by Zoë Archer
Catullus understood. There was freedom in darkness. Without the candle’s precise delineations of form and shape, he became, for a while, liberated. Gemma knew this with an instinct that stirred him.
He had to touch her, seeing in his mind’s eye how she had looked in her exceedingly worn nightgown. The thin cotton did more than hint at the body beneath—it had revealed her curves, the slim lengths of her limbs, her slender waist, those generous, coral-tipped breasts that made his mouth water and his body hard. Those freckles that dusted her face and disappeared beneath the neckline of her nightgown. He saw all this now without seeing. She left a wake of warm, womanly scent and air as she had passed. He would pursue.
Catullus strode toward her; then his foot collided with something heavy. A dresser. A bolt of pain shot up his leg. “Bugger!”
Gemma stifled a giggle, and Catullus wanted to slam his head into the wall. So much for smooth, effortless seduction. He was floundering around like a drunk, amorous rhino with a dockworker’s vocabulary. Without question, Bennett Day would never have kicked a piece of furniture en route to a kiss.
He started as he felt Gemma’s slim, agile hands take his own. “I’ve got excellent night vision,” she murmured. “Just follow me.”
He was a man unaccustomed to being led. The paths he took—mental, physical—he forged himself. Always better that way, with himself in control, confident in his own abilities to take him precisely where he needed to go. So it was strange for him now to surrender, just a little, and let Gemma guide him through the darkness of the room, through the maze of desire and duty.
His feet felt large and clumsy as he allowed her to pull him … somewhere. They stopped, presumably near the bed, but he couldn’t be sure.
What he was sure of was the growing heat and need within. He and Gemma stood very close to one another, and, their hands still interlaced, palms pressed against each other, she brushed softly against him. He barely contained a groan to feel the lush fullness of her breasts graze his chest, breasts contained by nothing except unbearably thin cotton. His own skin became taut, hypersensitive, and the rasp of his crisp shirt combined with her soft nightgown and sumptuous, silky flesh drove him directly into the path of madness.
Her breath came quick and shallow, as did his. He felt her looking up at him. It made sense, that she could see in the dark. Here was a woman who saw no obstacles, only possibility. And that fearlessness inflamed him.
He struggled to think of another woman who’d ever affected him so strongly, so quickly. Found he could not. He wanted balance, the security of his own will, but it evaded his grasp.
“I’m not the sort of man who does this,” he breathed.
“And I don’t creep into men’s rooms wearing my nightgown,” she answered, but her voice was just as unsteady as his own. “Some things we just have to do, even if they don’t make much sense at the time. Catullus—”
But he was done with words. They never served him well beyond his work for the Blades—he could command or explain or use logic to solve a problem. With women, though, words became a hindrance, and so he couldn’t let words stop him now. The darkness within the room was complete, yet he was an explorer determined to discover the unknown, so he lowered his head and put his mouth to hers.
It started as a kind of experiment. He needed to know if the heat and pull he’d felt during their earlier kiss could be replicated, or if it was an aberration, never to be experienced again. He desired and feared both possibilities. But, as in all things, he was driven by the demands of knowing. A kiss now, and he’d have his answer.
The moment their lips touched, he understood one thing: He was an idiot to believe something so potent and wild could be reduced to the safe confines of an experiment.
She was soft, soft and excruciatingly delicious. The light brush of their lips gave way instantly to deeper, open kisses. Sharp hunger tore through him like a white-hot blade to feel the yield and demands of her mouth, acquiescing and challenging his own. She licked his mouth. He dragged his teeth along her bottom lip and was rewarded with her low involuntary moan. Oh, God. She was a flame, and he the moth hurling himself gladly toward a fiery death.
A gentle but firm tug on her hands, and he hissed when her body pressed fully against his. She might have a man’s profession, but only one word burned into his mind now: woman. The embodiment of everything that was feminine and sensuous, contained within the seductive curves of Gemma Murphy. Full breasts, the nipples tight buds scraping his chest, the soft roundness of her belly cushioning the thick length of his erection, somehow still confined within the tightening fabric of his trousers.
Instinctively, their hips pushed against each other, and she made another soft noise at the contact. The slide of her nightgown as they rubbed together became an acute, wonderful torment.
“Not enough,” he said hoarsely into her mouth.
He released her hands and brought one of his own to tangle in the tumble of her hair. Heavy, rough silk, her hair, and he curled his fingers into it to bring her mouth harder against his own. She went, willingly. She clung to him, gripping his shoulders. When her short fingernails dug through his shirt into his skin, he nearly exploded with release.
His other hand clasped her waist. No more corset, no stiff, concealing layers of clothing, only this whisper-light nightgown that sighed at his touch. And beneath. Sweet heaven, beneath burned her naked body. Her narrow waist flared out to hips designed to turn a man’s rational mind to porridge. A goddess’s hips.
Then his hand slid down and back, until he met the curves of her behind.
“Bloody, bloody hell.” Catullus had little gift for poetry—none, in fact—yet he was seized but the inspiration to write odes and sonnets to Gemma’s delectable arse. No wonder she didn’t wear a bustle. It would be a crime against all civilization to hide this ripe, ripe peach in a cage of steel. He wished, just then, for an owl’s vision, so he could see as well as feel this marvelous gift he now cupped in his hand. All he could do was touch, and growl.
He felt her smile against his mouth. “Thank you.”
“Really,” he rumbled, “it is me who should be thanking you.” Because her body was a gift, and not simply for its shape, but because it was her, fearless and outspoken, the physical manifestation of a woman he was coming to know and admire.
He moved his mouth from hers, trailing his lips in questing kisses along her jaw and down the arc of her neck. As he did this, his other hand untangled from her hair and traced over her shoulder, along her arm, and then he thought he might lose consciousness because he had her breast in his hand, and there had never in the history of time been a breast like this, spilling over his large palm. Full, firm, luscious. His thumb brushed the pearl of her nipple, and her breath left her in a rush.
Through the worn cotton, he caressed her, and her throat’s pulse raced beneath his mouth and her breast was perfect and satiny in his hand. Each touch was a new discovery, a realm of sensation whose threshold he had never crossed. Still, it wasn’t enough. He needed—
“More,” he rumbled, and could not recognize his own voice. Since when did he sound like a steam engine?
He began to gather up the fabric of her nightgown, collecting handfuls of it just enough to allow him to delve beneath and stroke the long, sleek expanse of her leg. He allowed himself the pleasure of touching her in slow strokes, up and down, learning the feel of her.
“I love your hands,” she gasped. “So very … clever …”
“Always been good with my hands.” To prove this, his hand drifted up her thigh and then—
His name exploded from her mouth as he found her, slick and hot, at the juncture of her legs. Nothing beneath his fingertips had ever felt so incredible, her liquid skin, the evidence of her desire for him. Catullus always felt his hands were his blessing; they could withstand the burning heat of a soldering iron, but had the sensitivity to detect minute differences between tissue-thin sheets of metal. Perhaps because his hands wer
e large, he worked particularly hard to make them as precise as the finest tool. He’d thought this was a skill he needed for the workroom alone. God, he was happy to be proven wrong.
So he touched her, tracing and stroking the intimate flesh, and she writhed against him and made sounds of the most profound pleasure. Desire gripped him, tight and relentless. Never had pleasuring a woman been so arousing.
When her hand dragged down his cock, he thought he might explode from his skin into a molten mass to set the whole inn ablaze. Her touch was as deliberate and inexorable as his own. If he had trained his hands to precision, her skill was innate. Through the wool of his trousers, she slid over him, testing his length and girth.
Then her adept fingers unfastened his trousers to wrap around him, stroking him hard, lightly scoring her nails down his length, and he sucked in air like a man searching for his final breath.
“Too rough?” she murmured.
“No, no, God no.”
Their mouths tangled again, and their hands fell into a rhythm as natural and perfect as seasons. He became concentrated into three points: mouth, hand, cock, three stars in a constellation of pleasure, obliterating all other stars. The gearworks of his mind shut down. He wanted, demanded her climax as much as, if not more than, his own.
So he caressed and stroked, and she did the same, and very soon, far too soon, he could hold out no more. Yet he had enough control to delay release a small while longer as he rubbed, coaxing and deliberate, the tight gem of her clit. She tensed, a living arrow, her hand stopped its motion, and he took into his mouth the noiseless sound of her release. Again and again it rocked her, with her pressed hard against him, shuddering.
Yet no sooner had the final tremor ceased than her touch upon him resumed with even greater purpose. This woman, who had been a stranger to him only a few days before, knew exactly what his body needed, and gave it gladly. All he knew was her hand was on him, drawing pleasure from him as though shaping currents of fire. He wished it could go on like this for hours, days, forever. No more thought. Sensation alone.
A futile wish. Because suddenly it took him—release, incredible release, that seemed to begin somewhere around his toes and continued on up until it reached the sky. He could only hold on, until he was certain he would collapse into a heap of ashes.
He and Gemma leaned against each other, panting raggedly, as they returned to themselves and their hearts slowed. She draped against him languidly. His shaking legs barely supported them both. The room was filled with the sounds of their breath, the musky scent of sex. Ecstasy receded. He became suddenly aware of himself, the liberation of darkness and pleasure dissipating to leave him to navigate a foreign sea without a chart or star for guidance.
Some minutes later, after her nightgown had been smoothed down and he had cleaned and returned himself to his trousers, he heard, rather than saw, Gemma’s patent disbelief to his proposal. “You are not going to sleep on the floor while I take the bed.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I do.”
Stubborn—which he knew already. He exhaled. “Then I’ll sleep on top of the blankets, and you sleep beneath them.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Us sharing a bed.” He tried to turn away to pace, but knew that, in this darkness, he’d just slam into a table or knock into a wall, so he was forced to stay where he was. “It wouldn’t be … proper.”
A brief, incredulous pause. “Catullus, you just had your hand on my—”
“I know,” he growled.
“And I was touching your—”
“I am aware of that, too.” As if he needed reminding. Just her words alone called up a sudden rush of arousal that he struggled to batten down.
“Again, why?”
The barrier of words, once more. He didn’t know how to explain it to her. Now that the tempest of desire had briefly passed, when he had been guided by instinct and need, he found himself mired in an all-too-familiar reticence. The conundrum of women. Their minds, their needs. He had a natural aptitude for mechanics, and none for the subtle, diaphanous realm of women. Inevitably, he said the wrong thing or could not properly anticipate a response, and was left floundering like a boy. His attempts at courting had been, at best, maladroit, at worst, depressing. He’d once accidentally overheard a woman he was trying to woo refer to him as “a gorgeous, gauche automaton.” In a way, it was for the best. Something was inevitably missing, a connection, an understanding beyond immediate attraction, that left him as isolated as he’d always been.
Over the years, he’d had lovers—admittedly few—and there was Penny. Theirs was an uncomplicated arrangement. Neither of them wanted or could give the other anything beyond physical gratification. He left her bedchamber before things devolved into awkward attempts at a relationship or conversation. No trepidation, no uncertainty, precisely because he and Penny had no bond.
Gemma stared at him now, with her scent still clinging to his fingers. Catullus wanted to put his fingers in his mouth, savor her tastes. He wanted to crawl back into the shelter of darkness and desire.
“Because …” He struggled for words, sodding words. “Because I like you.”
Another stunned pause. Then, slowly: “I like you, too.”
“And that is why … that’s why …” He would ruin it. He would want too much, seek something that wasn’t there, and, because she was Gemma Murphy, because she was different from any other woman he’d ever known, the loss would be even greater.
Frustration and anger, for himself, welled. Life was easier in his workshop or out in the field. But not this. The complex, baffling architecture of the heart.
And surely his ridiculous circumspection would only drive Gemma further away. He started to turn, to blunder in the dark, but her hand on his arm stopped him.
“All right.” Her voice was gentle. “It’s all right, Catullus.”
He stood, frozen, then heard the soft rustling of the linens. “I’m in bed. Come on.” The sound of her hand patting the blanket. “Lie down.”
Gingerly, he lowered himself to the bed, then reached out and found the shape of her leg beneath the coverlet. Twin impulses assailed him: to stroke her leg, feeling its lithe strength, or to snatch his hand away as though singed.
He did neither, instead slowly pulling his hand back and then stretching out carefully beside her, lying atop the blankets. Her presence beside him held the living energy of summer, radiating out warmth and possibility. The intimacy of a shared bed shortened his breath—he could not remember the last time he’d slept beside a woman, if ever.
“I should warn you,” he began.
“You snore?” A trace of amusement.
“No! At least, I don’t think so. But I usually don’t … sleep much.” Here was another obstacle. His inherited, bizarre insomnia. “Only a few hours at a time, and then I have to get up and … work.”
“On inventions?”
“Yes.”
“Do you go back to sleep after working?” “Sometimes. Often, not.”
He waited for her disapproval, or perhaps for her to tut and say that he simply needed a proper inducement to sleep. When he was younger, he did try to fight the restlessness that always woke him. He used to exercise—box, swim, fence, run—until barely able to move. Or prohibit himself from doing anything related to work, even reading, at least two hours before bed. None of it succeeded. He had even tried drinking himself into a stupor. When he’d awakened four hours later, he was still drunk and miserable. And, during his earlier attempts at having lasting affairs, his lovers eventually banned him from their beds, saying his insomnia made them lose sleep.
“Is that all?” she asked.
He started. “I believe so.”
“I’m a deep sleeper,” she said, her voice already growing drowsy.
“Truly?”
“My mother said someone could operate a cotton gin beside me and I wouldn’t notice.” She yawned hugely. “I’m already halfway asleep
. Been an“—yawn—“eventful day.”
“It has.”
Then she rolled toward him and gave him a quick, familiar kiss. “Good night, Catullus.” Before he could return the kiss, she had rolled away again. Her hair made a silky scrunching sound as she adjusted her head on the pillow.
“Good night, Gemma.”
A minute passed. Her deep, even breathing confirmed she was already fast asleep.
For some time, Catullus lay beside her, stiff and unmoving, his hands at his sides. His mind swam with everything that had happened that day, the ongoing threat of the Heirs, the Primal Source, King Arthur, thoughts of his distance communication device, but mostly thoughts of her.
It was a fair assessment to say that Catullus had seen a tremendous amount in his time as a Blade. He’d traveled more than most ten men combined. He’d battled frost demons and floods of fire, vicious creatures that defied logical definition, and sloe-eyed enchantresses. Yet never in his whole life had he met a woman like Gemma Murphy. And she fascinated and terrified him.
But, being a Blade meant he rather enjoyed being fascinated and terrified. And so he eventually drifted off to sleep, his mouth curving into a bittersweet smile.
Catullus met them all at first light. He waited for Gemma, Astrid, and Lesperance in the taproom, having already been up several hours. Yet he felt refreshed, ready to face anything.
Almost anything. When Gemma appeared before Lesperance and Astrid emerged from their room, she was properly dressed, hair pinned, and he found himself caught upon the rack of his self-consciousness. What, precisely, did one say to a woman whose hand alone created the greatest sexual experience of one’s life? And whose own most intimate parts one had touched to her intense pleasure? Then he’d gone and made an ass of himself by insisting he sleep on top of the blanket out of some misguided sense of honor.
