A shiver ran up her spine. Was Alain upstairs? Was it too early? Too late? Was he waiting for her, or was this all for nothing? Would she have her first kiss?
No! I should not kiss him! I will not betray Marjorie. I only came to talk to him.
He would be shocked that she had come. What if he told someone? No one would believe that she had only come to talk.
She stood in the dark at the attic door, her eyes still shut tight. Moments of feeling that this was the most reckless thing she had ever done alternated with moments of feeling that this was the only thing she could have done. She thought about what she would say if anyone caught her. She winced as she imagined what her father would say to her.
She thought about Alain’s lips against hers. She thought about getting married before ever getting kissed. She thought about her mother’s death in childbirth. She thought about Catherine’s husband splitting her in half with an axe. She thought about her Telgard prince. She thought about how much Alain liked Marjorie. She thought about Alain’s soft brown eyes and golden hair.
Her fingers found the edge of the door and pulled. It creaked, and though her ears knew it was not loud, she cringed. The air smelled musty. Her shin bumped against the first stair, exactly the kind of thing she worried about when it was so dark. As she climbed the stairs, she opened her eyes to see if there was too much light and Alain would be able to tell that she was not Marjorie.
She froze when she saw the pinprick of flame. A candle! A candle sat on the floor beneath a square of horizontal lines of lighter, greyer black. A candle by an open vent.
That meant Alain was here.
Someone was here. She could sense it, she knew another person stood only a pace or two away from her, but she could not see anything at all.
“Marjorie?” came Alain’s soft, stunned voice. She heard rustling, and the candle and the vent vanished behind a dark form that she could just now trace against the black of the attic. She heard a thump and a sharp breath, and she thought that maybe he had grazed his head against the steep pitch of the attic ceiling.
He is here. I am here.
No one knows we are here.
“Marjorie?” Alain said again.
She needed to say something, whisper something. He would not recognize her voice if she whispered. “Alain.” Gooseflesh lifted on her arms and legs. She took a step toward him, but she stopped when his featureless form came toward her. Then his hands gently touched her face, and Tabitha’s entire body trembled.
“I am so glad you came,” he whispered.
She took a deep breath. “I came,” she agreed.
He was so close. His fingers tilted her chin, and he kissed her.
It felt a little strange at first. His lips were open instead of pursed like hers, and after a moment, she opened her mouth too. He pressed closer, warm and strong. He smelled good. She was still trembling when he drew back, his hands still cupping her face.
They stood there, and she could hear his breathing, feel his hands. A kiss. I came for a kiss. But she wanted another. Would he kiss her again?
He did. She melted into it even as she shivered. His lips were sweet and warm. Then she felt his tongue touch the inside of her mouth. Jenevive was right and Beatris was wrong, for it felt sensual, not disgusting. Tentatively, she moved her own tongue against his. His hands went down to her waist and gently pulled her against him, until she could feel the muscles of his chest and legs through the soft fabrics of his shirt and trousers. She could feel his fingers touching her waist through the silks of her nightgown and Marjorie’s robe.
She was kissing him. Deep, warm kisses. Her hands fluttered up from his chest to his neck, and her fingertips bushed against his skin. His shirt collar was open, and at the top of his chest she felt short, curly hair.
Alain broke the kiss and took both her hands in his. He stepped back, tugging her forward, and her foot met something soft. Slowly he sank down, guiding her to sit beside him on a cushion, and he kissed her hands clasped in his. “I think about you all the time,” he said softly.
She did not want to talk. She rose to her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again. He held her tight, and she thought she could feel his heartbeat.
She should stop. She knew she should stop. If they were caught, the shame would be unbearable. But how could they be caught? The servants used this attic, which meant that it was a safe place. It was the middle of the night. No one was awake. Her friends had all had wine, and they had all been asleep when she had left. The guardsman had been asleep. The dog had not barked. No one knew she was here with Alain.
He squeezed her closer, and her legs separated against his thigh. He made a low sound, and his lips moved to her neck. Another shiver arched her back, tingling a line through her body. He whispered something, but she could not hear it, and she did not care. He leaned forward, and she let him ease her down, down onto the musty cushions, his mouth touching kisses to her throat, his beard tickling her skin. She sighed as she lay back, her melting body too weak to stand or even sit anymore.
He lay alongside her, warm and firm, his kisses moving back to her mouth. She stroked her fingers along his neck, and through the hair at the top of his chest. Her thumb met a button, and she unfastened it so that she could touch more of his chest. His lips moved off her mouth and up to her cheeks, her temples, her forehead. She found another button on his shirt, unfastened it, and ran all her fingers through his chest hair.
She had never touched anything like this. The hair on her own body was so sparse and soft it was barely even there, but Alain’s was coarse and thick.
She was touching a man. She was lying in a dark attic and touching a young man’s bare chest while he kissed her. This was far beyond anything she had dreamed of doing.
We have to stop.
No. Not yet. No one knew they were here. Alain did not even know that it was Tabitha, and not Marjorie, who was here with him.
Marjorie. She was betraying Marjorie.
But no one knew that either. Her hand on his chest brushed against his nipple, and his breath sighed in her ear. Were men’s nipples sensitive? She touched it again, and he sighed again. His hands slid from her back to her shoulders, then to her collarbone, and he gently pulled apart the ribbon that held Marjorie’s robe closed. She shivered. She let him pull apart the other ribbon at her waist, ease the robe past her shoulders, and draw her arms free. Her nightgown had no sleeves, and Alain’s gentle mouth kissed her on each of her bared shoulders.
I have to stop this.
Instead she unfastened another button on his shirt. His skin underneath was so warm, like the warmth that was flooding her. She wanted to feel him. She slid her hands inside his shirt, all the way to the tense, hard muscles of his back. His kisses came stronger, on her mouth, on her neck, on her collarbone, and the fabric of his shirt stretched and strained under her hands.
Just take off the shirt, she demanded silently, feeling the beating of her pulse against her temples. She was sweating. Take off the shirt, take it off!
He seemed to hear her fierce thoughts, for he suddenly sat up and yanked his shirttails from his trousers. The air around her rushed in cold, and Tabitha reached to find him and pull him down to her again. His shirt was off. She held him tight and pressed her hands against his bare back, and as his lips touched her neck, his hands slid down her body to the bunched-up hem of her nightgown at her knees.
She stopped breathing. She lay still. Alain lifted himself from her and drew the nightgown up. The lacy hem caressed her skin as it passed over her stomach. The silk gathered and settled softly across her neck, between her chin and her bared breasts.
I have to stop this! Her conscience wailed at her from far away. Alain’s lips kissed her nipple. She gasped. Then his mouth covered it and his tongue swirled over it.
She whimpered. Nothing in her life had ever felt anything like this. It was pleasure so pure it shone. She knew it was wrong to be with a man like this, and she kn
ew God could see her, but God was not doing anything to stop her, so did that mean it was all right?
She knew it did not mean that, but she did not care.
His mouth and hands explored her breasts, and her breath came in sighs and gasps. It felt so good. His bare chest brushed against her stomach. The dark and the quiet left only the beautiful sensations of smell and taste and touch.
When he laid his hand on the ribbon that held her bloomers to her hips, a tiny cry escaped her. Alain immediately lifted his hand away. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Oh, no.”
“Alain,” she whispered.
“We can’t. We can’t.” He sat up, breathing as hard as if he had raced a mile. “It’s—no. No. We have to stop.”
No. Not yet. It feels so good. Yes, exactly, it felt good, so they did not have to stop. Taking her maidenhead would hurt, so as long as nothing hurt, as long as she stopped him when it started to hurt, she was still a virgin and could not get pregnant. That was the only way anyone would ever know that she had been here. Only if she got pregnant. She would stop him when it started to hurt. It was simple, since once it started to hurt, she would want him to stop. And he would stop. He would never hurt her.
He resisted her tugging at first. “We have to stop,” he whispered. She kept tugging, shivering, needing his warmth and his touch. He gave in, came back down to her, and his chest felt incredible pressed against her breasts. He kissed her and his body relaxed on top of her.
She sucked in her breath. She could feel his … his … his hardness, his maleness, harder and stronger than the rest of him. Cock. She could feel his cock through his trousers. Between her legs, she was aching, an ache that had been building since that first sweet kiss. That place … her cherry? Was that what it was called?
She could not let him use his cock. That would hurt and would get her pregnant. He could use his hands. He already was. He was untying her bloomers. Were his hands shaking? He slid her bloomers down, and chills raced through her legs. He sat up so he could take off her slippers, and then her bloomers. Her heart hammered in her chest, sending pounding waves through her shivering body, her naked body.
Alain kissed her cherry. She gasped and sat almost all the way up. He waited, motionless, until she lay down again. When he kissed her there again, she shuddered, and when his mouth and beard brushed the inside of her thighs, she reached down to touch his hair.
She knew that men and women did this. Kissing each other down there, that was something she had heard about, something she and her friends had hinted at when they talked about kissing. Alain knew about it. He had done it before. He had touched other girls and kissed them there before. Should that bother her? Did it bother her?
Maybe. Maybe a little. But it was how he knew how to be gentle. Other girls had taught him. Tabitha had once overheard Cook telling Little Nille that she had to teach her men to be gentle.
Alain’s tongue and lips found all the folds of her cherry. It was incredible. She floated in pleasure, every breath a low cry, and when her heel caught against a rip in the cushion, she realized she was writhing. Her nipples were hard as pebbles, straining, burning for his touch. He turned to lie fully against her again, and his hand went to her cherry as his mouth went to her breast. His cock was straining against his trousers, pushing against her thigh. She ran her hands over his back and shoulders and hair. Her cherry felt wet from his mouth. His finger slid slowly up inside her, and slowly back out, in and out, making her wetter and wetter. He circled his tongue over her nipple in the same rhythm as his thumb stroking her cherry. Now she knew why they called it a cherry. It was so sweet and ripe.
She felt a nudge, a tiny push, and he had two fingers inside her, drawing down the slick wetness. His breath was hot on her breast. Two fingers, in and out, even more slowly now, and deeper. He drew the wetness from deep inside her cherry, gentle, firm, and slow. His thumb slowed too, stroking the wetness into every fold. His mouth and tongue slid up her breast. They lifted away from the bunched-up nightgown at her neck and came back down on her mouth. His chest covered her breasts, skin to skin, warmth to warmth. His fingers slid out of her and he shifted, but even then he was gentle, he did not lie fully on her, but held part of his weight on his bent arms on either side of her, cupping her shoulders and kissing her, kissing her, kissing her.
He reached down. His fingers slid inside her again, maybe three this time, and it felt like too much, like just a little too much pressure or not enough space. She opened her legs wider. It felt so wet. His gentle pushing was slowly and sweetly opening her. Her heart beat so fast it blurred into pure vibration. A little deeper. Her mouth was on his shoulder. His skin was salty-sweet. Everything about him was sweet and beautiful. His panting stirred her hair. A little deeper. His hands gripped her shoulders, but not so much that they hurt. Nothing hurt. She felt dizzy and hot. Slick and wet. In and out. Slow and deep. A little deeper each time.
She bent her knees and rocked her cherry into him. Alain gasped and shuddered and went even deeper, and color and light burst behind Tabitha’s tightly shut eyes. In and out. Wet. Not so slow now. Every time he reached the deepest part of her, her entire body shivered and fresh stars bloomed in her eyes. Every time he reached the deepest part of her, the sweet, soft impact against her whole cherry made her whimper.
But then, suddenly, he froze. Tense little shudders rippled through him, and he moaned. Tabitha waited. Why was he stopping? She did not want him to stop. She did not want him to ever stop. But he did, he had.
He caught his breath, and she felt him slide out of her. He laid his head between her breasts, breathing hard. His chest rested on her stomach, and his strong hands held her shoulders. His stomach rested on her cherry. Her cherry was slick, wet, hot, and empty.
No.
Oh, no. No.
She had thought it was his hand. His fingers.
No. She had known it was his cock. Some part of her had known. His cock, her cherry.
But it had not hurt. It had not hurt at all. He could not have taken her maidenhead. He could not have. It had not hurt.
Men don’t kiss the same, so maybe they don’t bed the same.
Catherine’s husband had bedded her so violently that it could only be called rape. Alain had bedded Tabitha so gently that it could only be called making love.
No! It was supposed to hurt! I did not mean to!
Alain thought she was Marjorie. He thought he had just made love to Marjorie. Tomorrow, if he somehow managed to talk to Marjorie, if he ever even stood close enough to her again, he would know that this had not been her.
And if he ever stood close to Tabitha again …
My God. My God my God my God.
Alain sighed deeply and gave her breast a slow kiss.
She could be pregnant, she could be pregnant. She could not marry Alain. Her marriage was important. She was a Betaul. Her family was the guardian of Thendalia’s shores, the steward of its mines. Her children’s father had to come from a family like hers, and ancient, important family. Alain’s family was nothing. His face could make even a queen take notice, but he was only a knight. He was not a duke or a count or a baron or anything. She could not marry him, but now she might be carrying his child.
She liked how he felt lying on top of her. She realized that her hands were stroking his hair.
I could run away with him, like in a story. We could run away to Adelard or the Central Isles. I could spend every night with him like this.
But that was impossible. She had duties. She had to marry well. Her father needed a grandson. An heir. Her father wanted her to marry the Telgard prince.
But she had never even met the Telgard prince. Alain was real. He was here, and he was sweet and gentle. Right now he thought she was Marjorie, but he would realize he loved her, Tabitha, when he knew it had been her. Right?
My God.
She had to get out of here. She had to get back. She had to get dressed and get back to her bedchamber. Her father would kill her. She had
made herself a whore for a lowly knight and her father would never forgive her if he knew. No one could know, no one could know, no one, no one.
Alain lifted his head. He rolled off her, but then snuggled next to her and kissed her mouth, but she could not kiss him back. “I don’t have much now,” he said. His voice was low and warm. “But Lord Daniel is generous with his knights. I will be able to provide for us.”
Us. Him and me. No, him and Marjorie. Lord Daniel would not be generous with a knight who had disgraced Duke Etienn’s daughter.
“I love you,” he said then. He kissed her again, and paused. “Marjorie?”
Tabitha found the hem of her nightgown and pulled it back down over her body. It stuck to her sweaty skin. She tugged free of his embrace and found the sleeves of Marjorie’s robe. She sat up, pulled it on, and tied it at her throat and waist. Something wet dripped from her cherry and down her thigh. She shivered in the freezing air.
“Stay,” he whispered. He moved, and she suddenly saw the candle again, the bright pinpoint against the wall beneath the open vent. If he remembered it was there, he might go get it and hold it up to her face, and he would know. She crawled to the bottom of the cushions and patted the floor until she found her bloomers. She pulled them on and tied them. More wetness was spilling from her. Was it his seed? If it was spilling out of her, did that mean he had not gotten her pregnant?
Her cherry still felt wet and empty. The thought of him filling her made her breath catch in her throat.
“Stay. Please. It’s all right, I promise. Please.” He sounded so young, suddenly. A boy in love. He loved Marjorie. It was not Tabitha who was hurting him with her silence, it was Marjorie. She found one slipper and put it on. She could not find the other slipper.
“Marjorie,” he whispered. “Stay with me.”
Her hands pawing the floor grew more frantic, and when she turned to search the other side of the pile of cushions, her head grazed against the attic’s pitched ceiling, and she cried out. She had not realized she had moved so far toward the wall.
Icestorm Page 11
