Taste of Passion

by Renae Jones

  Five months before, when she’d jaunted off for a painting retreat, she’d had no clue that decision would somehow lead her here, back to the street she used to window-shop on.

  Behind her, discrete islands of cut but unfitted dresses formed the frames of this season’s most sought frocks. Fedni was a shop girl, manning the front desk and taking measurements at a patron’s initial fitting. She also swept floors, cleaned windows twice daily and assisted the artist who arranged the shop windows.

  That was the job she wanted someday, dressing the windows. She had an eye for it, and a grasp of trends to rival anyone born into the dressmakers temple. Getting that job would be another caste hop, her third, but she wanted this one badly. It was very Federation of her.

  Reeducation, or perhaps just boredom, had finally taken. She was a working woman now. Her caste had changed, though she was keeping her townhome and she still sat tall in the luxurious cream lev cars.

  She hadn’t dropped completely to the dregs of society―technically, she was an adjunct apprentice uncontracted dressmaker, which was professional caste. Still, the luxury-caste patrons she served tried hard to ignore her presence, especially if they recognized her from her former luxury-caste notoriety.

  That had taken getting used to.

  At that moment, she was a nervous shop girl. Her stomach fluttered warningly while she gathered her simple black handbag and freed her hair from its chaste knot. Then she slipped out the employees’ door in the back.

  She might be a shop girl with a date waiting, perhaps. If he’d come.

  Two blocks down, she ducked into a dim, crowded restaurant. The place wasn’t fancy―her simple black tunic and trousers would be fine, though her hair would always draw looks. Most shop girls were service caste, but she preferred her hair long.

  She had heard that the food here was quite amazing, though, and she doubted Rasmus could even tell everyone else in the room was service caste. He seemed willfully ignorant about some things.

  She saw Rasmus as soon as she entered, seated at the far wall. He was taller than anyone else in the room, so she could stare. His hair was shorter, and his face more tan despite the advancing winter. He was chewing on his lip impatiently, though he was the early one.

  Relief, pride and yet more nervous anticipation flooded her system.

  She’d never expected to see him again, when she’d decided to stay in the mountains, but it was as if she’d seen him every day. Every day, she wanted to talk to him about her studies, her horrible paintings and the wonderful things she’d learned. Slowly, she had realized he meant far more to her than a man she’d had sex with twice had any right to. She thought of him as hers, even as she threw him away.

  She ought to be ashamed an off-worlder, a barbarian, was so important to her. Four years ago, after a long sleepless night, watching her government’s televised surrender, she thought she would hate the invaders with all her soul. But since then it had not escaped her notice that none of her countrymen knew what to do with her. She had been abandoned by her world long before she found the strength to question it.

  So she’d asked him on a date, an off-world-style dinner meeting. And he’d come.

  When she walked up to the table, Rasmus looked right past her. Only when she lay her hand on the opposite chair did he recognize her.

  The new her was less colorful, dressed in all black with makeup in shades of smoke and gray. She’d worried he wouldn’t be impressed, but when he got a good look at her, taking in the emblem of her employer pinning together her high collar, she tasted a faint delight like a bursting berry.

  She hadn’t seen him for nearly five months, and she could still taste his emotion from a foot away. They’d formed a deep bond, apparently. That would explain her inability to forget him, wouldn’t it?

  “Rasmus. It’s good to see you. I’m glad you came.”

  “I’m glad you’re talking to me. You’re beautiful tonight.”

  His smile was wide and genuine.

  “I mean, of course, you’re always beautiful,” he hastily corrected himself.

  She laughed. “Of course.”

  She sat and tried to find the right words. “I’m glad I’m talking to you, too. You were right. I knew it. There was plenty I would still argue, but you were right. I just needed some time.”

  He nodded, his expression now sober. She’d been terrified he’d belittle her or jump to point out more flaws in her thinking while she was still raw with thinking through the last set. He’d never judged her for her shallow blindness, though, even as she had realized he could. Instead, they just looked at each other for a charged moment.

  Then she laughed self-consciously. “So I wonder, why did you come?”

  “Why wouldn’t I come?”

  “Well, I wasn’t kind. Or, um, dignified. I do not know what you see in me.”

  With other men, it had always been obvious. She was beautiful, she was trained for amazing sex, she had added to their prestige. She couldn’t see Rasmus valuing any of that, though, not enough. He was a different creature than she was used to.

  “I don’t know how to answer that. Everything? You know you’re beautiful,” he chided dryly.

  “Of course I know that. I am not the only beautiful woman you know, though, am I?”

  He paused, and Fedni felt like a needy fool. It wasn’t that she needed an ego boost, but she needed to know why. Why her? Why was the way he wanted her so much more important than simple lust or the status-conscious maneuverings of past lovers? Why did his need taste different?

  “Your confidence, your daring, your flair. You’re exciting, bright, intoxicating... Does this answer the question at all?”

  “Maybe. I’ll think on it.”

  He shook his head. “You are fascinating. Everything about you―you always say the things I don’t expect.”

  Then their server approached, her uniform identical to Fedni’s except in white and not so well fitted. She smiled demurely, a paragon of Xanian service, and recited that night’s menu.

  Fedni ordered flayed roasted habaneros and salty chili stew. Rasmus’s eyebrows tried to climb his face. She just smiled while he asked the server what wasn’t too hot.

  After the woman left, Fedni changed the subject. “I learned to paint. And arrange flowers.”

  Rasmus’s delighted smile returned. “That’s wonderful. You enjoy it?”

  “Yes. Yes, very much. It’s amazing, the more I learned about painting... Well, I didn’t get better at it, but I saw so much more in art. I found museums, right here in the city, which you should see.”

  “Is that what you did while you were gone? Painted?”

  “I went to this little town in the mountains, for a class. The town was almost all artisan caste. The most amazing things are made there, and everyone is so nice. I learned to paint, in the class. I was very bad at it.”

  “Not bad, just new.”

  “No, I was bad. Very bad. But it was so fun, so peaceful. I stayed after, to learn new things. I tried everything once, everything I could find a teacher for. Ceramics, paper making, calligraphy, furniture, baking, ice sculpture and flower arrangement. I was complimented for that. I was good with arrangement.”

  Her heart fluttered in her chest, preparing for the big confession. “I want to be an artist, Rasmus.”

  He smiled slowly. “That’s big, isn’t it? On Xana.”

  “It’s strange, yes. It’s radical.”

  “It will make you happy.” He said it with finality, not a hint of a question. Sometimes she boggled him, but sometimes, when no one else would understand, he just knew.

  “Is that what you do now? A florist, maybe?”

  “No. I tend a shop, as an assistant, for a dressmaker. I need to learn more, and practice. Reeducation classes aren’t much use for real
skills.”

  Rasmus nodded, and accepted their food from a server. When the plates and bowls and silver were arranged satisfactorily, Fedni continued, “I’m going to dress the mannequins someday, though.”

  Rasmus paused, obviously back to baffled. He probably wasn’t sure why the mannequins needed dressing at all, being Rasmus.

  “It’s a good job. A promotion. It’s what I want.”

  “That’s the important part.”

  * * *

  They talked for hours, finally sharing stories of childhood and workdays and hobbies, eating and then walking under the high domes of the light park. Beneath the dancing flares of purple lasers, Rasmus pulled her close and kissed her tenderly. She asked him to come home with her.

  He reluctantly stopped kissing her neck to agree.

  As the restaurants around them closed for the night, shuttering their second-story windows above already-dark retail, they headed for the lev rails.

  Later, arriving at her house, Rasmus paused in the archway to her receiving room. It was pale sunset and fig shades now. She had removed the chaise entirely, selling it through a consignment shop.

  She watched him hesitate, and her nervous flutters returned.

  “I have never served contracts in my home,” she whispered.

  He shook his head, and drew her close. “I’m not worried about that. I was just thinking I liked the purple.”

  He liked the purple? Then it had definitely been time to switch. The man’s sense of style was an anathema.

  “I like it like this, too, of course,” he clarified.

  “Of course.”

  They walked the few steps needed to reach her bedroom, and she swept a large armful of clothing off the bed to stuff back into the armoire. Cleaning her bed this morning had seemed like too much hope, an excess of ego sure to call bad luck.

  Rasmus pulled her into his arms before she was really done. He kissed and nibbled at her neck, distracting her.

  He chuckled. “You’re messy.”

  “Sometimes.”

  They kissed. Rasmus was surprisingly good at kissing, for a barbarian. He pressed his lips to hers, a gentle nuzzle and a sweep of lips against lips. Then he nibbled, just a bit, sending a thrill of promise through her. Their kisses were slow, gentle and sweet.

  He pulled her into the bed with him, and they both twined together, kissing and touching. She caught his hands in hers, tracing his long fingers and kissing his wide knuckles.

  Rasmus traced a finger across her lips. “I figured it out, I think.”

  “What?”

  “Beauty. Xana.”

  That... She’d nearly forgotten that.

  “People are beautiful. That’s what you meant, right? I should get to know people instead of judging customs.”

  She didn’t understand him, not as well as he thought she would, so she just smiled and nodded.

  “Oh! And I went and saw the waterfalls at Vetni. Those are amazing.”

  She laughed. “Everyone is impressed by the waterfalls.”

  Rasmus kissed her again, eating the last of her words. His mouth was hungry, but his kiss was polite, restrained. For a moment, she enjoyed the pampering, but her own hunger was building.

  She was starting to think her genes didn’t like celibacy. She went a few months without sex and she turned desperate―desperate to speed their coupling, to feel skin to skin, Rasmus’s weight on her, surrounded by the noises of sex.

  They reached for their shirts at the same moment. Her uniform was long-sleeved, almost tight and slightly stiff. The clasps were hidden beneath her arms. After she struggled out of it, she removed her cami as well. Rasmus tossed his tunic to join hers on the floor.

  They kissed again, and he tasted happy. He was pleased, like sun-ripe fruit, and content, like a warm bread. It was a very good taste―good enough to scare her.

  He broke the kiss to look at her, brown eyes twinkling. “You’re thinking.”

  Her fingers strayed to her lips. “I was,” she admitted.

  “What do I taste like?”

  “Like, hmm... Like a solarberry tart.”

  He was confused.

  “Not literally. My mind, my memories... It gets tangled up. If I hated the taste of solarberry tarts, you wouldn’t taste like them.”

  “You like solarberry tarts?”

  “Yes. When I was a child, the temple had a pastry chef I loved. She was nice to me. And I loved solarberries. When I was good, or my mother canceled a visit, she’d sneak me an extra tart.”

  While she tried to explain, he slid his pants from his body. She hurried to catch up, contorting in the least seductive disrobing of her life. His smile grew, watching her.

  They both moved to the bed. She lay naked, on her back, gazing up at him, and he kneeled over her.

  His shoulders were thick―a remnant of some weight training far in his past. His body was slim, but not with effort. He’d have a belly in a few more years, as age’s changes set in. He’d be cute with a belly, and he’d hate it. Thick honey-blond hair curved across his chest, trailing lower and darkening.

  He moved, breaking her view, and took her nipple between his lips, flicking his tongue at the point.

  “Do I have your attention?”

  “You already had my attention.”

  He traced her body with his hands, and she traced his. His skin was warm and faintly pebbled beneath her touch. She tugged him higher, wanting to feel more of him, to memorize his texture, but he did not comply.

  Instead he moved down her body, tasting her skin with a slow tongue like he was learning secrets―like he was the empath, though she knew he was not.

  He nibbled across her stomach and lay a kiss at the bump of her bare mons.

  She lay still under his ministrations, torn between excited anticipation and a touch of boredom. Lying inactive, just wanting―well, it didn’t feel like sex, did it?

  When he licked lightly at the bud of her clit, her stillness evaporated. The rough thrust of his tongue across her peaked hood surprised her to moan. Her hips raised, begging for more.

  He firmly pressed her body back to the bed and buried his face between her legs. He ran his tongue through her slit and teased her clit. He swiped a broad lick around her labia, then delicately penetrated her with just the tip of his tongue.

  She fought his grip, not because she wanted free, but because she desperately wanted more. Deeper. Harder.

  She didn’t realize her moans had words until he paused to chuckle.

  Then he thrust his questing tongue into her hot cunt. The rough on his face abraded tender skin. It drove her crazy, and she loved it.

  “Wait,” she gasped. “Wait. Come here. Turn so I can reach you.”

  He growled a negative.

  “Please! Please, Rasmus, or I’ll find rapture alone.”

  “I want to taste you,” he insisted. “I want to taste you coming.”

  Fedni huffed a laugh, torn between helpless amusement and real anger at being denied.

  Then he sucked her clit into his mouth, rolling it gently between his lips.

  And she tasted peaches, like peach wine, bright and sparkling and achingly sweet.

  She fought her own orgasm, protesting the way he exposed her. She was lying there, on her back, the only one being pleasured; it was vulnerable and harsh.

  The harder she fought the tingling of her blood, the pounding of her thoughts, the faster her orgasm blossomed. She came with Rasmus’s fingers pressing inside her, coaxing. She cried out and shuddered beneath his demanding mouth.

  She was still shuddering when he took her into his arms.

  He was staring at her, as if memorizing her face. She stared back, and she knew her eyes must be wide.

  She
’d done this before, and yet it had been so different. A first. Maybe that was the natural result of weeks wondering if she’d lost her chance with him. Perhaps it was how happy he tasted to bring her pleasure. Perhaps it was the challenge of wanting such an infuriating man.

  She reached for his body, and finally he lay on his side so she could explore.

  She traced her hands down his chest, but she didn’t linger. Soon, she closed her hand around his cock, moving a slow hand along its length. His foreskin slid easily, hiding the red-tinged head until she reversed direction. Then she brought her other hand to trace his glans. He thrust into her grip with a rumbling groan.

  His cock twitched in her hand, responsive, and grew the slightest bit as he reached new pleasure.

  “You have a good cock.” And he did. Very nice.

  He started laughing hard. “Well thanks.”

  She made a face at him. “You do.”

  “Good to know.”

  She rolled her eyes at the barbarian in her bed, and he moved suddenly, rolling her into his arms and under him.

  He fitted his hips to hers, his weight comforting and solid. Then he notched against her ready cunt.

  With a guiding hand and a roll of his hips, he slowly stretched her opening. Rasmus made small motions, shallow then deeper.

  She moaned mindlessly.

  He pulled back and adjusted his hips, poised to take her. She could taste the gritty spice of his need spiking, but he reined it back; his penetration was firm and deep and carefully controlled.

  He thrust, taking her with calm purpose. She whimpered helplessly and moved in his arms, adjusting her hips for a better angle. The pace he set was barely faster, and carefully aimed. With each thrust he pushed across that spot which promised her deepest pleasure.

  He held her tight, helping her to maintain the angle as they rocked.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he rasped, licking a bead of sweat from her shoulder.

  She moaned again, a desperate sound. He was so careful, so controlled. It was like one of her few assignations with fellow acolytes, and it was horribly disappointing. All those unions had lacked spice―passion, daring, love.