Dragon Quest VIII (Angelo/Jessica)
Jul. 11th, 2007 11:57 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
ro-anshi.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
kinkfestTitle: Goddess Grant Us
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ro_anshi
Rating: Soft R
Warnings: Het sex (much more implied than actually shown)
Word count: ~2800
Summary: Prompt 12. Dragon Quest VIII, Angelo/Jessica: Magic as a sex aid - something like an afterglow.
She was below him, beneath him, writhing under him as she granted and received; and he was within her, about her, surrounding her, moving in ways she’d never known possible, coaxing need and conjuring passion with every deft and powerful shift of his body, every touch of strong and supple fingers.
“Jess…” He breathed hot and damp and desperate into her hair, clutching her close.
She could not find breath to reply in kind, all the oxygen within escaping her in sharp little gasps and moans, and she could only hope that was answer enough for him, for the how and why, how and why… yes yes NOW.
* * *
“What are you doing here?” The knock at her door just after midnight pulled Jessica out of her very comfortable bed in Baccarat’s best hotel. Not that she had actually been anywhere near sleep in that fine bed in that fine room; in fact, until she saw who it was who had come calling so late, she had welcomed the distraction from the circling thoughts which were keeping her wide awake despite the late hour.
Angelo, lounging in her doorway, merely smiled—as always—at the irritation she was rarely able to keep from her voice when addressing him. “You looked troubled tonight, Jessica. I thought I’d stop by before I turned in to see if you needed anything, to make sure everything was okay with you.”
She hesitated a heartbeat before answering, guarding her voice, “It’s about as okay as it could be, considering we sail to the Dark Ruins tomorrow.”
“Later today, actually,” he corrected calmly. “To finally confront Dhoulmagus.”
“Yes.” The sharpness of his gaze over her belied his mild, easy tone, and she only wished her own voice could be so even. “Finally. This day’s been a long time coming.”
Unsettled, she turned away from him, crossing her room to the window that overlooked the quiet square, painted silver by the near-full moon. Footsteps followed her—she should have known that he’d come into her room if given half a chance, no invitation required—and he joined her in gazing outside, standing close enough to her that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. Her fingers automatically moved to fasten the next-highest button on her nightgown; it would be just like him to try to peer down the shift, as if he didn’t get enough of an eyeful on a daily basis….
Still, she was comforted by his presence, which, oddly, seemed to be asking nothing of her this night. To his credit, there wasn’t liquor—well, much—on his breath, just the faint scent of the wine he’d been drinking at supper with the rest of them; and she noticed that he was still dressed too neatly, without the smell of sex about him, so she doubted he’d tumbled the bunny girl who had been pursuing him earlier that evening.
She finally broke their contemplative silence. “I know why I’m not asleep, but what about you? Been out?”
“Not really.” The light breeze stirring the leaves outside her window now stirred his hair, those restless strands made near-white in the moonlight hiding his expression from her. “Baccarat is a bit boring with the casino closed.”
“There are plenty of other places besides the casino you could go to enjoy yourself.”
“I tried. They weren’t… quite enough.”
His head inclined—just a bit—toward her, and she tensed, edging away from him. “If you’re here because you want to enjoy yourself with me…” she warned.
“No. I don’t.” One hand settled lightly on her shoulder, a touch without agenda, to turn her to face him. “Well, I would, but…”
The darkness, she saw, made his eyes more gray than daylight-blue, with a sobriety she rarely saw in them. He licked his lips, as if suddenly unsure, before continuing. “We all have our fears, this night. Before we go into battle tomorrow, I was wondering if you might want me to say a prayer with you.”
She swallowed a laugh at how absurd those words sounded to her; the Angelo she knew couldn’t possibly be serious. “And I suppose you made this offer to the others?
“Yes, I did.” Dismay at her reaction darkened his face. “I spent some time with Eight, and with Yangus, earlier this evening. After you’d retired to your room, for your bath, else I would have offered then.”
“Oh,” was all she could manage in her surprise. He was serious.
His tone was as wounded as his expression. “Try a little harder next time to hide your shock, Jessica. I might not be the best example of a Templar ever called to serve the Goddess, but I can recite the proper prayers and rites.” He released her, smoothing his hands over his uniform—darkened now by nightfall to maroon rather than the blaze of red she knew by sunlight—carefully straightening the waist of the tailcoat. “In fact, I’m rather good at it.” He lifted his chin, haughty in affront. “Because I seemed a bit fragile as a child, Abbot Francisco decided that my calling was to serve the community through words and deeds, and so he set me to studying our liturgy. Even though I outgrew my physical weaknesses and did take up training with the rest of the guards, everyone agreed that it was best I remain on my original path, rather than defend the Goddess with my might. Especially when Marcello became Captain. We found out it wasn’t… wise to have the two of us in the same training salle with swords in our hands.”
She felt duly chastised now, even embarrassed by her assumption. “You do defend the Goddess very well, Angelo. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by the other. I’m sorry for having thought otherwise.”
His eyes distanced, as if he were seeing something else, or being somewhere else. “Even if sometimes it feels as if the Goddess isn’t here, really, and if she’s not listen, nor caring… I am and have always been bound by Her words, and the comfort they offer to those who believe in Her. So I can offer them to others, in their time of need.”
For a moment there was a look in his eyes, one she could not recall ever having seen there before. The cockiness was gone, something alien, almost indefinable, in its place; and she suddenly understood. “You’re the one who needs something tonight. Are you frightened about tomorrow?”
He was silent long enough that she feared that frankness had offended him beyond answering; but, finally, he spoke, so softly that his words were nearly lost in the sighing of the wind, the light splash of water from Baccarat’s falls and fountains. “Yes. One would have to be a fool not to be. But not of dying, Jessica. Not that.”
Now she dared to touch him, circling his waist with a reassuring arm. “Then what are you afraid of?”
“Of letting everyone down. That we’ll fail in our fight… because I will fail.”
“Of course you won’t.” Her defense was instant. “I can’t believe how strong all our practice has made your magic—how good you’ve become at healing. And when you have to fight… Even if you weren’t originally trained to serve the Goddess with your bow and your sword… you’re good. Very good.”
“I didn’t come here looking for your praise, Jessica—although,” and there was an uncharacteristic, self-effacing look on his face, “I do appreciate it. But if you’re not in need of my prayers,” he began to pull away from her, “I suppose I should leave—”
“No.” Spontaneously, she tightened her grasp on him, pulling him back against her body. “Stay.”
His pale eyes went wide. “Why?”
“Because…” and she swallowed, fearful of her sudden need and desire, “because I don’t think I want to be alone tonight.” She laughed nervously, with her free hand pushing her hair back from her face. “Because sometimes I think too much when I’m alone, and I don’t want to think tonight.”
He nodded as if he understood. “Are you thinking about Alistair?”
“Yes, but… other things too. Things that sometimes I don’t want to think about. Like dying. Unlike you, I am afraid about not making it through tomorrow. And right now…” She turned fully toward him, toward the surprising comfort of his warmth and the pale shine of his eyes, soft as the moon outside. “I’m finding I rather like your company.”
A sudden recklessness, kin to the risk they would take the next day, flowed through her; and whatever enmity she felt toward him melted away. Really, since they were to face death tomorrow, what was the point in grudges, in sharp words, in holding someone who was an ally at arm’s length? Almost shyly she added, “And you don’t need to pray for me.”
He hesitated for a breath before he allowed his arms to come around her, moving cautiously, as if he didn’t believe she was not only allowing it, but asking for it; and she herself wasn’t quite sure she believed what she was implicitly requesting. His next words reflected that awareness, as well as offering her a gracious escape should she reconsider in the next moment. “Be careful what you’re asking, Jessica, because you know I’m not going to be inclined to stop.” His gloved fingers flexed, pressing slightly into her flesh.
”I know what I’m asking. And…” she could not suppress a smile, “I can’t think of one reason why I would want you to.”
“Now, don’t tease me.” He slipped off one glove, somehow managing it without seeming to release her, then lifted the bared hand to stroke her cheek.
She shivered at that touch, so tender and unexpected, so oddly intimate. “Never.”
She tilted her face up to his, granting further permission, inviting additional liberties, and he bent his head, a faint brush of his lips against hers. She had only a moment to marvel at how good he tasted—wine and spice—before he was deepening that kiss, submerging that wonder beneath pure and heady sensation that left her literally breathless.
When he withdrew for just a moment, his fingers working over the top placket of his jacket and his cloak already, somehow, fallen away to the floor, she couldn’t help but wonder that if he was this good at kissing, just how skilled he would be in… other matters. She supposed she was about to find out.
“Last chance,” he reminded, catching and holding her eyes.
She shuddered at the dual implications in the word, then replied as calmly as she could, “I know,” before taking his hand and tugging him toward her rumpled bed.
So many buttons, too many fasteners, yet somehow he was out of that uniform as quickly as she had shed her nightgown. She slid between the bedcovers, allowing him only a glimpse of her body in the same way that she had the barest glance at his long, supple, well-muscled limbs before he joined her between the sheets.
He wasted no time in renewing their kiss, even as his hands began to stroke and caress her naked skin. His touch felt marvelous, yet at the same time peculiar, softer and smoother than a man’s hands had any right to be. “Your gloves,” she murmured, kissing his throat, nibbling his earlobe.
“I beg your pardon?” One of those soft hands drifted distractingly over her breast, expertly tweaking a nipple to hardness.
She gasped, then found voice again to explain. “Your hands—they’re so soft. Softer than mine. See?” Her palm rasped over his hip, moving in small, rough circles.
“Hmm, I suppose they are. Gloves do have their benefits, don’t they? But—” And he suddenly caught her roughened right hand, raising it to his mouth, then flicking his tongue over the calluses placed there by the pommel of her whip. “I might appreciate a little extra bit of friction—” She gasped with shock at where he boldly placed her hand, closing her fingers around him—“here. And I think,” he went on, his smooth fingers drifting between her legs and pressing deep, “you’ll equally appreciate the care I take with my hands.”
Under his touch, she was ready so quickly—too quickly, almost frantic to have him—and she had made him similarly eager; in fact, for a moment she was afraid that she’d worked him too hard and that he would be done too soon. But when her knees fell open, he instantly shifted between her thighs and sank into her, then began to move. She caught a sharp breath—he felt so good, almost too good—then quickly found and matched his rhythm and began to answer his thrusts.
He tucked his head against the side of her neck, his breath hot and faintly tinged with ripe mulberries, with sweet port wine, and whispered her name.
And then he began to murmur something else under his breath, perhaps a spell, or perhaps some sort of prayer after all, but of a very different sort than what he would have shared with the others. The cadence of his words was remotely familiar to her, like the murmurings within the walls of the Tower on Alexandria’s Feast Days, subliminal now and felt rather than heard, intuited within her very flesh like those distant echoes of the Old Tongues.
Something was happening. She had time to beg—
Goddess have mercy
—before it carried her away.
Sensation swept over her body, head to toe, a hot-cold breeze that prickled her skin and thrummed through tensed and flexing muscles. In synch with her, Angelo gasped, stuttered breaths matching hers, his heat and passion equaled.
Her nails raked his back as he nipped her shoulder, and together their flesh surrendered.
Even when it was over, even after he had lifted his body from hers and shifted to lie beside her on the dampened sheets, the remnants of their excitation still remained, trembling and insistent, as if sparks still danced against her flesh. Warm and liquid and languorous, she’d never quite felt this way before, nor had she ever expected to feel quite this way—let alone with Angelo, with his bad habits and bunny girls, his brash advances and at times his surprising naiveté about the greater world. Just a boy from Maella Abbey, who’d never been further afield than Simpleton until Fate—and his half-brother—had sent him along on their quest….
For a moment, she wondered if she was still ensorcelled—in fact, she almost tried to convince herself that Angelo must have cast some sort of subtle spell on her the very moment he’d knocked on her door, to explain her behavior—for now, were she in her right, clearest mind she should have sent him from her bed immediately. But she knew too well the sensation of a spell dispersing—or not—and whatever magic he’d used on her—on both of them—had departed by now.
But somehow, she still wanted him beside her this night.
He sat up abruptly, in one fluid motion swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her, long and smooth and pale. She reached out, with one fingernail tracing up the line of his spine, and he arched slightly, turning his head enough toward her that she might see his face and the relaxation there. Reaching higher, she tugged now at the ribbon fastening his hair, letting it spill over his shoulders.
“Thank you,” she murmured at last.
The smile on his face was genuine, without artifice, even as he said quietly, “I think I should leave now. It wouldn’t do for us to be found together in the morning, would it? I’d likely taint you with my reputation. After all, you’re a good girl from Alexandria.”
“Mmm.” She twined one soft strand of freed hair around one finger. “I wasn’t that good a girl when I left. Please—it’s all right if you stay.”
Maybe, any other night, without her heart still warm and her body languid, she never would have extended the invitation. But tonight… what did it matter anyway, and whose business was it but their own. “Besides, I don’t think,” she started, “that Yangus would manage to put two and two together—“
”And last I saw Eight,” Angelo eased back to her side, “he was going down to talk to King Trode and Medea. I think he was going to tell her that all would be well by tomorrow.”
“It will be. It will. And you won’t fail, I promise you. I won’t let you fail. And now,” she pulled him back to her, “please… touch me again.”
~fin~
Author:
ro_anshiRating: Soft R
Warnings: Het sex (much more implied than actually shown)
Word count: ~2800
Summary: Prompt 12. Dragon Quest VIII, Angelo/Jessica: Magic as a sex aid - something like an afterglow.
She was below him, beneath him, writhing under him as she granted and received; and he was within her, about her, surrounding her, moving in ways she’d never known possible, coaxing need and conjuring passion with every deft and powerful shift of his body, every touch of strong and supple fingers.
“Jess…” He breathed hot and damp and desperate into her hair, clutching her close.
She could not find breath to reply in kind, all the oxygen within escaping her in sharp little gasps and moans, and she could only hope that was answer enough for him, for the how and why, how and why… yes yes NOW.
“What are you doing here?” The knock at her door just after midnight pulled Jessica out of her very comfortable bed in Baccarat’s best hotel. Not that she had actually been anywhere near sleep in that fine bed in that fine room; in fact, until she saw who it was who had come calling so late, she had welcomed the distraction from the circling thoughts which were keeping her wide awake despite the late hour.
Angelo, lounging in her doorway, merely smiled—as always—at the irritation she was rarely able to keep from her voice when addressing him. “You looked troubled tonight, Jessica. I thought I’d stop by before I turned in to see if you needed anything, to make sure everything was okay with you.”
She hesitated a heartbeat before answering, guarding her voice, “It’s about as okay as it could be, considering we sail to the Dark Ruins tomorrow.”
“Later today, actually,” he corrected calmly. “To finally confront Dhoulmagus.”
“Yes.” The sharpness of his gaze over her belied his mild, easy tone, and she only wished her own voice could be so even. “Finally. This day’s been a long time coming.”
Unsettled, she turned away from him, crossing her room to the window that overlooked the quiet square, painted silver by the near-full moon. Footsteps followed her—she should have known that he’d come into her room if given half a chance, no invitation required—and he joined her in gazing outside, standing close enough to her that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. Her fingers automatically moved to fasten the next-highest button on her nightgown; it would be just like him to try to peer down the shift, as if he didn’t get enough of an eyeful on a daily basis….
Still, she was comforted by his presence, which, oddly, seemed to be asking nothing of her this night. To his credit, there wasn’t liquor—well, much—on his breath, just the faint scent of the wine he’d been drinking at supper with the rest of them; and she noticed that he was still dressed too neatly, without the smell of sex about him, so she doubted he’d tumbled the bunny girl who had been pursuing him earlier that evening.
She finally broke their contemplative silence. “I know why I’m not asleep, but what about you? Been out?”
“Not really.” The light breeze stirring the leaves outside her window now stirred his hair, those restless strands made near-white in the moonlight hiding his expression from her. “Baccarat is a bit boring with the casino closed.”
“There are plenty of other places besides the casino you could go to enjoy yourself.”
“I tried. They weren’t… quite enough.”
His head inclined—just a bit—toward her, and she tensed, edging away from him. “If you’re here because you want to enjoy yourself with me…” she warned.
“No. I don’t.” One hand settled lightly on her shoulder, a touch without agenda, to turn her to face him. “Well, I would, but…”
The darkness, she saw, made his eyes more gray than daylight-blue, with a sobriety she rarely saw in them. He licked his lips, as if suddenly unsure, before continuing. “We all have our fears, this night. Before we go into battle tomorrow, I was wondering if you might want me to say a prayer with you.”
She swallowed a laugh at how absurd those words sounded to her; the Angelo she knew couldn’t possibly be serious. “And I suppose you made this offer to the others?
“Yes, I did.” Dismay at her reaction darkened his face. “I spent some time with Eight, and with Yangus, earlier this evening. After you’d retired to your room, for your bath, else I would have offered then.”
“Oh,” was all she could manage in her surprise. He was serious.
His tone was as wounded as his expression. “Try a little harder next time to hide your shock, Jessica. I might not be the best example of a Templar ever called to serve the Goddess, but I can recite the proper prayers and rites.” He released her, smoothing his hands over his uniform—darkened now by nightfall to maroon rather than the blaze of red she knew by sunlight—carefully straightening the waist of the tailcoat. “In fact, I’m rather good at it.” He lifted his chin, haughty in affront. “Because I seemed a bit fragile as a child, Abbot Francisco decided that my calling was to serve the community through words and deeds, and so he set me to studying our liturgy. Even though I outgrew my physical weaknesses and did take up training with the rest of the guards, everyone agreed that it was best I remain on my original path, rather than defend the Goddess with my might. Especially when Marcello became Captain. We found out it wasn’t… wise to have the two of us in the same training salle with swords in our hands.”
She felt duly chastised now, even embarrassed by her assumption. “You do defend the Goddess very well, Angelo. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by the other. I’m sorry for having thought otherwise.”
His eyes distanced, as if he were seeing something else, or being somewhere else. “Even if sometimes it feels as if the Goddess isn’t here, really, and if she’s not listen, nor caring… I am and have always been bound by Her words, and the comfort they offer to those who believe in Her. So I can offer them to others, in their time of need.”
For a moment there was a look in his eyes, one she could not recall ever having seen there before. The cockiness was gone, something alien, almost indefinable, in its place; and she suddenly understood. “You’re the one who needs something tonight. Are you frightened about tomorrow?”
He was silent long enough that she feared that frankness had offended him beyond answering; but, finally, he spoke, so softly that his words were nearly lost in the sighing of the wind, the light splash of water from Baccarat’s falls and fountains. “Yes. One would have to be a fool not to be. But not of dying, Jessica. Not that.”
Now she dared to touch him, circling his waist with a reassuring arm. “Then what are you afraid of?”
“Of letting everyone down. That we’ll fail in our fight… because I will fail.”
“Of course you won’t.” Her defense was instant. “I can’t believe how strong all our practice has made your magic—how good you’ve become at healing. And when you have to fight… Even if you weren’t originally trained to serve the Goddess with your bow and your sword… you’re good. Very good.”
“I didn’t come here looking for your praise, Jessica—although,” and there was an uncharacteristic, self-effacing look on his face, “I do appreciate it. But if you’re not in need of my prayers,” he began to pull away from her, “I suppose I should leave—”
“No.” Spontaneously, she tightened her grasp on him, pulling him back against her body. “Stay.”
His pale eyes went wide. “Why?”
“Because…” and she swallowed, fearful of her sudden need and desire, “because I don’t think I want to be alone tonight.” She laughed nervously, with her free hand pushing her hair back from her face. “Because sometimes I think too much when I’m alone, and I don’t want to think tonight.”
He nodded as if he understood. “Are you thinking about Alistair?”
“Yes, but… other things too. Things that sometimes I don’t want to think about. Like dying. Unlike you, I am afraid about not making it through tomorrow. And right now…” She turned fully toward him, toward the surprising comfort of his warmth and the pale shine of his eyes, soft as the moon outside. “I’m finding I rather like your company.”
A sudden recklessness, kin to the risk they would take the next day, flowed through her; and whatever enmity she felt toward him melted away. Really, since they were to face death tomorrow, what was the point in grudges, in sharp words, in holding someone who was an ally at arm’s length? Almost shyly she added, “And you don’t need to pray for me.”
He hesitated for a breath before he allowed his arms to come around her, moving cautiously, as if he didn’t believe she was not only allowing it, but asking for it; and she herself wasn’t quite sure she believed what she was implicitly requesting. His next words reflected that awareness, as well as offering her a gracious escape should she reconsider in the next moment. “Be careful what you’re asking, Jessica, because you know I’m not going to be inclined to stop.” His gloved fingers flexed, pressing slightly into her flesh.
”I know what I’m asking. And…” she could not suppress a smile, “I can’t think of one reason why I would want you to.”
“Now, don’t tease me.” He slipped off one glove, somehow managing it without seeming to release her, then lifted the bared hand to stroke her cheek.
She shivered at that touch, so tender and unexpected, so oddly intimate. “Never.”
She tilted her face up to his, granting further permission, inviting additional liberties, and he bent his head, a faint brush of his lips against hers. She had only a moment to marvel at how good he tasted—wine and spice—before he was deepening that kiss, submerging that wonder beneath pure and heady sensation that left her literally breathless.
When he withdrew for just a moment, his fingers working over the top placket of his jacket and his cloak already, somehow, fallen away to the floor, she couldn’t help but wonder that if he was this good at kissing, just how skilled he would be in… other matters. She supposed she was about to find out.
“Last chance,” he reminded, catching and holding her eyes.
She shuddered at the dual implications in the word, then replied as calmly as she could, “I know,” before taking his hand and tugging him toward her rumpled bed.
So many buttons, too many fasteners, yet somehow he was out of that uniform as quickly as she had shed her nightgown. She slid between the bedcovers, allowing him only a glimpse of her body in the same way that she had the barest glance at his long, supple, well-muscled limbs before he joined her between the sheets.
He wasted no time in renewing their kiss, even as his hands began to stroke and caress her naked skin. His touch felt marvelous, yet at the same time peculiar, softer and smoother than a man’s hands had any right to be. “Your gloves,” she murmured, kissing his throat, nibbling his earlobe.
“I beg your pardon?” One of those soft hands drifted distractingly over her breast, expertly tweaking a nipple to hardness.
She gasped, then found voice again to explain. “Your hands—they’re so soft. Softer than mine. See?” Her palm rasped over his hip, moving in small, rough circles.
“Hmm, I suppose they are. Gloves do have their benefits, don’t they? But—” And he suddenly caught her roughened right hand, raising it to his mouth, then flicking his tongue over the calluses placed there by the pommel of her whip. “I might appreciate a little extra bit of friction—” She gasped with shock at where he boldly placed her hand, closing her fingers around him—“here. And I think,” he went on, his smooth fingers drifting between her legs and pressing deep, “you’ll equally appreciate the care I take with my hands.”
Under his touch, she was ready so quickly—too quickly, almost frantic to have him—and she had made him similarly eager; in fact, for a moment she was afraid that she’d worked him too hard and that he would be done too soon. But when her knees fell open, he instantly shifted between her thighs and sank into her, then began to move. She caught a sharp breath—he felt so good, almost too good—then quickly found and matched his rhythm and began to answer his thrusts.
He tucked his head against the side of her neck, his breath hot and faintly tinged with ripe mulberries, with sweet port wine, and whispered her name.
And then he began to murmur something else under his breath, perhaps a spell, or perhaps some sort of prayer after all, but of a very different sort than what he would have shared with the others. The cadence of his words was remotely familiar to her, like the murmurings within the walls of the Tower on Alexandria’s Feast Days, subliminal now and felt rather than heard, intuited within her very flesh like those distant echoes of the Old Tongues.
Something was happening. She had time to beg—
Goddess have mercy
—before it carried her away.
Sensation swept over her body, head to toe, a hot-cold breeze that prickled her skin and thrummed through tensed and flexing muscles. In synch with her, Angelo gasped, stuttered breaths matching hers, his heat and passion equaled.
Her nails raked his back as he nipped her shoulder, and together their flesh surrendered.
Even when it was over, even after he had lifted his body from hers and shifted to lie beside her on the dampened sheets, the remnants of their excitation still remained, trembling and insistent, as if sparks still danced against her flesh. Warm and liquid and languorous, she’d never quite felt this way before, nor had she ever expected to feel quite this way—let alone with Angelo, with his bad habits and bunny girls, his brash advances and at times his surprising naiveté about the greater world. Just a boy from Maella Abbey, who’d never been further afield than Simpleton until Fate—and his half-brother—had sent him along on their quest….
For a moment, she wondered if she was still ensorcelled—in fact, she almost tried to convince herself that Angelo must have cast some sort of subtle spell on her the very moment he’d knocked on her door, to explain her behavior—for now, were she in her right, clearest mind she should have sent him from her bed immediately. But she knew too well the sensation of a spell dispersing—or not—and whatever magic he’d used on her—on both of them—had departed by now.
But somehow, she still wanted him beside her this night.
He sat up abruptly, in one fluid motion swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her, long and smooth and pale. She reached out, with one fingernail tracing up the line of his spine, and he arched slightly, turning his head enough toward her that she might see his face and the relaxation there. Reaching higher, she tugged now at the ribbon fastening his hair, letting it spill over his shoulders.
“Thank you,” she murmured at last.
The smile on his face was genuine, without artifice, even as he said quietly, “I think I should leave now. It wouldn’t do for us to be found together in the morning, would it? I’d likely taint you with my reputation. After all, you’re a good girl from Alexandria.”
“Mmm.” She twined one soft strand of freed hair around one finger. “I wasn’t that good a girl when I left. Please—it’s all right if you stay.”
Maybe, any other night, without her heart still warm and her body languid, she never would have extended the invitation. But tonight… what did it matter anyway, and whose business was it but their own. “Besides, I don’t think,” she started, “that Yangus would manage to put two and two together—“
”And last I saw Eight,” Angelo eased back to her side, “he was going down to talk to King Trode and Medea. I think he was going to tell her that all would be well by tomorrow.”
“It will be. It will. And you won’t fail, I promise you. I won’t let you fail. And now,” she pulled him back to her, “please… touch me again.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}