What am I doing?
When I stood straighter, she took the hint and lowered from her toes, a frown tugging on her lips. She rolled her bottom lip with her teeth, worrying it, and an ache of need shot straight to my groin.
After all these years, why now? Why her?
We swayed in quiet, her head resting sideways against my chest and her fingers playing subtly with my hair behind my neck. Without consciousness, I lowered my head and breathed in the scent of her hair. The tightness in my pants became prevalent again, and a low groan escaped my lips. Hardly notable, but she caught it.
The tease of a woman giggled and swayed her hips against me. I sucked in a breath. “Cordelia,” I mock-lectured.
She looked up at me, her smile dancing with warmth. “No,” she laughed. “No, you’re right; don’t call me that.”
“Then what can I call you?” I leaned in pointedly, closing my eyes and breathing against her lips.
The woman swallowed. For a moment, I thought she might retreat. Instead, she pressed her breasts against me, raised to her toes again, and closed the distance between us. The kisswasn’t pressing. When I sought to deepen it, she pulled back. “Tonight,” she said again, the words firmer this time, “I am no one.”
Disappointment tugged, even as the ghost of her kiss still lingered on my lips.
“Can you come to terms with that?” she asked.
I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, wishing I no longer wore my gloves so that I could feel her soft skin. How could I tell her what this meant to me—this sudden attraction, the way she roused me as no one had before. That if her suggestive notions held any weight, she may very well end up being my first. Would she be my only? Would I never know her name?
“If I must,” I conceded.
The mask partially veiled the softening of her features. The corners of her lips relaxed in not a frown, but not a smile either. It was as if I could somehow detect a sadness in her, a melancholy. Perhaps I was reading too much into things, or perhaps it was only my nerves.
With my index finger and thumb, I raised her chin, and again the light caught at just the right angle to illuminate her eyes between the slits of the mask. Slowly, I lowered my head to hers, and when the warmth of her lips met mine, heat coursed through my body. A tremble raced along my spine, and I fought the urgent desire to run my hands lower down her waist, cup her ass, pull her more firmly against me.
When she parted her lips, I took the offering, deepening our kiss, letting the fire between us spark, blaze. The dance of her tongue along mine spoke of the confidence of experience. She’d been with others. Of course she had. It was evident in the way she composed herself. Still, my blood heated at the thought of her with another. I growled against her mouth, and when our kiss broke, I nipped at her bottom lip.
She moaned—an involuntary noise I was certain—as her cheeks flushed, and she lowered her forehead. A rumble of amusement came from my chest, and when it did, she mumbled an incoherent rapprochement.
Stroking her cheek, I coaxed her to look up at me again, and spoke with deliberateness. “Do not be ashamed of the sounds you make.”
She bit her bottom lip, and I detected a battle of nerves and longing within her. If only she knew how much she frightened me, how much all of it did. Confidence could be feigned, as could all emotions. But her bashfulness, the rapid rise and fall of her chest—those things were real, true, and raw.
“Is there somewhere we can go?” Her question was quiet, meek, nearly mute.
Leaning down to speak against her ear, I pulled her firmer against me, inconspicuous enough to not draw attention, but pressing enough that she could feel my desire for her against her belly. “Is that what you want? Are you sure?”
Her breath came in a pant. “Yes.”
Excitement rushed through my veins as being with a woman—inside of a woman—became a feasible prospect. Being withthiswoman. The woman with cinnamon colored hair, mischievous grins, and knowing touches. What would it feel like to move inside of her, when the press of her body against mine alone evoked such sensations?
She twisted herself into my grasp, her back settled against my chest as if she belonged there—effortlessly. My arms wrapped at her torso, it all felt so incredibly natural.So right.Hesitantly, I rested my cheek on the top of her head, knowing there was an intimacy to it not accordant with what we were sharing.
When she didn’t brush me off, I buried my face in her hair, taking comfort in the undertones of herbs and spices she always smelt of.
“That woman,” she said in a hush, and I raised my eyes to the stage. “Who is she?”
My stomach sank. Astraea. “You do not know your Queen?” I questioned beneath my breath so only she would hear me as those around us set their attention on the stage.
She inhaled sharply but gave no further response as the Queen began her speech. It was the same show of altruism each year—warm smiles, acknowledgment of the lords and men of the court who made donations toward the benefit. Then she would parade her newest charity cases upon the stage, raising shows of approval from the crowd.
“Come,” I said against the woman’s ear. I had no desire to watch the kingdom fawn over Astraea and her generosity.
For a moment, the woman in my arms hesitated. There was a new tenseness in her shoulders, a stiffness to her form. Before I could question it, the Queen’s eyes fell upon us in the crowd, and I held my breath. The monster beneath my skin crawled, scratched, and writhed under her gaze, and the desperate need to be anywhere else overwhelmed even my desires for the woman I held.
Then the Queen nodded faintly in acknowledgment and smiled. But not of me, of the woman with the cinnamon hair. Confusion drew my brows inward, but in the next breath, the Queen disregarded us to voice the names of the two new children that would join her under her cause. Both boys. The children she brought in off the streets were always male. Boys with the special skills she needed were much harder to come by, much rarer, but the tasks of a messenger were considered unsuitable for girls.
