Chapter 21 Standing O #2
“I’m not a patient,” said Mordaunt.
The pearls gleamed under the house lights. So intense was their brightness that they made the white satin seem grey.
“If you will permit?” asked Mordaunt, holding up the necklace. “I will break into your quarters to leave it on your desk if you refuse.”
Aurienne bit her lip. She presented her back to him and lifted her hair out of the way. She had removed Amagris’ hagstone tonight; its simple rusticity wasn’t a fit for the event.
Mordaunt slipped the necklace on. He was deliberate about it, and slow, as one savouring the moment. He stood very near; she felt his breath at her ear. His gloved fingertips drew the clasp round the back of her neck and drew a caress along with it.
He let his fingers dally for a long time before the clasp clicked shut.
She spun back towards Mordaunt—only he was close, and there was no spinning, only friction against him.
Mordaunt ran his gloves along her arms. He tilted his head, as one taking in a particularly lovely sight. “Like a fool, I’ve gilded the lily.”
“Thank you.” Aurienne touched the pendant where it dipped between her collarbones. “This really wasn’t necessary.”
Mordaunt’s thumb spun the signet ring on his index finger. “There are other things I’d give you, but one must remain in the realm of the possible.”
“We’ll have no further presents. I couldn’t keep up. I already didn’t know what to get for the man who’s got it all.”
The comment hadn’t been intended to hurt, and yet the look Mordaunt gave her was pained. He opened his mouth to speak, but Aurienne pressed her hand to his lips. Laughter had just rung in the corridor.
“I think that’s Aedan,” she whispered. She peered over the edge of the box. Aedan was indeed no longer near the orchestra. There was a general shuffle and noise as everyone regained their seats for the third act.
She discovered that Mordaunt was kissing her gloved fingertips.
“Hide,” said Aurienne.
“Where?” said Mordaunt.
“You’re the Fyren,” hissed Aurienne. “Work it out.”
He did work it out. He shadow-walked to the nearest shadow.
Which happened to be under her gown.
Aedan returned, accompanied by the other couples, who resumed their seats in the box.
“Sorry for disappearing,” said Aedan to Aurienne. “Ran into some colleagues. Are you all right?”
“Oh, fine,” said Aurienne, as a full-grown man attempted to make himself small between her legs. Thank Frīa she had worn one of her most voluminous gowns. “I’ve been keeping myself entertained observing royal fashions.”
“Lovely pearls,” said Aedan. “I hadn’t noticed them before.”
“Thank you.”
The lights began to dim. A hush fell upon the audience as Madame Florimont returned to the stage. Aurienne stood awkwardly at the balcony ledge.
“Aren’t you going to sit down?” whispered Aedan.
“Back pain,” whispered Aurienne. “You sit and enjoy.”
“Erm—can’t you heal it?”
“If I could’ve done, I would’ve, don’t you think? I’ll just move to the side here so I don’t block anyone’s view.”
Aurienne shuffled to the farthest corner of the box, a bit awkwardly, given Mordaunt between her knees.
There she stood, like some sort of moron. The curtains parted. The players took their places and the third act began, and for the first five minutes, Aurienne thought that things were going all right, all things considered.
After ten minutes, she realised that there was a problem in the making: there was a Fyren between her legs and he was growing bored. His fingers rapped impatiently against her calf to convey the fact. She swatted at the approximate location of his head within her skirts.
Mordaunt was quiet again for a bit after that.
But only for a bit. The first brush against her inner thigh Aurienne thought accidental: there wasn’t much room for him to manoeuvre under her dress.
The second touch was higher up, and lasted longer.
The third was definitely deliberate. Fingers traced at the garter on her left thigh.
The hormones from the grotto that morning surged back into her.
Hugely inappropriate. She wouldn’t allow it. She would cross her legs.
The players gambolled across the stage. Madame Florimont piped away.
Aurienne still hadn’t crossed her legs. Nor had she swatted at him again.
A single finger slid up her inner thigh.
She couldn’t possibly allow this. There were people in the box behind her, Aedan among them.
The lights were low. No one would see.
No. She wouldn’t permit it. She must preserve her dignity.
There was a rush of music. All eyes were on the stage.
Want and rationality warred in Aurienne.
She bit her lip. Again an inquisitive finger ran up her thigh. Softly it ran over her skin, a question, a test, an If thou darest, I’ll give thee remedy.
A hundred years hence, none of this would matter.
She swung her leg a little wider.
There was a moment when nothing happened and Aurienne told herself that she must have misread Mordaunt. Then she felt his lips on the sensitive skin of her innermost thigh, slow kisses, approval. His fingers formed a V and began a slow, circling rhythm against her.
Aurienne blushed at his audacity and at hers. She kept her breathing controlled. She dared not glance behind her. All they could see was her silhouette against the lights, anyway.
Mordaunt bumped her knees apart and repositioned himself under the dress.
Her underthings were pulled out of the way.
Then came the heat of his tongue. Aurienne withheld a gasp as he explored—slow, hot, wet.
Her hands found the balcony ledge. Mordaunt’s mouth pressed and sucked, in keeping with the cadence of the music.
Aurienne stood trembling and tense, alternating between holding back gasps and trying to breathe normally.
She was weak in the knees. The music swelled in volume.
The opera was nearing its climax. Mordaunt’s tongue worked rhythmic circles.
The signet ring brushed against her where she ached the most. She twitched her hips forward to grind against it.
She was wet and slick and wanting to be filled.
He slipped a finger into her, then another.
Willpower alone kept her standing; she wanted to collapse on him.
She was going to come. Here. In public. In front of Madame Florimont and Aedan and the entire opera house.
His tongue lapped at her as she clenched at his fingers. She couldn’t believe she had once threatened to perform a glossectomy on him; it would have been a loss.
The players came together in a swelling chorus, louder and louder, rhapsodic, tragic, deafening.
They sang of death. The orchestra wouldn’t be outdone, and accompanied them in an ascending torrent of music: the brass split the air, the violins yearned, the percussion hammered, and with every upward octave, Mordaunt’s tongue sped up.
Fingers pressed on strings, fingers pressed into Aurienne, breaths were held, final counts were counted, the air throbbed and rippled in a cadence increasingly frantic, matched by her pulse.
The floor of the house was an agitated press; waves of excitement swept through the audience; thousands of hearts raced along with Aurienne’s.
The orchestra reached a fever-pitch crescendo.
Mordaunt’s fingers kept time. Aurienne contracted against them.
Her limbs were light. She shook. She breathed through clenched teeth.
She mustn’t make a sound. She grasped the ledge hard.
The air vibrated with music; she trembled at the same frequency.
The aria came to its magnificent, soaring, pulsing climax. Aurienne threw her head back as she came. Her blood bloomed and clouded with pleasure. Her orgasm went on for as long as Madame Florimont held the final note.
Madame Florimont sang of death, and Aurienne found it on Mordaunt’s tongue.