Of Midnight Born

by Lisa Cach

  “You, too, Alex,” she said hoarsely to him. He moved his kisses up her neck, the pressure harder as he held her close to him, pressing her naked hips against his clothed ones. “Let me see you naked,” she said, and brought her hands around to his chest, sliding them inside his jacket and pushing it to the sides.

  He stepped back and yanked at his clothes, showing none of the slow deliberation he had asked of her. Her body tingled as she saw each bit of his body unwrapped, knowing that it soon would be pressed against hers, skin to skin. Her lips crooked as he hopped on one foot, removing stockings, her own reaction surprising her. She had not thought there would be room in her for humor during lovemaking.

  The smile lasted but a moment, as that was all it took for him to divest himself of the remainder of his clothing. Her eyes moved down his body, familiar to her yet not, its angles and lines endlessly fascinating and new. Her gaze came to rest on his manhood, engorged and pointing upward toward her. She felt a flush of answering wetness deep within her, a contraction of muscles that said her body knew where he belonged.

  She closed the short distance between them, her arms going lightly around his chest, and they held each other, their bodies lightly touching. She looked into his dark sapphire eyes, level with hers, as he gazed back, holding her eyes with his own for several long moments. It reminded her of when they had passed through each other in the hall, each learning the nuances of the other’s soul—only this time it was an intentional learning, anchored in what was real and possible.

  She broke their gaze and closed her eyes, laying her head upon his shoulder, her face tucked into his neck. She could feel the hair on his chest brushing her breasts and nipples, a soft tickling that made her move against him, increasing the sensation. He laid his own head against hers, his hands going up and down her back, stroking her, calming her remaining nerves at the same time he aroused her. His manhood was a warm rod against her lower abdomen, his thighs strong and rough with hair against her own smooth legs, scissored between them.

  Some primal part of her knew that this was right, this was how a man and a woman should be together, skin to skin, body to body. Clothing and the shyness that went with it were mere obstacles to overcome.

  As if given some silent cue, they separated and went to the bed. Alex took her folded clothes and set them on the chair, then pulled back the covers, revealing the clean sheets, their bare whiteness a silent invitation.

  The truth of what she was about to do began to send sharp jabs of nervousness through Serena. She had no cares at this moment for what was morally right or wrong; it was the sheer vulnerability of laying her body open to the intimate touches of a man that made her hesitate, a quiver working through her nerves to betray her hesitation.

  As if sensing that she needed help in making that motion of acceptance, Alex wrapped her in his arms again, and kissed her gently on the lips. His lips caught and released hers, distracting and soothing her as he pulled her with him slowly down onto the bed, his hands stroking over her back and down her buttocks to her thighs.

  She let him persuade her, let him take charge, needing the assurance that he knew what he was doing and would guide her.

  She lay beside him, feeling him shift as he shoved the covers down to the foot of the bed; then, with his arms around her, he rolled her on top of him, her thighs parting over his. Her hair draped in a curtain around their faces as she lifted her head to look down at him.

  “Kiss me, Serena,” he told her.

  She obeyed, tilting her head to the side and lowering her mouth to his, mimicking the gentle way he had kissed her. Alex shivered.

  He broke away then and moved her body up until her breasts were near his mouth. She supported herself on her elbows as he reached down and let his fingertips play with her from behind, stroking her lightly, and the pleasure of it made her forget the awkwardness of the position and turn her cheek against the crown of his head. Her lips parted as she breathed, her eyelids shut. All her concentration was on those fingertips, and the swirling, stroking patterns they made on her. She felt him touch the opening to her core, his fingertip gently exploring the sensitive, untried flesh.

  He rolled her onto her back again, and kissed his way down her body, swirling his tongue in her navel, making her smile at the playfulness of the gesture. She loved the look of the top of his head, the black waves of his hair so dark against her skin. She brought her hands down to run them through his hair as he trailed kisses over her stomach, making her squirm with the sensation.

  The part of her that burned with need for him was pressed against his chest, and she could feel the top of her sex rubbing against his skin as he moved, the friction rough with his chest hair. She liked the way she was hidden against him, and yet so intimately revealed.

  He slid lower, and her eyes widened as he lifted her thighs over his shoulders, his face between them. She squirmed, embarrassed, but he held her still, looking up at her from between her legs, commanding her with his eyes to submit.

  “Alex, please,” she pleaded, feeling exposed.

  He looked down at her, and she felt his fingers parting her folds, moving aside the curls that covered her, the air cool on her damp warmth. She closed her eyes and turned her head to the side, unable to watch.

  Suddenly a warm, wet touch stroked her, and her eyes came open. The stroke came again, then centered on her most sensitive point, an infusion of liquid heat surrounding the working of that magical touch. She looked down, seeing only the top of Alex’s head, but knowing now that it was his mouth he used on her, exchanging kisses with her sex as he had with her mouth.

  Thoughts of embarrassment fled from her mind as his tongue and lips massaged and suckled her, the sensations overwhelming her ability to think or feel anything but pleasure. She dropped her head back down, her eyes closed, her neck arching. She didn’t care what he did to her, as long as he kept on doing this.

  The pleasure built inside her, making her strain her muscles against him, as if reaching for that peak she knew existed. Just when she was sure it was in sight, he took his mouth from her.

  She wanted to protest, but already he was moving up her body, his hips holding her thighs wide. He rested one elbow beside her, and with his other hand brushed a few stray hairs back from her face. He looked into her eyes, then reached down between them, and a moment later she felt something hard and blunt pressing against her.

  Alex kissed her gently on the mouth, and she was aware of her own faintly salty, woodsy scent on his skin. When he raised his head, he looked into her eyes again, as if asking her to trust him, to stay there with him as he completed this act they had begun. She clung to that look, keeping her own eyes wide open as he pressed harder against her, her body reluctant to open to this new force.

  She felt a burning pain as he pushed his way inside her, and clenched her jaw hard against it. He held still, half in her, and kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, and then her mouth. He pulled out slightly, then moved back inside her, deeper this time. The hand that had been directing his manhood moved up to tease at the nub of her sex, creating new pleasure to mix with the pain of his entry.

  She didn’t know whether she wanted him to stop or to continue, his fingers creating a maddening desire in her for the blunt force that was burning its way inside her. The stretching discomfort of his entry was somehow also the answer to the tingling desire roused by his fingers.

  As she gradually grew accustomed to him within her, he began to move more easily, his thrusts longer and faster. His hand left her, his weight coming down on both arms now on either side of her. He shifted his hips, moving them up her body slightly to a new angle, and slowed his strokes. She found herself moving against him, his position allowing her to massage her most sensitive places against him, the discomfort not absent but mingled with the pleasure.

  She wrapped her arms around his back, and entwined her legs with his, joining him stroke for stroke, her muscles tensing once again in pursuit of the peak. His thrusts grew fas
t and hard, and she urged him on with her fingers digging into his back, her hips rising to meet him.

  He reached down and touched her, setting her off just before he himself reached his own peak. He clasped her to him, squeezing her tightly as he held himself within her, his mouth finding hers and kissing her frantically between gasping breaths. She felt the pulsing waves of his release in her delicate flesh, the waves mingling with the rhythmic contractions of her own pleasure.

  “Serena,” he said into her hair, still holding tight, and then he relaxed on top of her, his weight greater than she had expected, pressing her down into the mattress. A moment later he rolled to his side, taking her with him. He was still inside her. “I didn’t mean to crush you,” he whispered.

  “You didn’t,” she said equally softly. “If you have not noticed, I am not a fragile little thing.”

  He smiled and kissed her. She felt his manhood begin to withdraw from her, softening now that it was spent. It was a peculiar sensation, and when she wriggled slightly it came all the way free, nestling between them as she tucked one of her thighs between his. They rested that way, the silence between them warm and full.

  “You are bold and beautiful,” he said to her when their sweat had dried and their breathing slowed, and he kissed the scar on her forehead, where it began.

  “Not that,” she said, tucking her face down.

  “Yes, that, too. It makes you look rather like a pirate. Did I ever tell you that when I was a boy I had a fascination with pirates? Especially female ones.”

  “I know nothing of pirates,” she whispered.

  “If you tell me about your scar, I will tell you about them.”

  She reached up and pulled the pillow more comfortably under her cheek, where it rested on Alex’s arm. She still felt the hesitation in her chest that had kept her from speaking of the scar, but it was not so strong now. He had seen it and wanted her anyway. She could not believe that indifference completely, but it was so much better than loathing that it seemed worth the risk to talk of it.

  “I was training with my brothers in the use of swords, and in fighting. I didn’t enjoy it much—have you ever been near a true swordfight, or a battle?”

  “No, fortunately not. Only fencing done more as an art than for practical use.”

  “Then perhaps you do not know how frightening it is, the clash of metal on metal, and sharp edges swinging through the air, wielded by a powerful arm. You sense how vulnerable your flesh is, how easy it would be to become seriously injured in even a mock fight.”

  “Why were you joining in? Surely your family did not expect that of you.”

  “No, of course not, not if they stopped to think about it. They sometimes seemed to have forgotten, however, that I was not male. I think they looked more on me as an untried youth than as a girl, and they teased and competed with me as if I were one of them, only a very poor specimen with peculiar habits and weak arms. My father remembered my gender only when he thought of possible alliances he might make by marrying me off.”

  “What of your mother?”

  “She died when I was very young. It was largely a household of men, with the occasional serving wench or spinning woman thrown in, and I am afraid I did not do much to encourage their motherly attentions. I saw soon enough that favor fell to the strong, not the weak.”

  “And so the sword practice,” he said.

  “Yes. My brothers were usually somewhat more careful with me than with each other. They would knock me down and thwack me cheerily enough, but deep down something kept them from doing me any serious harm. I was as tall as or taller than most of them, a circumstance that made it all the more amusing for them to see me eating dirt when I tried to play at their games.

  “One thing at which I excelled, however, was archery. On a hot, sunny afternoon, after he had called me a clumsy cow one too many times, I challenged William to a match. He was the second oldest, and had a fearsome pride.”

  “You beat him,” Alex predicted.

  “Oh, yes. To the cheering and jeering of half the keep. One of his arrows had missed the target entirely, while I had one of those days of marksmanship where it seems that no arrow can fly wrong. Even so, I was tired by the end, for he had insisted on going two out of three, three out of five, and on and on until the humiliation of it became too great.

  “All was fine that night, although William was more sullen than usual, quieter. He was not one to take the jibes of others well.

  “The next day on the practice field, he insisted on being my training partner, although I was admittedly poor with a sword. However much practice I had, I could not be as strong as any of my brothers, and my arm tired quickly.”

  She shrugged within Alex’s arms. “William wanted to prove that he was better than I was. In swordplay it would have taken little for him to do so, but with his anger from the day before he lost that care that even he usually had with me. In his determination to best me, he accidentally struck me upon the face.”

  “Accidentally?” Alex asked doubtfully.

  She snuggled more closely against him. “’Tis perhaps part of why I do not like to speak of it, the thought that my own brother may have scarred me on purpose, to teach me a lesson in humiliation.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He was scolded soundly by Father. But then so was I, for being so stupid as to try to fight him, and for getting myself a scar that would make it that much more difficult to wed me. Years later I watched William die…during the Pestilence. With his last words, he cursed that I should be the one besting him yet again, by surviving.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “We should have exchanged houses, you and I. I thought I was in hell surrounded by nagging, primping, manipulating girls who would rather I had been a caged canary than a brother.”

  “Is that why you had a household of men here?”

  “It was an experiment meant to produce peace and quiet. I had not, of course, counted upon you.”

  She smiled, recalling the uproar she had caused.

  “Do you want to hear about the pirates now?” he asked, stifling a yawn.

  She stroked her fingers along his side, enjoying the lazy feel of their embrace. “You can tell me later,” she said. “Sleep now, if you want.”

  He smiled and his eyes closed, and within minutes she heard his breathing deepen. A lassitude was creeping through her own limbs, but it had nothing to do with sleep. She had remained “real” for far longer than she usually did, draining energy, and there was not much time left in her tree for her to squander. She felt warm and secure in his arms, but it was a comfort she would have to dole out to herself in sparing portions.

  She gave him one last kiss upon the lips, and faded from his arms into the oblivion that was her only form of rest.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  When Serena roused, she found herself standing in the garden, as she always did when she came back to the conscious world. She was not certain how long she had been drifting in the realm of nothingness as she tried to let her tree recoup some of its losses. That nowhere world was as timeless as it was formless.

  The season had already stripped the tree of its leaves, so they could give her no clue to its state. She ran her hands over the trunk, and felt that there was still a pulse of life within it: not as strong as it had once been, but neither quite as feeble as it had been after she had slept with Alex.

  She had no precise gauge for these things, but she doubted she would be able to expend herself in such a way more than two or three times more. What would happen then, she did not know.

  The garden looked far closer to winter dormancy than it had when last she’d seen it, and a frisson of worry went up her spine. Had she been out for only days, or was it weeks that had passed? What would Alex be thinking?

  She made her way quickly to the castle, noting that night was falling. She went through the kitchen, pausing briefly to observe the staff assembled for the evening meal.

  Unde
rhill appeared fully recovered from his ordeal, not even the trace of a bruise remaining. Nancy sat across from him, but kept her eyes on her food, not returning any of his longing gazes. A quick glance under the table confirmed, however, that Nancy’s stockinged foot rested quietly atop Underhill’s own.

  Marcy and Dickie sat side by side, and he looked pleased with himself, while Marcy looked decidedly pouty. She leaned away when Dickie stretched across her to reach the bowl of potatoes.

  Mrs. Hutchins ate her dinner as if it were fuel for work, and nothing more. Serena caught her sending a supervisory glance at her niece and Underhill, checking that all was in order.

  Otto, who had been lying by the fire, saw her and got up, padding after her into the hallway. As she reached the stairs in the main entry hall, she spotted Beezely napping upon a step halfway up. Otto barked once, and the cat’s eyes popped open. Beezely stretched, his claws coming out, his eyes closing tight as his mouth gaped wide, needle-sharp teeth displayed as he tilted his head back. Otto woofed again, his tail wagging. Beezely stretched out on the stair, lying on his side, the tip of his tail flicking negligently.

  Otto’s own tail slowed like an unpowered pendulum, finally resting at midpoint. He whined impatiently, shifting. Beezely rolled onto his back and started to purr.

  “Give it up,” Serena told the dog. “He’s not in the mood to be your prey today.”

  Otto galloped up the stairs to the feline, putting his jowly face down to him. Beezely licked his cheek and Otto withdrew, sneezing dramatically.

  Serena left them to continue on their own, and went first to the dining room, and then to the tower. There she finally found Alex poring over his papers, his hair a rumpled mess, testament to the fingers that had run repeatedly through it. In a glass dish on his desk were several dozen burned wooden matches.

  “Alex,” she said, in the voice that he could hear.

  His head jerked up, and then he shoved back from his desk, his chair falling over behind him as he stood. “Serena! I thought you’d gone.”