Rawlins #2
“You have good instincts,” he told her, tapping the paper she was writing on. “There are scholars working at high levels in our field who might be able to produce this effect, but never with this degree of elegance.”
They worked together fluidly, their bodies negotiating the limited space as she took measurements and he set the elementals in place.
The connection between them was electric, a palpable charge that quickened Rawlins’s pulse every time Ellsbeth came closer and extended into yearning as she moved away from him.
He had conducted rituals at home, but never with anyone else present, and he was surprised by the ease he felt at seeing her move around his space. It was a dance they fell into seamlessly, both discovering that their bodies already knew the steps.
Only twenty minutes after they had begun, everything was set—and suddenly, Rawlins was confronted with the reality of what they were doing. Sex in his office had been spontaneous; they could feign ignorance to what was going to happen beforehand, and submit to the whims of the moment.
This was different. They were not just mixing work and pleasure; mixing magic and sex meant crossing a line he had never considered, and it raised concerns he had to broach both delicately and directly. “Before we start, I need you to tell me what you’re comfortable with.”
“Everything. Anything. I’m open,” Ellsbeth said. “Whatever happens during the ritual is good with me.”
But he shook his head, insistent. “We need some…boundaries, here. A safe word, at the very least. Just say it if you’re uncomfortable at any point, and we’ll stop. The ritual, and…whatever we’re doing. All right?”
Ellsbeth shrugged. “If it’ll make you feel better, fine. What’s my word?”
He thought for a moment. “Tangerine.”
Ellsbeth smiled. “Okay then. That’s fine. But I don’t think I’m going to need it. I want…what you want.”
He swallowed, both thrilled and frightened by her directness. “All right. Clear enough.”
“What should I wear?” she asked, and the tone of her voice conveyed her willingness, eagerness even, to strip naked, to forget the ritual entirely if he asked her to. Rawlins was tempted to do just that.
But they were playing a game. And the game itself had become important in a way that surprised him.
His passion for her had grown into a wild animal, unbroken, kicking out dangerously inside him, compelling him in directions he couldn’t comprehend.
He was frightened by where his desire might lead—and part of him resented her for eliciting that feeling.
The prospect of self-control felt impossible.
But here, before him, was something else.
The promise of control over her. With her permission, of course, and at the moment, with magic.
Through some inexplicable sublimation, he imagined that control over her would deliver the respite he was looking for.
It might tame his desire, or at least give him peace with how ungovernable it was.
So he shook his head, a notion forming in his mind for how he could indulge his yearning in the way he needed to. “Keep your clothes on.” She looked disappointed but did not question him.
Ellsbeth did a final check on all the elementals and lit the candles.
Rawlins turned off the lamp, and the room pulsated with the hazy orange glow of a dozen tiny flames.
Ellsbeth climbed up onto the bed, and he guided her into position, her head at the top without a pillow so that her hair cascaded down over the edge.
“Should I put my hands out?” she asked, extending her arms toward the posts.
Rawlins shook his head. “The ritual will bind you to the posts once it takes effect. Try holding them at your sides. Legs straight. You’ll be able to perceive the change more clearly.”
He stood at the foot of the bed. Ellsbeth lay flat, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, her chest rising and falling with her breath. He stared at her, struck by the sheer vulnerability of her repose.
Rawlins began to chant the words she had written. “Constringantur corpus, ligentur membra…” The ritual was well designed; he was confident in its efficacy, but he felt a nervous flutter in his stomach. Not about what the magic would do, but about what he would do.
As the incantation progressed, the flames of the candles blazed more brightly, and the metals shone and hummed. The familiar droning sound gradually rose, filling the small space.
Ellsbeth remained perfectly still, and he could sense her apprehension, waiting to see if the effect she had designed was going to work.
It happened suddenly. Her arms, gripped by the invisible force of the ritual, were yanked across the sheets. Her legs were rapidly pulled apart, extended tightly toward the posts at the foot of the bed. Even though he had expected the change, Rawlins was startled by its suddenness.
The bed was large enough that Ellsbeth’s wrists and ankles did not touch the posts, but he could see the effect of the magic, stretching her limbs and splaying her across the mattress.
“Does it hurt?” he asked. “I can stop if it’s painful.”
She squirmed, shifting her limbs as if she were tugging at invisible ropes tied impossibly taut. “No…it’s strong, but it doesn’t hurt.”
“Good work,” he said. “Your prize for this achievement in the field of the arcane arts is seven minutes of immobility.” He started a timer on his phone to track the effect.
“I was hoping you might reward my scholarship,” she said, slightly breathless, her chest visibly rising and falling beneath the cotton dress.
“We’re not done working yet,” he replied, leaving the foot of the bed and coming to the side. “We still have the physiological effects to observe.”
He climbed onto the mattress on his knees, alongside her, looking down.
“Of course,” Ellsbeth said. Her breath was quicker now. “We established last time, I can still blush.”
“Does your breathing still feel entirely normal?” he asked, and his hand glided across her throat. With her head tilted back, his fingers traced the delicate shape of her windpipe, savoring the subtle vibration of her exhales.
“More or less,” she said.
His hand climbed up to her mouth, and he ran a finger across her lower lip. She bit his first knuckle, and he grinned. “What was that for?”
She smirked up at him playfully.
“I’m just getting started,” Rawlins said, “with our very important work.” His hand descended now, gliding back over her throat to the top of her dress.
He deftly unfastened the three buttons there with one hand and slid his palm across her chest. The fabric of her bralette was thin enough that he could feel her nipple straining against the material.
He circled it with his finger and she arched her back, pushing against him.
But his hand slipped away, pressing into her skin at the side of her neck with two fingers.
The thrum of her heartbeat became a drum pulsing through his veins as he fought to maintain control of himself. “Elevated heart rate,” he murmured.
“You’re killing me,” she said.
“Only one more test to do,” he told her. “And plenty of time for it.”
His left hand moved up to her scalp, running through her hair, and she closed her eyes—until he tightened his hand into a fist, gripping her hair at the back of her head. It jolted her to attention and she met his gaze. “Focus.”
She did, locking her eyes onto his as his other hand slid down her body to the hemline of her dress. With the effects of the ritual pulling her ankles toward the posts of the bed, the muscles of her thighs were taut, and her quadriceps quaked beneath his touch.
Rawlins could feel the pressure of desire building inside him. Yearning to kiss her, to tear off her clothes, to let go completely. But there was something to prove here. To her, and to himself.
His hand climbed the inside of her thigh deliberately, savoring the anticipation as he hiked her dress. When his fingers reached their target, he pressed one against her underwear, feeling her excitement. She shuddered.
“Arousal appears to be quite possible,” he said. “Anything else we should test?”
He teased her through the fabric. With her entire body at his mercy, his attention was attuned to every detail of her reaction.
The movement of her eyes, her lips, her hips.
He had never felt so keenly fixated on another person’s pleasure, so eager to elicit one reaction after another, to watch her excitement rise and fall in sync with his will.
“I haven’t encountered anything about orgasm in the literature on writ magic. Do you think it’s possible?”
“Yes,” she said, followed by an insistent, “Please.”
He thrilled at the desperation in her tone, but he kept his voice as measured as he could manage. “And when was the last time you came?” he asked, his fingers massaging her with delicate precision.
She squirmed at his question, barely able to move. “In your office?”
“Oh, I doubt that was the last time,” he said.
She let out a small laugh as if to say, I can’t believe you’re doing this to me, and his hand hesitated, hovering over her.
Her hips rose off the mattress in frustration, and his fist tightened in her hair, pulling her head back.
A reprimand, which elicited a moan that was not entirely one of pain. “If you lie, I’ll stop.”
“This morning,” she blurted, and his hand descended, rubbing her through the fabric once again. “Before class.”
“And what did you think about?”
She looked at him, her expression somehow both delighted and infuriated. Her limbs pulled uselessly at her invisible bonds while her neck tugged against his hand in her hair. “Is that really relevant?”
The defiance in her eyes only excited him further. But he asserted control by withdrawing, his fingers slipping off her. “If you don’t like my approach, we can stop.”