Chapter Twelve #4
He dipped his quill into the inkpot and continued to scratch the black, scrawling ink onto the dry parchment. I could see the tiny fibers absorbing the black liquid as he wrote. “And now I can think of nothing else but her green eyes and her sweet smile.’”
“Warrior,” I whispered, so touched by him, so very in love with him.
My heartbeat felt as if it filled my chest and warmed me from the inside out.
I let my hand stroke his large muscular arm through the fabric of his tunic.
I liked the way his hand held the quill and dipped so carefully into the ink.
I loved how his big brawny body was, here and now, calm and focused.
My warrior was not only a soldier, but a learned, knowledgeable nobleman, and I saw new aspects to his character, too.
He was a skilled and patient teacher, and he was talented with words.
I could picture his description as though he was painting a picture in my mind.
I knew this story, aye, but I delighted in hearing his interpretation of it.
I tucked his hair behind his ear so I could see his strong, refined profile more clearly.
“‘And I knew,’” he read, “‘that from that moment forward I would not be able to bear being parted from such immaculate, plush, golden beauty, not even for a single second.’”
I watched his mouth as he spoke, his perfect lips. I watched the sweep of his dark eyelashes as he blinked, his eyes cast down to the parchment.
“‘And then,’” he said, “‘when I tasted—’”
“You can’t write that,” I whispered. “What if someone reads—?”
“Shh, I’m writing. ‘...when I tasted my Roses—’”
“Aye, I can see my name—”
“Let me finish,” he said, smiling. “‘When I tasted my Roses, she was sweeter than honey, softer than the softest petals of a rose, more succulent than the most delicious food, and I was instantly addicted to her nectar and her scent and her face and her pink lips. She guided me out of the darkness with her soft light. The darkness beckoned me, pulling me into murky, directionless corners. But Roses was there. She was the light. And I followed. I wanted only to follow her and see her and bask in the glow of her sun-drenched beauty. She became my hope and my life.’”
I felt the warm line of a tear on my cheek.
I was crying from happiness, that I had found him and that I might have provided him with hope or with anything at all.
Everything of me, then and now, was dedicated entirely to giving more of myself to him, in any and every way I could.
My heart and soul and body wanted only to please him and comfort him and nourish him.
Now and always. This was what I had willingly, joyfully become. His.
“‘I knew that if I could get my Roses to kiss me with those lips, that I would not die, but live. I knew. And so I begged her to give to me, to touch them to my mouth. And she did. And I was healed. Those lips on mine were the most intense, life-giving touch I had ever felt. And then, when she opened her lips just enough for me to slide my tongue—’”
“Wilkie. What kind of story are you writing?”
“The best kind.” He paused and looked over at me. “Say my name again. I like the way it sounds when you say it.”
“Wilkie.”
His mouth curved in a bemused half smile as he returned to his work. “Now, where was I? Ah, aye, here...‘just enough for me to slide my tongue into her delectable mouth...’”
He stopped, smiling at me encouragingly as he wrote another single letter.
“‘I,’” I read.
“Excellent,” he said. “‘I was alive again, and death and darkness were banished by the light and the sweetness Roses gave to me, offering herself to me, feeding me. And, oh, how I love the soft moans she makes when I touch her and drink the sweet spirit of her from her body...’”
The sound of that word, spoken in Wilkie’s hushed voice, melted me to my very bones. Love.
“‘...and if I don’t somehow get her to wed me soon so I can make love to her I may very well go mad.’”
As he continued to write, I sensed a sudden heaviness in his heart and my own at the word wed and all the issues surrounding that topic and its uncertainties, that I wanted to soothe and lighten.
I took the quill from his grasp and held it, our fingers entwining around it. “Did you really write all that?”
“Aye,” he said, and I was happy to see that my touch had eased him; a hint of mischievousness sparked in him as our eyes met. “Well, I was writing it until you took my quill.”
“You’re supposed to be teaching me,” I teased him gently, but I was somewhat breathless from his sentences. “I’ve hardly learned anything.”
He smiled. “Not true. You’ve learned to read ‘I.’”
“I think I already knew that.”
He turned to me, straddling my knees between his own, holding my face in his large hands. “You learned that I find this mouth the most irresistible, pink, delectable—”
“I think I already knew that, as well.”
His mouth was very close to mine.
Quietly he said, “And you learned that I love you. Deeply. Madly. Insatiably. Did you know that already, too, Roses?”
He kissed me. And again, longer, deeper, warmer. He kissed me tenderly, endlessly. And that was the end of my lesson, for now.