Chapter Twenty-Nine
Seph had been having trouble falling asleep.
She suspected that mind-bending stimulation between the dinner table and the bedroom, night after night, was not ideal for drifting off into an unburdened sleep.
Sometimes, Rhys would seem equally discomfited, and they would pass an hour debating how what they’d witnessed that night had been done, but afterward, or often without any deliberation at all, he seemed to slip right into the abyss without much effort.
For a boy who used to be unable to sleep at night, Rhys seemed shockingly restful.
He claimed it was because she was beside him.
And she hoped that it was.
Her routine had become listening until his breathing deepened, and then, once she was certain he was fully at rest, slipping out of bed and into the adjoining bedchamber to read or practice or simply stare out the window at the priory ruins below, illuminated in the moonlight, until she felt she could fall asleep.
Tonight, she raised the flame on the lantern and moved toward her props trunk, which had been nestled in the corner of the spare room, unmolested, for some days now.
Most of the contents of the trunk were scattered around the room in their rehearsal space, behind the black velvet panels they’d be using for their set in a few days’ time.
All that was in the trunk now were the things they didn’t use to rehearse or hadn’t needed yet. Her old medieval dress. The bedroom slippers they’d swapped for real shoes. And the waxed, red ropes from the escape trick.
She needed to remind Rhys that he had wanted to integrate the ropes into their act. If they were going to do that, they needed to figure out how in short order.
She smiled to herself, stroking her fingers over those ropes as she rummaged in the trunk. For all their references to them, neither had made use of the things. Yet.
And the ropes weren’t her target tonight, anyhow.
It was the dress.
She wanted to see if it still fit her.
There was a tall, standing mirror in this room, facing the window, where it often created multiples of the moon. She padded over to it and held the dress up to her body, considering the fabric and how much of it her body would fill.
She set it gently on a footstool and shimmied out of her pajamas, the red-and-blue striped ones tonight.
She did not have stays handy in here to wear under the dress, but perhaps that was for the best. It had its chemise sewn into it, a gold underdress that needed to remain together rather than bunching or wrinkling apart during performances.
She used to perform with her hair loose down her back rather than pinned or braided. It had always been a useful distraction for audiences unaccustomed to seeing such a thing. So she unbraided her nighttime plait and shook it loose, standing naked over the dress.
And then, deciding nothing was to be gained by waiting any longer, she loosened the ties at the side of the thing and tugged it over her head.
It took some doing, twisting and tugging it down her body and then leaning over to arrange her breasts to sit correctly inside the bodice, but she did get it on.
There were three velvet tethers on the side, along the waist and ribs, where the fabric could be tightened to fit her form closer.
She secured them one at a time, her back to the mirror, and murmured reassurances to herself all the while.
It felt good on. It felt like it fit.
All the same, she braced herself, shaking her fingers through her loose hair one more time before she turned on her heel and confronted her reflection. She held her breath, just in case.
And when she did turn, it was not herself she saw, but Rhys, bleary and bracing himself against the door frame that led to the conjoining chamber.
She startled, her body jolting as she stumbled a little from the surprise.
He had entered without making a single goddamned sound.
She could see herself partially, behind him, like a third specter in the room.
The dress fit her like it had been sewn onto her body, a perfect fit.
But she couldn’t study the reflection directly.
She couldn’t look away from the expression on Rhys’s face, the soft part of his lips, the heavy glint in his dark-green eyes.
“Rhys …” she began, putting the flats of her hands to her ribs, uncertain if she wanted to explain or apologize or deflect with a joke.
“Ask me again,” he rasped, his voice still crackling, still lingering partially in his dreams. “Ask me what you did last time.”
“Rhys,” she said again, her own voice soft and wobbling.
“The first time I saw you in that dress,” he continued, pushing himself off the wall and prowling closer to her, his footsteps still feather light, “the last time. It was the day it all went wrong.”
He circled her, pulling the heavy curtain of her hair to the side to breathe in the nape of her neck, one arm snaking around her waist and pulling her back against him as he peered up at her eyes in the reflection, at his own other self, holding her firm.
“When I walked into the tent and saw you there, looking like this.” He paused, giving a dry chuckle to himself and nodding at their reflection, at the swell of her cleavage over the V-necked dip of the gown’s collar.
“Looking like that. My mind filled with so much panic and noise that all I could do was stammer some ridiculous lie and flee before you could see what you’d done to me. ”
“What I’d …” she repeated, trailing off as he pressed his arousal into her backside. “Oh.”
He squeezed her tighter. “I had to find someone to take it out on,” he rasped against her, his hips beginning to rock. “Or I’d go mad. I thought … I thought it would ruin things. God, Seph. I should have taken it out on you.”
“Rhys,” she managed to say one last time, desperate, heat crawling along her throat, down between her breasts and over her heart, up along the delicate line of her cheeks and jaw.
“I want to try again,” he whispered against her skin, sending gooseflesh erupting down the column of her spine as he tilted his eyes up, his face half-hidden in her hair and flesh. “Let me try again, Seph.”
She swallowed, her throat flexing over the pink-red flush that had branded it, and gave a silent nod, small and quick.
He released her then, exhaling in what sounded like relief as she stepped backward and around to face him, to look him in the eye again and see both this Rhys and the one from the past. The one who had hurt her so.
They circled one another, their feet moving in the mindless tattoo of their slipper-switching ritual, pacing gently on the sprawl of the rug beneath their bare feet.
“Do you like my new costume, Rhys?” she whispered, sounding fifteen and uncertain again, even to herself. She could feel that day around her, see the tent walls flapping in the wind, taste the nervousness on her own tongue, the little thrill of hope. “Is it attractive? Does it suit me?”
They stilled together, their feet falling silent at the conclusion of the question, at the moment of truth hanging in the air.
He stared at her, inhaling slowly through his nose as he regarded the dress, his eyes dragging down over her body, hugged and flattered by the rich, scandalously cut fabric.
He was leisurely, slow, soaking in every visual detail of her body in that dress, down to her toes and then back up again.
There was no shame in his indulgence, no rush in where he lingered.
When his eyes finally snapped back to hers, after he’d examined her throat, her jaw, her lips. He simply said, “Yes,” and then took one stride forward, dug his fingers into her hair, and crashed his mouth down over hers.
She barely had time to gasp, to process what he’d done, her fingers coming up to grip him about the arms.
He walked her backward, devouring her, his tongue rolling into her mouth, crowding her until her thighs came up against the deep sill of the bedroom window, cool and firm through the fabric of her dress.
His hands were on her waist, running upward, the satin and velvet rumpling under his palms. He moaned into her mouth, sounding desperate with want, maddened by it, and pulled back to look down at her body in the dress again.
He pinned her where she was, his thigh sliding between her legs, and held her face, his thumbs rubbing along her jaw as they grazed lower, over her throat and down to her shoulders, where he pushed the fabric down, down over her arms, tugging it down, lower on her breasts, his mouth descending to trace the pattern of flesh revealed.
She arched her back, holding either side of the window to stay in place as he freed her breasts from the fabric, filling his hands with them and sending his tongue, hot and hungry, sliding over her nipples.
“Ffyc,” he muttered against the flesh there, drawing the rosy tips into his mouth and sucking hungrily as his tongue flicked.
She released a sound then, her head falling back against the pane of glass, hair weaving around her arms.
He was already rucking her hem up, gathering the skirt up her thighs. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, and so, so unbelievably clever.
“Thief,” she murmured as he got his fingers between her legs, as he teased her. “Liar.”
“Oh, aye,” he answered, grinning up at her from her exposed breasts.
He grabbed her by the hips, hoisting her onto the windowsill and holding her in place as he threw her skirt up the final few inches, bunching it around the tight, unmoving space between her body and the glass. “Guess what I’m stealing next?”
She did not have time to answer.
He fell to his knees, pushing her knees wide apart, and took a taste of the next course in this feast.
She might have screamed, in another home, on another night. She very nearly did, instead pulling the sound inward and swallowing it with a helpless groan. His tongue was just as quick, just as dexterous as his fingers, and he was using them much the same way, stroking her, toying with her.
“Mine,” he said, between tastes. “You are mine.”
She could only gasp in response, her body trembling every time he groaned in satisfaction, every time he slid or thrust his tongue against her.
She caught sight of herself in that mirror, dress nothing but yards of fabric about her waist, her breasts wet and heaving, and Rhys Cardadoc, kneeling between her legs, claiming her like a ravenous beast.
She couldn’t decide which view she preferred. Here she had both, the reality of him, just there, soft curls against her thighs or across the room, a rogue despoiling a maiden who looked all the willing.
She didn’t swallow her cry fast enough this time, her hips jerking under his firm grip, her body pulled into the gravity of his.
She heard him again, hovering in the air, claiming she was his.
She closed her eyes but felt the image of him knelt there burnt into her memory, both near and far, haloed in a gilded mirror.
She gave one final, rolling shudder as she came apart against him, for him, because of him. And still that did not seem to sate his hunger. He dove deeper, savoring this new delicacy, and gentled his tasting only as her apex began to descend.
He stood, not bothering to remove his own clothing as he stepped between her spread knees and admired the way he’d pulled down the front of her dress once more.
He jerked at the fabric of his pajamas, moving the soft brush of cotton against her legs as he gripped his own cock, freeing it and pressing its head against her still-tender entrance.
She sucked in a sharp, little gasp of air at the connection, at how those sensitive, little thrills of magic against her skin jumped further to life.
“I can’t believe I’ve wasted so much time,” he whispered to her, his lips still shiny from her climax, “not having you. Not claiming you. You are mine, Seph. Did you know that?”
She nodded, her lashes flickering as he pushed himself into her, thick and thrumming, the heat of his body flashing into hers.
“You are mine,” he said again, withdrawing slowly before pushing back in firm and fast. “And I am yours, aren’t I?”
“I …” she attempted, only to gasp in another jolt of pleasure as he repeated the motion again, slow withdraw, punishing, hard thrust. “Yes. You are mine.”
“I am yours,” he agreed, leaning forward, pressing his hands into the cool, wooden sill on either side of her as he began to move, gliding fast and slick. “I am yours.”
“You are mine,” she repeated.
“Again,” he begged, his eyes locking on to hers, hooded and dark.
“Mine,” she said once more. “I love you.”
He cried out, his voice just as lost as her own had been as his body gave a jolt. Seph leaned forward, pressing her fingers into his lips, shushing him urgently as she rocked against his own pleasure, as she let him stay with her through it, as she felt the dam in him give.
“I love you,” she whispered again, just as the wave began to ebb.
And then she held him, still against her, still inside her. She held him against her body until he caught his breath and his face came up to look into hers.
He kissed her. He kissed her like it would save his life.
And she kissed him back.
Because having him here, in her arms, had finally restored hers.