Rituals

by Kelley Armstrong

But that kiss in the river? It was the fireworks.

  Even as I'd cherished that memory, part of me had wanted to forget it. That kiss was a false promise. It said that kissing should be like that, and if it wasn't with Ricky, then I was doing it wrong. Worse, it said that if I really ever kissed Gabriel and it wasn't exactly like that, I would forever be disappointed.

  Now his fingers were on my chin, and he was tilting my face up, and I knew what was coming, and I was the one panicking.

  All that lasted about 2.5 seconds, just long enough for him to tilt my face up and his lips to touch mine, and then it didn't matter, because I forgot why I'd been panicking. I forgot everything. Every last damned thing. Because this...

  This was not that kiss. It was better. The last time, I'd known it wasn't quite real, and now it was.

  This kiss felt like finding the one thing I'd been unconsciously searching for all my life. With that kiss, I remembered other Matildas, girls and women forever feeling as if they were missing something and never figuring out what it was. That had been me, my gnawing dissatisfaction like a trapped animal ready to chew off a limb. What I'd thought was only discontent with my sheltered life had been a symptom of what I'd been missing--Matilda and Cainsville and the Cwn Annwn and everything that I could not believe hadn't been part of my life until a few months ago. When I kissed Gabriel, the last missing piece fell into place, and all I could think was, Yes, this is it.

  He started kissing me with one hand on my chin. And then both hands were on my cheeks and then in my hair, and my arms were around his neck, my body against his, and for once there was no destination in mind. This kiss was not only the first step along the path. It was the destination.

  When something thumped beside us, I broke away just enough for Gabriel to murmur, "Hmm?" in a way that sounded like I'd woken him from a deep sleep.

  We turned as Lloergan made her way out of the room.

  "Good call," I said, and Gabriel smiled.

  And that's when, from deep in the house, his phone started to ring.

  "Next time you throw it at the wall?" I said. "Harder, please. That was a poor effort."

  "I don't hear a thing."

  "I would love to go with that, but it's Rose's ring tone. Wait here, and I'll get the message."

  I ran up to the office, where he'd been working. Five minutes later, I came back down. When he saw his cell phone in my hand, he tensed.

  "No worries," I said. "She was just asking about dinner. I said we'll be fine. And your phone is now off."

  I laid it beside mine, and he handed me a glass of champagne. We settled in front of the fire, me resting against his leg, but no closer than that, the old tension strumming between us, the one that said we couldn't just slide back to where we'd been, that it was still too new, too uncertain.

  I sipped my champagne and watched the flames. Then I glanced at him and said, "For the record, you're an amazing kisser," and he laughed--a spray-his-mouthful-of-champagne laugh.

  "No one's ever told you that?" I said.

  "I believe the only time any opinion was given on the matter, it was to inform me that I was wretched at it. Which only gave me the excuse to not do it."

  "You just had a bad partner."

  His eyes sparkled. "That's the answer, is it?"

  "Obviously." I took another sip of my champagne. "Or maybe it was an anomaly."

  "No, I'm quite certain everyone I've kissed has had the same opinion."

  "I mean it might have been an anomaly with me. I was never very good at science, but I remember a teacher pounding into me the need for a significant sample size before drawing a scientific conclusion."

  "Are you asking me to kiss you again?"

  "Normally, I'd be fine with taking the initiative, but with you, it seems best to double-check my invitation. Maybe triple-check. Which leaves me doing that thing where I hint for a kiss instead of just trying my luck."

  "It seemed like more than a hint."

  "I'm no good at subtle."

  "Well, as you rightly pointed out, we have a very poor track record with this. I believe the only way to circumvent that is to be clear." He set down his champagne flute. "You do not need to second-guess the invitation, Olivia. It is as open as it is unequivocal. Any advances you make are welcome."

  "In that case..." I put down my glass beside his. Then I knelt, leaned over, and gave him a peck on the cheek before starting to rise. "Now, I believe we have work to do and--"

  He tugged me back down and pulled me into a kiss. And while my old teacher would insist that a sample set of two was not the basis for a scientific conclusion, I felt very confident in theorizing--based on that second kiss--that the first was definitely not an anomaly.

  We kissed, me straddling him as he leaned back against the sofa. We kept it slow as I enjoyed this, just this, feeling his hands in my hair, feeling his heartbeat. Reveling in a moment of being close to someone I never thought I could ever be close to. Being intimate with someone I never thought would allow that intimacy.

  So we took our time. There were breaks, for that necessary little thing called oxygen, and even then there was nuzzling and kissing, as if the goal was to touch as much of each other as we could, to get as close to each other as we could.

  Even when it went further, it wasn't obvious at first. It was his hands circling my waist under my shirt. It was my hands pushing up his shirt. It was shirts off and more kissing, skin to skin. His hands on the sides of my breasts and then his hands wedged between us, cupping my breasts, and my hands on him, everywhere on him.

  More kissing. More touching. More exploring. And then, finally, down onto the blankets and the pillows, belts and buttons undone and zippers pulled and trousers pushed over hips. More touching. More exploring. That last bit of clothing following the rest. Soft sighs and whispers turning to moans and gasps, and occasionally a hand on another hand, no words spoken but the meaning clear. Slower, just a little slower. I want this to last. Even that seemed to stretch to infinity, the tease and the exploration and those hands of wordless warning.

  Then came the point where slower was pointless. Where even a touch was too much, and I arched back with, "Gabriel, oh God, Gabriel," and I was still riding those waves when he pushed into me, and that was...

  Beyond words. Beyond thought. Beyond everything.

  LOVE

  Gabriel was dreaming. Perhaps that is not entirely accurate. It was certainly nothing like the bizarre landscape he'd seen in the mind of the condemned man. Nor was it even what Olivia said dreams were, the mind conjuring up places and people and events that never existed. This was, instead, a swirl of memories, his own interwoven with Gwynn's.

  He started by replaying those hours downstairs in the parlor. Feeling Olivia's fingertips on his skin. Hearing the sigh of her breath against his cheek. The arch of her body under his hands. The way she said his name. And how he'd felt--that most of all, the indescribable way he'd felt at having won her. Torn between "Why the hell didn't I make a move sooner?" and knowing that it had proceeded at exactly the pace it had needed to proceed.

  Then he realized he was dreaming, and it was like a slap in the face, that cold rush of fear that he really had dreamed it all. He woke with a start, reaching out, certain he'd touch empty space. Then he felt her there, naked and nestled against him, and he lowered his head to the crook of her neck and inhaled, his arms tightening around her before he drifted off again.

  When it happened again--the memories and then the fear--Gabriel woke a little more forcefully, a little more afraid, and he tightened his grip too much. Olivia half woke, enough to kiss him and touch him, her fingers running over his chest. They made love again, both still drowsy with sleep, not a word exchanged, as if this too was part of the dream.

  After Olivia fell back to sleep, Gabriel lay there, reflecting on his own choice of words. Making love. He'd never thought of sex that way. It wasn't deliberate avoidance of the term--it just seemed to him that "making love" was a euphemism not unlik
e "passed away." A term used when one wanted to avoid acknowledging a biological fact of life by adorning it with a fancy bow. It was simply filling a biological need that was little different from eating or sleeping, but you didn't call it sex or, worse, fucking, but "making love," despite the fact that love was rarely involved. In his experience, the act required no emotion at all. It was pleasurable enough, but not unlike the need for food and sleep, something that had to be gotten out of the way lest it interfere with the forward motion of life.

  With Olivia, he finally understood why they called it lovemaking, and he used the term automatically. It was the correct one. That was all.

  When he slid back into sleep, he found what really did seem like an actual dream. He was kissing Olivia, and despite the darkness, he knew it must be her because he felt all the things he felt when he kissed her. It was a lovely kiss, sweet and deep, and yet while sparks of it reminded him of Olivia, it did not feel exactly the same. That was what made him think he might be having one of those anxiety dreams she'd mentioned.

  But even when he mentally hesitated, his body kept kissing her as fervently as it had before, responding as quickly as it had before, that animal part of his brain urging haste before the logical part pushed it back, wanting to enjoy the lead-up. Except here, too, it was different. It felt as if he was struggling to squelch that physical arousal, needing to squelch it rather than enjoy the build.

  "I think we should..." he began, his voice ragged. Except it wasn't his voice at all, but the one he'd come to know as Gwynn's. He blinked hard, and as the darkness cleared, he found himself lying in a meadow with Matilda looking up at him, her arms around his neck.

  "You think we should do what?" she asked with a teasing lilt.

  "Go riding," he blurted. "I think we should go riding."

  Matilda laughed, her eyes dancing with amusement and mischief, and that was when Gabriel saw Olivia in her, her laugh echoing Olivia's when he'd clumsily told her she was "something."

  "I would very much like to go riding," she said. "But I suspect it's not the same sort you're offering."

  Gabriel felt Gwynn's cheeks burn. And it was not the only part of him that burned as she said that, a white-hot flame of desire licking through him.

  "Whenever you're ready to go further, Gwynn, so am I. I just don't want to rush you."

  "Rush me? No. I--"

  I'm fine with anything. It's you I'm taking it slow for.

  That was what Gwynn wanted to say. Except it was a lie. They were fae. They did not see sexuality as humans did, as something to avoid until marriage and then do behind closed doors, under the sheets, in the dark.

  Gwynn didn't hold back for Matilda. He held back for himself. Because he was terrified that he'd be less than she expected. That he was not Arawn.

  In this regard, as in so many others, Gwynn was outmatched. Arawn's lovers saw no reason to keep silent, singing his praises loudly enough that Matilda heard and teased Arawn about it. No one talked that way about Gwynn. There was nothing to say. He'd spent his youth pining for Matilda, losing himself in his studies and his duties. Once they got together, he realized his lack of experience might prove problematic. So he proceeded as slowly as possible. Building his skills, he told himself, though he hadn't progressed much beyond kissing, telling himself he hadn't fully mastered that yet. Which was a lie. He was just afraid.

  As Gwynn fretted and worried, Gabriel saw more of himself than he liked in the fae prince. Gwynn wasn't more than a few years younger than Gabriel, but listening to his stammering made Gabriel feel like an old man watching a boy and thinking, Was I ever that young? The answer was no--Gabriel had never been that young. And yet it was, in a way, as if he was looking back on a younger version of himself, from a time so distant that he couldn't quite believe this had been him.

  Gabriel might not have fumbled and stammered and blushed with Olivia, but he still understood how Gwynn felt, that terror of losing what he had if he took the next step. While he had not been so acutely anxious about Olivia and Ricky, he had to admit that he found a patch of common ground with Gwynn here, too. Ricky was younger, more charming, better-looking, and much easier to get on with. The only clear advantage Gabriel had was his bank account...which Olivia did not need and would not have wanted even if she did.

  As for sex...yes, he would be honest there. That was where he feared Ricky had him beat. Gabriel knew Olivia liked sex, and he knew it was not his area of expertise, having never been a skill he'd cared to improve. If he was better at it, women might not be so willing to let him slip out before morning.

  And yet, that worrying had been for naught. The key, it seemed, was simply to care. To care that she enjoyed herself, to care enough to pay attention. To watch and listen and feel her responses and use them as a guide, and those responses were their own reward, the satisfaction of knowing he pleased her, and the more he pleased her, the more she responded in kind.

  Quid pro quo, he thought with a chuckle.

  If Gabriel could give Gwynn any advice, that would be it. You love her. You care about her. You want her to be happy. Keep all that in mind, and you'll do fine.

  Of course, he could say no such thing, not to a memory of events long past, and all that passed in a heartbeat anyway--Gwynn's anxieties and Gabriel's reflections. Matilda was still lying there, awaiting a response as Gwynn stammered.

  "Do you want to stop?" she asked carefully. "I'd never push..."

  "No, I just...I..."

  She touched his shirtfront. "May I take this off?"

  Gwynn nodded mutely, and Matilda sat up and pushed the shirt over his head, her hands running up his chest as he shivered, desire igniting again.

  "You're so beautiful," she said, her own voice taking that husky note of Olivia's. "Can I just...?" She bit her lip and ran her fingertips over his chest, and when he nodded, she said, "Would you lie back? So I can..."

  Her cheeks flushed, and she didn't finish, but Gwynn lay on his back and she straddled him, her fingers running up his stomach, touching and exploring as she leaned down to kiss him, her hair tickling.

  That was when Gabriel woke up. Or, more accurately, when he decided it was time to wake up, pushing himself out of the memory until he could feel the cool sheets of Olivia's bed and smell her shampoo on the pillow and hear the soft exhale of her breathing...

  No, that wasn't her breathing. And there was another smell, one that was oddly comforting, in its way, but not nearly as welcoming as Olivia's. Gabriel opened one eye to find himself on the edge of the bed, looking down at Lloergan. The hound lifted her shaggy head and gave him what he presumed was a good morning grunt. He returned it and flipped over, reaching for Olivia, to pull her into his arms and bury his face in her hair and replace the smell of dog with--

  His hands touched down on empty sheets. He patted them. And then bolted up. He looked in the direction of the hall bathroom, listening for the flush of the toilet or the pad of her feet on the hardwood. When he heard nothing, he patted the bed again, finding her spot cold, and a chill seeped through him.

  She left. She woke up in the night and realized she'd made a mistake, and she went to sleep somewhere else.

  I've lost her.

  I always lose her.

  Gabriel pressed his palms to his eyelids. Stop that. Just stop that. He knew who he was talking to. Yes, it was partly Gwynn, but it was partly himself, too, that equally endless doubt.

  I won't keep her. Can't keep her. Never could, and I was a fool to think I could change that.

  I was so pleased with myself in that dream, wishing I could give Gwynn some advice. Like the fifteen-year-old boy who has sex for the first time and fancies himself an authority.

  Stop. Now.

  If Lloergan was here, then Olivia hadn't gone far. Perhaps the room got too light. Perhaps he'd taken up too much of the bed. Perhaps she'd simply gone downstairs to read. All perfectly rational explanations, but he was still disappointed, as if he'd failed to do something that would have kept her
here despite the light or the discomfort or the boredom.

  He sat up and looked for his clothing, only to remember they'd shed their clothes in front of the fire. He walked into the hall. The bathroom door stood open, as did the office, both dark inside. He grabbed a pair of shorts from his dresser, pulled them on, and hurried downstairs.

  The main level was as silent as the upstairs.

  Had Olivia gone for a walk? A jog? He'd have joined her for either, and the fact she'd go alone only bolstered his fear that she needed time to herself. Time to reconsider.

  He glanced into the parlor. It was as they'd left it--a tangle of blankets and clothing in front of the now-smoldering fire. He was looking for his shirt when he caught a creak from the kitchen and noticed that the door was closed. He jogged down the hall to throw it open.

  The smell of fresh-brewed coffee and sizzling bacon rushed out to greet him. Olivia stood in front of the stove, spatula in hand. Her dark blond hair was tousled, as if she'd just rolled out of bed. Her feet were bare, her long legs equally bare, and he realized where his shirt had gone. She wore it. Unbuttoned. With nothing underneath.

  As she turned, he stopped to stare. Olivia, fresh out of bed, naked but for his shirt. There was a moment where he was quite certain he really was dreaming, conjuring up a favorite fantasy image, the memory of the first morning he'd woken in her apartment and seen her like this.

  "The smell didn't disturb you, did it?" she asked. "I shut the door and tried to keep quiet."

  He said nothing.

  "So...breakfast?" she said. "Even if it's the opposite of actual breakfast time."

  He checked the clock on the microwave. Dim light filtered through the window, and he realized the sun was setting, not rising.

  "Is everything okay?" she asked, concern creeping in.

  He turned and saw her again. Olivia naked, wearing his shirt. She'd said something about breakfast, but he hadn't quite caught it. He nodded and walked toward her. She set down the spatula with a growing frown.

  "Is everything okay?" she asked.

  He put his hands on her hips and boosted her onto the counter. Then he stepped between her knees, his fingers going to her hair, murmuring, "Everything's fine," before showing her how fine it was.