And she lifted thin arms to do so and bent to set the pins carefully beside the pile of her clothes. Her hair fell over her shoulders and about her face and halfway down her back when she straightened again. Clean, lifeless hair, not red, not blond. She lifted a hand to remove one strand from her mouth, her eyes steady on his.
He felt a surging of lust.
“Lie down on the bed,” he told her as he got to his feet and began to undress himself.
She folded the bedclothes back neatly and lay on one side of the bed, her legs together, her arms at her sides, her palms against the mattress. She did not cover herself. She turned her head to one side and watched him.
He undressed completely. He scorned to try to hide himself from a whore, to try to hide the purple and disfiguring marks of the wounds on his left side and left leg, which even in a mirror made him grimace with distaste, and which must repel any stranger not expecting them. Her eyes moved down to them and then returned calmly to his face.
She had courage, this whore. Or perhaps she could not afford to lose even the most repulsive of customers before she had earned her pay.
He was angry. Angry with himself for returning to whoring, something he had given up years before. Angry that he felt self-conscious and ashamed with a prostitute. And angry with her for being so much in control of her feelings that she would not even show her revulsion at his appearance. If she had done so, he could have used her accordingly.
And the thought revolted him and angered him further.
He leaned across her and took her by the upper arms, moving her so that she lay across the bed instead of along it. He grasped her hips and drew her forward until her knees bent over the side of the bed and her feet rested on the floor.
He slid his palms between her thighs and spread her legs wide. He pushed them wider with his knees, bending his legs so that they rested against the side of the bed. And he spread his fingers across the tops of her legs and opened her with his thumbs.
Her eyes were lowered, watching what he did.
He positioned himself and mounted her with one sharp deep thrust.
He heard the sound of shock deep in her throat and watched her bite down on both lips at once and shut her eyes very tightly. He felt all her muscles tense in self-defense. And he waited, standing above her, buried deep in her, watching her with hooded eyes, until the breath came vibrating out of her and she imposed relaxation on her muscles. Her eyes were fixed on his.
He slid his hands beneath her, holding her steady above the mattress as he leaned over her and took the pleasure for which he had employed her. She remained still and relaxed as he moved swiftly and deeply in her, her arms spread across the bed at her sides, her eyes wandering over his facial scar and looking back up into his. Once she looked down to watchwhat he did to her. Her hair was spread across the mattress to one side of her, where he had moved her across the bed.
He closed his eyes as he released into her, and bowed his head over her until he could feel her breath against his hair. And along with the blessed relaxation he felt the stabbing of a nameless regret.
He straightened up and disengaged himself from her body. He turned away to the washstand opposite the foot of the bed and poured cold water from the pitcher into the cracked bowl, dipped the rag of a cloth into it, squeezed out the excess water, and returned to the bed.
“Here,” he said, holding out the cloth to her. She had not moved beyond bringing her legs together. Her feet still rested on the floor. Her eyes were still open. “Clean yourself with this.” He glanced down to her bloodstained thighs.
She raised one hand to take the cloth, but it was shaking so out of control that she lowered it to the bed again and turned her head to one side, closing her eyes. He took her hand in his, turned it palm-up, and placed the cloth in it.
“You may dress when you have finished,” he said, and he turned his back on her in order to dress himself.
The quiet rustlings behind him told him that she had brought herself under control and was doing as she had been told. And yet when he turned at last, it was to find her trying to do up the three buttons of her cloak with hands that were trembling too badly to accomplish the task. He took the few steps toward her, brushed her hands aside, and did the buttons up for her.
The sheet at the edge of the bed, he could see over her shoulder, was liberally stained with blood. He had ripped her quite effectively.
“When did you last eat?” he asked her.
She straightened her cloak, looking down at it.
“When I ask a question, I expect an answer,” he said curtly.
“Two days ago,” she said.
“And what did you eat then?”
“Some bread.”
“Was it only today you decided to turn to the profession of whore?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Yesterday. But no one wanted me.”
“I am not surprised,” he said. “You have no idea how to sell yourself.”
