then it's like he remembers he's supposed to move, and seizes me, pulling my face up to meet his almost hard enough to hurt my neck.
God, he's tall. "Pick me up," I murmur into his lips, and he does, although not without some maneuvering, figuring out where to seat his hands and how to lift me, but once he does...
My back hits the poster of my bed with a crack. Cal's eyes fly open, worried, searching mine. But I'm fine--more than fine. Touched, if anything, that he thought to panic.
You darling thing, I think. "Good boy," I whisper to him, stroking his cheek, and kiss him fast.
Cal whimpers into my mouth.
Now my blood is rushing down my body and my heart is whirring, and it's only building and building the more he kisses me like this. I briefly wonder if Cal will need to catch up, but a shift of my weight against him that momentarily brushes my hips lower on his and I realize I don't have to worry.
He's hard. Straining against his jeans, actually, and when I shift against him again—deliberately, this time—his whole body shudders.
“Do you—should I—”
"Shh." I put a finger to his lips. "I'll tell you."
He nods, instantly quiet, eyes half-lidded, and God, that's heady. That's—
My gaze catches on the box on my nightstand. Morgan's gift. The twillies, still nestled in tissue paper, gleaming faintly in the low light: one deep blue, one burgundy, both shot through with gold.
You can use them as a headband, Morgan had said. Or around your wrist like a sort of bangle.
I have a different idea.
"Give me your hands."
Cal blinks, but extends them without hesitation.
I hold his wrists together in one hand—not easy—and reach over and pluck the blue one from the box with the other.
The silk is petal-soft, cool and slippery between my fingers as I loop it once, twice around his wrists, knotting it loosely enough that he could escape if he wanted to.
He…doesn't want to.
"This okay?" I ask, tugging the knot snug.
Cal's breath hitches. He nods.
"Good." I lean back against the pillows, watching him. "Now. On your knees."
He drops so fast I almost laugh. Almost. But then he's kneeling at the edge of the bed, wrists bound in blue and gold silk, and I forget how to breathe.
"You're going to use your mouth.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "And you're not going to stop until I say so. Understand?"
He nods. Swallows. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
The words slip out before I can second-guess them, and for a split second I wonder if I've gone too far—but Cal just shivers, his bound hands pressing into the mattress for balance.
"Yes, Gwenna," he whispers.
Damn. Damn, I like this.
I hook my fingers into my waistband and shimmy out of my clothes—graceless, probably, but Cal watches intently like it’s some kind of recital. When I settle back against the pillows and part my thighs, his breath catches audibly.
"Well?"
He moves. Eager, clumsy, hampered by his bound wrists—he can't brace himself, can't use his hands to guide or steady. And
He glances at me. “Do I--”
I shake my head. I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t give turn by turn directions when I am this far gone, because suddenly I am too desperate. “Figure it out, Callahan.”
“Okay. Okay.”
He goes in. His face hits me more than grazes me, bangs into me with force just shy of painful, and I nearly jump off the bed. But then I feel the brush of his jaw dropping open between my thighs, his tongue sliding out and—
Oh. Oh my God.
The sensation ripples over me, hot, firm, and fluttering all at once. It's too much, and then immediately not enough, and whatever sound comes out of my throat
Cold air hits me. I look down to see Cal pull back, his glasses askew and his lips slick. “What?”
“Did I say stop?” I pant. “Just--"
Without waiting for me to finish, Cal plunges back down, this time with a fat, wet sweep of tongue that makes me positively whimper. I reach down, blind and frantic, weaving my fingers into the waves of his hair.
"Cal," I gasp, arching my hips into him. "Cal. Don't," I snap, tugging tighter at his hair as I feel him start to pull back again. "Don't stop. Don't--"
He doesn't. Just holds firm, drags his tongue over me again and again and again until I'm delirious, shivering, stars in my vision and thunder in my veins, until it's finally, finally enough and I feel my body clenching sweet and hard and rhythmic against the warm pressure of him.
He looks dazed, incredulous.
"Did you--" he gasps.
"Mhm." I nod a few times, breathless, and reach down to cup his cheek. "You did so well." Too late, I realize I have done…nothing for him, really. “Do you need—”
Cal gives his head an earnest shake. "I don't need anything, Gwenna," he murmurs.
"Don't contradict me." I'm half-joking, going for flirty more than bossy, but I swear I can see his pupils dilate.
"I'm not contradicting you," he says, his voice hoarse. "I just meant—I don't need anything else. I liked making you—" He breaks off, flexing his fingers in their silk bindings. “Um. Anyway. I already—"
I soften. Sit up and reach for his wrists, working loose the knot—he could have slipped free at any moment, but he didn't, not once—and let the twilly fall away. Faint pink marks stripe his skin where the silk pulled taut.
"You can move now."
He does. Immediately. His hands come down to cup my face, and he kisses me—sweet and lingering and almost reverent.
When we finally break apart, I take the blue twilly and drape it over my headboard, a little trophy. A reminder.
"That was..." Cal starts, then stops. Tries again. "I've never..."
“Yeah.” I curl onto my side. “Neither have I. Not like that."
He's quiet a moment. Then: "The scarf thing. Are those…”
“What?” I laugh. “No. That was…improvisational. I don’t know. No, Morgan gave them to me. For my handbag."
Cal considers this. "You don't have a handbag."
"I know."
A pause. Then, softly: "I think I liked it.”
I smile against his shoulder. "I know that too."
We lie on my bed, silent except for breathing. Pleasant. I could almost fall asleep that way, but then Cal speaks up.
“I thought the ending was okay.”
“What?” I crane my neck at him, genuinely confused. Seeing me, Cal, too, looks bewildered, which is a darling look on him, I have to say. “What are you talking about?”
“The book,” he says. “You told me to tell you what I thought of the last chapter.”
Oh. Oh, God, the stupid Michelangelo Matrix. He took that seriously? That’s…
The smile on my face breaks into a laugh before I can stop it.
“What?” Cal says.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, and put a hand to his cheek. “Nothing, nothing. You’re right. I did.” I sigh and drop my head on his shoulder. “And?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Now Cal seems self-conscious. “It was kind of ridiculous, right? That the Garden of Eden was under the Eiffel Tower all along?”
“Eh, I mean…” I consider. “Things hide in plain sight, do they not?”
“You’re right,” Cal agrees—too fast. “Did you like it?”
“Did I like it,” I repeat, staring idly at the roses on my dresser.
They’re starting to crinkle and fade—still beautiful, in a way.
But a bit sad. “Personally, I found it much more contrived that Fabienne was the illegitimate great-great-great-granddaughter of Gustave Eiffel. And the love scenes with her and Montgomery…”
I wrinkle my nose—the author certainly had no compunctions taking full paragraphs to describe his heroine’s “too-full lips” and “pert” (gag) breasts—but Cal blushes. I press my lips together, trying not to smile.
“Oh, you liked those?” I tease. “You have a thing for beautiful Frenchwomen and hunky American scholars?”
“No,” Cal says honestly.
“Ah,” I say. “So it’s just the Eiffel Tower that gets you going, then?”
Cal blinks. Poor thing. Here I am thinking I’m the inept, awkward, inexperienced one, and yet even my terrible innuendo is flying entirely over his head.
“Gwenna, I love you.”
I’m surprised to hear it—surprised but pleased, actually. Very pleased. I melt a little against him. “Cal.”
“I do,” he says. “Is that okay?”
Is it okay. Dear God. “Of course,” I say. “Why wouldn’t it be? I love you too.”
How simple it is to say that when you mean it, I think. And how easy to mean it with someone like him.
We lie in silence a moment.
“What about Lanz?” I ask.
“Oh. Yeah.” Cal swallows. “Him too.” He rolls over a bit, his eyes searching mine, like he needs permission. Affirmation that such a thing is possible.
Sure, I think. Ask me, a two-way split’s nothing. Out loud, all I say is, “Did you study Latin ever?"
Cal lifts a hand, does a little eh, kinda motion. "Only the requirement. I wasn't really any good. Why?"
"There's this word," I say. "Altus. An adjective. Ring any bells?"
Cal strokes his jaw. "Um. Tall? Maybe?"
"Sort of. It means deep, or high." I extricate myself from his arms so I can lie on my side and face him.
"Like, the idea was, they had just this one word that meant a great distance from the baseline.
So the top of a mountain would be altus.
But so would the bottom of the ocean. They wouldn't understand those as different concepts, necessarily. If that makes sense."
Cal thinks a moment. "Yeah."
Ugh, I think with a cringe, why do I get on these tangents.
But Cal is too polite, I guess, to interrupt me.
Or maybe he's actually intrigued. "So, I guess what I'm getting at is," I finish, "I think of you like that.
How you feel. Just, profound. Extensive.
And in a way that doesn't...cancel itself out. You know?"
I have no idea why I thought this was a good way to explain my reasoning. I have no idea if this even makes sense. But it seems to placate Cal--no, to calm him, practically. His body relaxes next to mine on the mattress.
"Does Lanz know, dare I ask?"
Cal shifts again, and now he’s the one staring at the rose bouquet. Silent. Contemplating.
“Maybe good to tell him, then,” I prompt, stroking the edge of his shoulder.
A petal drops from one of the roses.
Sooner rather than later, I add silently.