"Shedidgive you her number!"
He easily dodged the pillow she swung at him, dropping to cage her beneath him as he laughed, completely ignoring the way she fought, kicking and clawing at his skin as if she really were a furious little kitten.
"I’m a bartender, Silva. Women give me their numbers every single day, have done for longer than I care to admit." Her lungs tightened at his words, a prickle of uncomfortableknowingflipping her stomach.See?"Why do you think," he went on lightly, pausing to kiss the tip of her nose, "that a single one of them matters?"
"You know why it matters." She hated how pitiful she sounded, cursing her weakness.You should have let that goblin press his luck, he wouldn’t have even noticed. It’s not like there was anyone there who cared, certainly no one there who loves you. You don't even have a boyfriend.Tate eyed her speculatively for a long moment, tracing the shape of her mouth with the tip of a lichen green finger before pushing up to straddle her again, taking himself in hand as he kneed open her thighs.
"The only thing I know, little dove," he murmured in a silky voice, coating his shining cockhead in her wetness before rubbing it against her clit, pulling a sharp gasp from her throat, "is that it’s a good thing Einan tossed that blue-eyed cunt out when he did." His shaft was thick between the lips of her sex, small undulations of his hips bumping the head against her clit repeatedly until he pulled back far enough to push the tip into her. "Otherwise I’d have needed to see how far up his arse I could have shoved that wandering hand of his after I ripped his arms off." He fed his cock into her slowly, ignoring the way she scored her nails down his back, urging him to go faster, her needy cunt desperate to swallow him completely. When he bottomed out, at last, he dropped to cage himself around her again, gripping her wrists and pressing his forehead to hers, bumping her nose with his own. "You belong tome, Silva."
When he began to move within her, releasing her hands to brace himself against the mattress, she nearly sobbed, whether from the physical relief of being filled by him or from his words and the sentiment behind them, she wasn’t sure. Silva fisted his sleek hair, squeezing until she knew it would hurt,wantingto hurt him, wrapping her legs around him as tightly as she’d been able.He’d noticed, after all, had noticed everything.
Electricity thrummed through her veins as it always did when his mouth met hers roughly, and when he began to hammer into her in earnest, she was seized with a desperate need to mark him as he’d once marked her. The bite he’d left on her skin had taken weeks to fully heal and weeks more to fade, its longevity aided by her own interference, pressing into it constantly with the blunt edges of her nails, keeping the bruise fresh. She wanted to see what color his bruise would be, imagining a dark green stain on his skin; a warning to every tiefling and harpy and cervitaur he might encounter that she existed, that she mattered, and that he was accounted for.
Her unsharp teeth caught at his lips, scraping his neck, biting at the muscle and sinew of his shoulder until he abruptly pushed himself up to his knees, hauling her up with a squeal, flinging her arms around his neck for support until she was flush against him with her legs wrapped around his waist, impaled on his cock.
"Is that what you want to do, Silva?" he hissed, hot tongue at her ear. "Rip me open, bleed me out?" His own teeth had descended, noticeably longer than they had been when he’d pressed into her, and the icy smell of snow-buried pines swirled with the smokey sandalwood smell of his hair, intoxicating her like a drug. "You’re already halfway there, dove. May as well finish the job."
Shedid, she wanted to doexactlythat, and as he began to pump into her again — his upward thrusts dragging against that spongy spot within her repeatedly, making her go nearly boneless in his arms — her small teeth sought out the juncture of his neck and shoulder once more. His hands cupped the curve of her ass, moving her up and down his cock like a toy as a trembling fire started at her toes and moved up her legs. Her clit dragged against his pubic bone as he moved in her, his quickening thrusts making her go nearly cross-eyed as the swell of pleasure rose within her again, and her teeth found their mark, tightening until her body clenched around his cock. A feral cry ripped from her throat as the pleasure flooded her, muffled against his skin, her mouth suddenly flooded with a metallic tang.
Silva couldn’t tell if his groan was one of pleasure or pain, but suddenly she was empty, her core clenching around the missing shape of him within her as he jerked against her, his cock spurting white ropes between their bodies. The taste of his blood and the red crescent she knew her mouth would leave behind both thrilled and terrified her, for she realized he was right — shedidwant to rip him open; wanted to crawl inside him and lay claim to his heart, hers and hers alone. The last spasms of his release quivered up his spine as she licked at the wound, simultaneously coating her tongue and her belly, and Silva couldn’t help feeling disappointed that he’d not finished inside of her, leaving her dripping in every part of his essence.
She quickly pressed her lips to the small puncture marks in apology, a breath before his mouth crashed into hers in a clash of teeth and heat. She could taste herself still on his lips, mingled with the taste of his blood like something primal and ancient, and it was enough for her body to clench once more, mourning the absence of him within her.
"Are you happy now, dove?" he’d whispered against her temple after — after he’d relocated them both to a gusting shower, washing away the evidence of his release and his smeared blood from her lips, grunting when the water pulsed down on his shoulder. He’d allowed her to fret that she’d actually hurt him for a handful of minutes as he’d toweled her hair, carrying her back to bed and pulling back the duvet.
"Yes," she confirmed. She was in her favorite spot — tucked under his arm, her cheek pressed to his chest, the thump of his heartbeat tugging her eyes closed. It had been late when they’d left the bar, later still when he’d undressed her, hours after her normal bedtime, and the events of the past hour had left her head spinning, the copper tang of his blood lingering at the back of her tongue. "I am. Because it doesn’t matter how many cervitaurs or tieflings give you their numbers," she murmured, ignoring his snort at the inclusion of the fantasy cervitaur. The small crescent in his skin would most certainly leave a bruise, maybe even a scar, she thought, gently tracing its shape. "It doesn’t matter because you belong tome."
His nose dragged against her hair, touching lightly to her crown with a small chuckle.
"Do you hear that, Silva?" The only thing she heard was the solid, percussive thump of his heartbeat beneath her ear, and the warm solid press of his arm, anchoring and surrounding her. He had another scar at the dead center of his throat, silvery and faint, and she’d stretched up to kiss it then. She may have been needy and jealous, may have felt uncertain over the precarious place she occupied in his mind and in his heart, but all of the tumultuous emotions she felt when they were together were stronger and more real than any other she felt through the course of her every day, more real and authentic than anything experienced by bland, mouse-like Silva of the daytime. "Your heartbeat, dove. That's the only thing I hear."
The entire affair had mattered even less the next morning, when she’d woken pressed to him, limbs entwined. He'd groaned as she stirred, hopping out of bed to hobble across the room. From her place on the pillow, she watched the stretch of his thighs and the ripple of his back, muscles pulling in a long line as he leaned around the door, placing thedo not disturbplacard on the handle before slipping back into the sheets with her, rolling her against him. When she'd straddled his face, gripping his hair like the reins of a horse as she ground herself against his mouth and nose, bouncing as he licked her until she came against his tongue, her high moans probably audible through the hotel walls, the girl from the bar the night before had no longer mattered. At all.
They’d stayed in bed until the room was lit with late-morning sunshine, had walked hand-in-hand through the shabby little downtown until she’d determinedly pulled him into a dim little tea shop, the yellowed lace curtains smelling of mothballs and age. She learned that he preferred a strong, golden-colored breakfast tea, that he took it with neither cream nor sugar, that he hated watercress, and was indulgent enough to allow her to steal the strawberry from his plate. It was a far cry from the elegant service at the club, but he was intimately familiar with the entire ritual, a good sign for their future engagement, she thought.
"I’m so glad you've been to tea before," she said cheerfully, sipping daintily from her cup as the old matron who ran the shop checked in on them. His chuckle warmed her as he topped off his own, placing the strainer in its caddy before answering.
"Every day growing up. Sangers and bix. Black tea, and a floral tisane. I've never liked cress, so don't think you're going to go changing my mind about it now."
"Tea at the club is my favorite, I just think food tastes better when it’s miniature. We have a black tea, a floral tea, and sometimes a green. Sweets come after the savories, and then our scones. You can wear that dark purple shirt, I’ll bet that color makes your eyes pop, with the grey suit, although the jacket might be too formal . . . maybe a vest. I’ll wear that peach dress you like, with the pleated skirt." She sighed, practically able to smell the flowers at the table. "It will be lovely."
"You’ve thought this all out, haven’t you." The tips of her ears heated when she realized she’d gone blurting her daydream out, and that he watched her with an amused smile. She had a panicked moment that she’d shown her hand, ruining everything, when he leaned down to press his lips to hers, catching her lower lip in his teeth for a brief instant. "I’m sure thatwouldbe lovely. But you ought to be served your scone first, before anything else. You're going to need to go back to your club and teach them a few things, dove."
She’d imagined bringing him to tea more than a dozen times by then — the waitstaff not daring to turn their nose up at him, correcting her grandmother and holding her hand beneath the table. Silva knew without question, as he wound his fingers through her hair, bending to press his lips to her temple once they were on the sidewalk, the entire afternoon would serve as fodder for her daydreams for weeks to come.
She wondered, as she twisted her hair up that night, fastening her earrings in the hotel mirror, what the ramifications would be if she simply didn't return to work on Monday, didn't return home at all. What would happen if she stayed at his side as this other Silva, one who wasn’t afraid of not living up to other people’s expectations, confident Silva of the nighttime. He’d been made less than an hour after they’d arrived at the shabby little bar, too many of the same players from the previous night turning up as spectators. He’d inserted himself between her and the smarmy satyr who’d just bought her drink, wrapping a possessive arm around her waist, giving the annoyed satyr a too-wide fae grin that had the smaller man quickly retreating.
"C’mon, dove. We’re going to find a very expensive restaurant and be extremely judgemental about everything."
They’d gone antiquing the last day, to spend their ill-gotten gains, and he’d been like a child in a sweets shop, gleefully filling the back of the car with several glass shaded-lamps, a cabriole-legged end table, and several intricately engraved silver serving platters, ones she knew would make the circuit around different rooms in his apartment until they wound up in the bistro. It had been the most fun Silva could remember having in years, and going back to her boring, Tate-less life the next day had been tortuous.
––––––––
Now, she told herself, things were different. She’d been more overt in the weeks since that little trip, making more and more demands on his time, practically vibrating in victory every time he relented. He’d taken her on a shopping trip to pick out new interiors for the bistro, which had turned into an afternoon strolling in and out of tiny shops and showrooms, a trendy little wine bar in Starling Heights, and her undulating on top of him in his giant bed, doing her best impersonation of a naga as he kissed her breasts. She had persuaded him to meet her for drinks and dessert with Khash and Lurielle on several different occasions, evenings that made her feel so much like they were just another couple, baby steps to introducing him to the rest of her world. There was no doubt in her mind that she was far more significant than an extended fling, that he went out of his way to think of her, that he might even be as in love with her as she was with him . . . except for the times when doubt was all she possessed, of course.
The text this time had come two days prior, once more in the middle of the day.
My friend is having a birthday party this weekend and I can’t get out of going.
