8 - Iona #2
“I shouldn’t have…” Ariadne stops when Iona nips at her throat to silence her.
She caresses Ariadne’s curves, tracing the seams and boning of her corset beneath the silk of her gown, marking every sharp intake of breath.
“Lift up your skirts,” Iona demands, pulling away only slightly so she can hold Ariadne’s gaze.
She considers it, her eyes darkening to a deep, transfixing red, until she reaches down to pull up the fabric to her waist, revealing her white stockings, red garters, the soft olive skin of her thighs, and the patch of black curls between her legs.
Iona squints, then reaches down to pull at the bow of one of the garters, slipping it off and bringing it up to her eyes. Her and Ariadne’s initials are embroidered into the strip of silk, with delicate white flowers surrounding the filigreed letters.
“Surely Euphemia did not…” Iona looks up at her, recalling that Euphemia had been the one to dress Ariadne in her gown for the evening.
“No, of course not,” Ariadne says, flushing at the thought. “I… conjured them later.”
“Was it for Rebekka’s benefit or mine?” Iona raises an eyebrow.
“Yours, of course!” Ariadne becomes so flustered that Iona has to fight to keep a straight face. “I’ve… I’m surprised you’ve not noticed those earlier. It’s not the first time I’ve worn them.”
Iona wraps the silk garter around the palm of her left hand, and Ariadne follows the movement, transfixed.
“I’m often distracted by the time I get to your stockings,” Iona admits. “I truly admire your penchant for thoughtful details. Ever the aesthete.”
She holds out her hand, which Ariadne takes to help her keep balance as she goes down onto her knees. From that vantage point, flanked by each of Ariadne’s long legs, her glistening sex is bared to Iona’s gaze. Her mouth waters.
“Someone may walk in,” Ariadne says half-heartedly, regarding her with hungry, pleading eyes.
“Then kindly tell them to leave,” Iona says. “My mouth will be otherwise occupied.”
With that she lifts herself up to meet Ariadne’s pink cunt and wraps her lips around her pulsing flesh, feeling the slight patter of a quickening pulse against her tongue, and eliciting a fevered moan.
Ariadne gasps when she suckles in earnest, the sound getting caught in her throat when she tries so hard to stifle it and fails. Lapping at her, tracing her lightly with her tongue, Iona revels in her abandon.
The smallest reactions are what Iona craves, a moan or squirm to betray her beloved’s unending lust. Ariadne isn’t one to beg whilst in the throes of passion, but her sounds, the little sighs and sharp inhales made despite her attempts to stifle them, the sudden tension of her muscles beneath her silken skin, are more than enough to fill Iona with unparalleled satisfaction.
Ariadne keeps one hand bunched in her skirts to keep them raised and laces the fingers of her other hand into Iona’s hair to keep her in place, her fingers clenching ever so slightly when Iona sucks with increasing force, until Ariadne’s knees threaten to buckle.
In the back of her mind, Iona decides she wouldn’t mind if Rebekka happened to pass by the door and recognize Ariadne’s strangled moans, her wanton gasps, as she draws Ariadne’s pleasure higher and higher with every stroke of her tongue.
Let Rebekka be overcome with burning regret and envy at knowing she will never touch Ariadne again, will never touch Iona even once, and she is all the poorer for it.
“Nymph,” Ariadne grits out, and while her mouth remains open, Iona slides two fingers inside her and crooks them, stimulating that spot inside that drives her wild.
Ariadne cries out, louder than she usually allows herself, and Iona’s cheeks heat at the wonderful sound. Wanting to hear it again, she removes her fingers and slips her tongue inside, licking languidly, teasing the textured knot of nerves-
“Iona,” Ariadne moans again, her hips undulating of their own accord as she loses herself.
She comes undone with a rush of wetness that drips down Iona’s chin, her legs trembling as she struggles to keep from collapsing.
Iona doesn’t let up until Ariadne pushes at her shoulders to stop, and she looks up to find Ariadne’s mouth agape, her eyes shut tight, the prettiest of pink flushes on her cheeks.
Iona pushes herself back to her feet and waits a moment, giving Ariadne time to recover. When she does, she remembers herself and quickly releases her hold on her skirts, her iron grip on them leaving wrinkles that she attempts to smooth out with trembling hands.
Iona wipes the wetness from her chin with the back of her hand and takes slow steps towards her.
“I would never betray you.” Iona grasps her chin and forces her to lock eyes. “I love you. Only you. Did you forget?”
“No,” Ariadne says immediately. “I… I am sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
Iona caresses her cheek and searches her gaze for insight. “You haven’t been yourself since we arrived in France. What is weighing on you?”
“I hate these parties,” Ariadne says with sudden fiery vehemence. “I can feel them all watching me. It makes my skin crawl. I once drowned myself in wine to dull the perception of their stares.”
Taken aback, Iona asks, “Why ever would you attend these gatherings at all if you hate them so?”
“I never had the choice,” she says. “Or… for a time I did frequent Euphemia’s balls, but in those days, she protected me and made them almost enjoyable, controlled, safe.
Later, when I courted… Elise,” she frowns, “I was told where to go and with whom. Samaira and Euphemia attempted to safeguard me, but Moira was always there to keep watch, and Elise followed my every step like a stray dog begging for scraps.”
Ariadne winces, fearing she might have spoken out of turn, but Iona schools her features, not wanting her to stop when she so rarely speaks of her past.
“It was difficult to evade her, though Rebekka often found ways to steal me away.” At that, a small smile curves her mouth, but it fades all too soon.
Her lip quivers before she manages to stifle her emotions again, hiding them away where only Iona can glimpse shadows of them within the vast confines of her troubled mind.
“We may leave if you wish,” Iona says, glancing at the staff where it rests leaning against the wall. “We always could have, if you truly wanted to.”
Ariadne considers it, then reluctantly shakes her head no.
“Euphemia asked after you,” Ariadne says. “We should stay a while longer, or she might take offense.”
“I very much doubt she would scorn us for retiring early. Her earlier protests were not made in earnest,” Iona says, but when Ariadne doesn’t respond, she sighs, “Alright, but after I speak with her, I think it’s best we depart.”
Ariadne’s shoulders visibly relax. “Agreed.”
Satisfied that she’d both made her point and quelled Ariadne’s anxieties, she takes the garter still wrapped around her palm, and unravels it, and hands it back to Ariadne.
Then she pulls up her own skirt, and Ariadne’s eyes glaze over.
Pulling at the ribbon holding her blue garter in place, it disappears the moment it’s unfastened. Then she looks at Ariadne expectantly.
A small smile tugs at Ariadne’s mouth when she wraps her garter around Iona’s thigh, tying it with a tight bow. Her fingers linger there, then try to sneak up higher along her inner thigh, but Iona grasps her wrist and guides it away, letting her skirts fall.
“We shouldn’t be gone too long, or there will be talk,” Iona says, and Ariadne sighs with disappointment.
“Are you still angry with me?” she asks in a small voice.
“No, I am annoyed at Rebekka for her lack of decorum,” Iona says. “You are in desperate need of better friends.”
Ariadne’s smile is humorless. “Yes, but… are you still cross about Samaira and the ring?”
“No, I never was,” Iona says, scrutinizing her face. “Did you think that I was?”
Ariadne shrugs and keeps her eyes down, and Iona sighs. Even with their joined minds, it seems they are not beyond miscomprehension. She cups Ariadne’s face in her hands, gently running her thumbs over her cheeks, still warm from taking the pleasure Iona had given her.
“We shall have disagreements. That is only natural,” Iona says. “For us especially.”
Ariadne chuckles darkly, “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“We will trust each other. We will protect each other. We will be loyal,” Iona says.
Ariadne smiles at the memory of their vows to each other while in the hot springs on Samhain. She leans in and takes a tender, gentle kiss.
“You are mine,” Ariadne says against her mouth.
“For all eternity,” Iona agrees. “Act accordingly, or I shall see fit to remind you.”
Ariadne takes residence at the pianoforte while Iona lounges nearby with Euphemia and Samaira. She learns that Euphemia’s dove is named Frida and she’d found her in the forest just outside her family’s manor. The beautiful bird sings joyful tunes and harmonizes with Ariadne’s melodies.
Crescentia is nowhere to be found, and when Iona asks after her, Euphemia whispers that she’d found a handsome gentleman and disappeared upstairs. They dissolve into a fit of giggles.
Rebekka seems entirely oblivious to the turmoil she’d nearly caused. She’s redirected her attentions to a strikingly beautiful woman with coal black skin and dimples. As they laugh together in the corner, so enraptured by each other’s beauty, Iona cannot help glancing at them in annoyance.
Rebekka’s comment had been pointed but not necessarily vulgar.
Perhaps it had only been meant as a clumsy compliment, or she is only capable of speaking in flirtatious quips that have no real meaning behind them.
Iona doesn’t know for certain, but as she watches Rebekka enamor her new target, it appears that such empty flirtations are just that.
Even so, Iona is permanently wary of the woman.
She decides to keep her distance, for the sake of Ariadne’s nerves as well as her own.