“I want to fuck him,” I say, risking a more direct glance over at him. He must have worked today—either that or he felt the need to dress up for dinner. He’s in a mostly unwrinkled button-down and slacks, department store shoes on his feet, and it looks like he’s tried to smooth back his longish hair, but it keeps falling into his face anyway. He’s leaning forward and looking down into his whisky, and there’s a restlessness moving through him that reminds me of the winter storm outside.
“He might not be kinky,” Rebecca cautions.
“I’m not planning a wedding or anything. Just sex.”
“Can you even come from vanilla sex?”
Question of the century. “Well, I, um. I don’t know what makes me come during sex.”
Rebecca turns to me, head first, then the rest of her body. “You don’t know,” she repeats slowly. “What makes you come during sex.”
I scrunch up my face in embarrassment. “I’ve never done it.”
“Is this some heteronormative ‘never specifically had a penis specifically in your vagina’ thing? Or are you saying you really, truly haven’t had sex?”
“No sex,” I respond. My cheeks are on fire. “Nothing.”
“So the person who gave you those welts . . . ?”
“Just gave me the welts,” I confirm. “No orgasms involved. I mean, I got myself off later, alone, but not with her around.”
Rebecca looks stunned. “And how long have you been doing kink?”
“Formally since I was eighteen.”
“And you’re how old now?”
“Twenty-two. Look, I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not anything like that—I’m not scared, it’s not a religion thing, I’ve been in love before. It just hasn’t felt right, that’s all.”
Rebecca thinks about this a moment. “Interesting,” she muses. “And now it does?”
I’m dying for whatever Domme insight she has. “Now it does. Does that make me strange?”
She looks back at Saint rolling his glass between his fingertips as the others laugh and talk around him.
“No,” she says heavily. “It may make you foolish. But it doesn’t make you strange.”
Which is when Delphine pops over, her cheeks rosy with booze and fire. “You two are being so secretive over here,” she scolds. “Come back to the fire, I have a game for us to play.”
Rebecca sighs a certain sigh I’ve come to identify as her Delphine Sigh. “I don’t want to play a game.”
Delphine gives Rebecca a pout, and I do believe if she were any younger she would be sticking her tongue out at Rebecca. As it is, she just grabs my hand and yanks me back toward the group, and Rebecca follows with another Sigh.
Chapter 11
“Let’s play Spin the Bottle!” Delphine declares once we’re back in the glow of the fire. Her voice has the fearless optimism that only comes from a lifetime of cosseted extroversion and a bottle of champagne mixed together.
“Are you insane?” Rebecca demands from behind us. “We aren’t children!”
“Of course we aren’t,” Delphine says in a voice that says well, obviously. “That’s the whole point.”
When I glance over at Auden, he’s looking at me, but he looks away as soon as he sees me looking at him.
Saint is still staring at his whisky glass like he’s wondering if he can drown in it.
“Delphine, be reasonable,” I say, although I’ve had just enough Scotch that kissing beautiful people by a fire sounds like heaven. “You and Auden will have to recuse yourselves and so will Becket. And without the engaged people or the priest, there are only three of us left, and that’s hardly enough for a game.”
Delphine turns to us, bottle in hand and eyes narrowed. “Who said anything about recusing?”
“Of course we can’t play, Delly,” Auden says. “Becket can’t either.”
She sets the bottle down on the low table between all the sofas and chairs, and then puts her hands on her hips. “And why, exactly, is that?”
Auden looks surprised, then swiftly protective. “I won’t kiss anyone but you. And our priest has his vows.”
The priest in question polishes off his flute of champagne. “Actually,” he says, “I don’t see the harm in it.”
Now we’re all surprised, staring at him with open mouths and slack expressions. He regards us with amusement. “Well, it is just kissing, after all; I don’t plan on breaking any vows for real. I haven’t had that much champagne.”
“Isn’t kissing against the spirit of the vow though?” Saint asks quietly. It’s the first he’s spoken in at least an hour, if not more.
“Jesus kissed his friends,” Becket replies, his words untroubled, but I didn’t miss the barely there flinch he gave at Saint’s question. It makes me wonder exactly how Becket feels about his vows—and kissing—and his friends.
“It doesn’t matter because we are not playing,” Rebecca announces. “We are too old—”
“That’s exactly it!” Delphine interrupts, glowering at Rebecca. “We are too young to be so old! I’m so tired of not doing anything fun ever.”
“You are such a child,” Rebecca accuses, crossing her arms and glaring at Delphine. “The minute people aren’t falling all over themselves to entertain you—”
“Erroneous! I’ve been entertaining myself just fine while you and Auden spend hours and hours talking about the house stuff. I do have a job too, you know, and—”
When Rebecca cuts in to disagree, Becket stands up. “We all know you two can go like this for hours,” he says kindly. “But we also all know the secret, and the secret is that you don’t actually hate each other.”
The glares Delphine and Rebecca trade between them would suggest otherwise, but Becket keeps going. “I think it does sound fun. And I’m not ashamed to admit I miss the feeling of being kissed, even if it’s by a friend.”
I try to sound very Sober and Adult when I chime in, “I also think kissing sounds fun!”
“Of course you do,” Delphine replies. She walks over to Auden and stands between his knees, taking his hand in hers.
“I know you love me,” she says, and she sounds less tipsy now, and more wise. “I know how faithful you’ve been to me and at what cost. Just like we all know that Becket loves God and has been faithful to him. Kissing someone in a game doesn’t change any of that.”
“What if it does?” Auden whispers up to her. His hand is tight in hers and his eyes are more brown than green in the glow of the fire.
And then they slide to me.
And then to Saint.
He looks back up at Delphine. “Sometimes a kiss is more than a kiss,” he says, and there’s a faint edge of hoarseness to his voice. Saint’s fingers whiten around his glass, and I wonder if he’s thinking of that summer, of that wedding kiss the three of us shared.
Of a kiss that was so much more than just a kiss.
It was an omen.
An anointing.
Delphine squeezes his hand. Her engagement ring sparkles. “I won’t think less of you for kissing someone, and I know you’re too generous to think less of me.”
Auden doesn’t answer, but he does pull Delphine’s hand close to his mouth and he brushes his lips over the back of it.
“Is that an ‘okay’?” she asks.
For a minute, the wind picks up and rattles the glass with fierce, noisy gusts; the rain hammering the window sounds like it’s turned to sleet. Almost as if the forest itself wants to answer for Auden.
Finally he says, “Okay.”
Delphine turns to the rest of us. “And it’s okay with the rest of you?”
I look to Rebecca, who throws up her hands. “Fine,” she says. “But if I kiss someone, I’ll kiss them my way. Is that understood?”
We all nod.
“Poe?” Delphine asks.
“Yes, please!” I say eagerly, like the horny librarian I am. Then I clear my throat and try to sound normal and not perverted. “I mean, as long as ever
yone else is okay with it.”
And then we look to Saint. He drains the last of his whisky and puts the glass on the table. “Yes,” he says. “I’ll play. If you are willing to have me.”
There’s no doubt that by you, he means Auden, and the faintest frown pulls at Auden’s mouth at his words. But he gives a short nod.
“Excellent!” Delphine exclaims, clapping her hands together. “Let me just clear off the table here and get our bottle ready.”
I decide to refill my glass—as do Rebecca and Saint—and by the time we’re back, the table in the middle is clear, save for an empty bottle on its side, and the drumming, manicured fingers of an eager Delphine Dansey.
“This is perfect, you know,” she says, as we get settled around the table. I choose to sit on the floor next to Saint, and Rebecca perches on the arm of the sofa. “We never got to have this kind of fun as a group when we were in school. Now we can make up for lost time.”
I have to admit that if life had been different, if for some reason all six of us had been able to keep seeing each other, I’m sure we would have done lots and lots of wild things, and I’m sure at least some of them would have involved kissing. Maybe Delphine is right, and we’re reclaiming something that ought to have been ours to begin with.
“I think Becket should go first,” Delphine says. “Since he was the first to agree to my game. And also he’s the oldest.”
Becket smiles and leans his long frame forward to reach the bottle. The firelight gilds every exposed inch of his pale skin, his blond hair and eyelashes, and when he spins the bottle, the light glints and fades in a slow strobe on the glass.
The strobing light abates, the bottle slows. The bottle points at St. Sebastian.
“Well, Saint?” the priest says softly. “Are you ready?”
Saint takes a long drink, but it doesn’t seem like it’s for courage. More like for a moment to compose himself, so that when he answers, his voice is perfectly even. “I’m ready, Father Becket.”
“This would be hotter if Becky had his collar on,” Delphine whispers. Rebecca shushes her.
Becket goes to Saint and squats down, so that he’s eye to eye with the man he’s about to kiss. Even without his collar, there’s still something priestly about him. Maybe it’s the dark pants clinging to his long thighs, or the black shoes that give off a dull gleam from the fire. Maybe it’s in the way he presses his long fingers under Saint’s chin and lifts his face to his own. Or maybe it’s his expression, intense and holy, as he lowers his mouth and kisses St. Sebastian Martinez on the lips.
None of us speak a word—in fact, I don’t think any of us even breathe—as the game becomes real, as we watch Saint’s lips part under the pressure of Becket’s firm, surprisingly practiced mouth. His fingers are assured and insistent on Saint’s chin, and I can tell the moment his tongue strokes against Saint’s, because Saint gives a shudder that I can practically feel myself, feel all the way down into my toes.
I’m hypnotized, and everyone else is too. All the doubts, all the reservations and reluctance, are melting away in the heat of their kiss, and when I hear the sound of someone trying to control their ragged breath, I know without looking that it’s Auden. I know that no matter his earlier doubts, he’s caught up in it now, he’s as ensnared as the rest of us at the sight of our priest gently making love to St. Sebastian’s mouth.
When Becket pulls away, Saint looks dazed. “Thank you,” he says, rather distantly.
“Thank you,” the priest says graciously.
Although as he takes his chair once again, there’s something pained in Becket’s expression that doesn’t look gracious at all. It looks like he wants to do so, so much more than kiss now, and who can blame him? I’m burning alive and I only watched.
Delphine’s spin lands on her own fiancé, and she giggles as she goes over to kiss him. “This is exactly what you would have wanted,” she says, leaning down and clearly planning on giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
He catches her arms instead and pulls her to his mouth, nothing long or involved, just a real kiss, and when Delphine pulls away, her smile is pleased and affectionate and even happy—but it’s not the smile of someone who’s aroused. It’s like she just finished kissing a cousin or a fellow actor . . . or someone she had to kiss for a party game. There’s warmth, but no heat.
“Your turn,” Delphine tells her betrothed. “Don’t land on me, we don’t want to be boring.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Auden says, a bit dryly, and leans forward to spin the bottle. He gives it a quick, indifferent spin, as if already trying to absolve himself from the consequences of where it lands.
It should land on Delphine. That would be the safest alternative, the alternative that would keep our dinners friendly and our evenings free of awkwardness. But I’m just drunk enough that I don’t want it to land on Delphine.
I want it to land on me.
I want to be stupid. I want to admit to myself that I like Auden, that I ache for his touch, his crooked smile, and all this after only a week here.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And spin, spin, spin goes the bottle.
It swings past me once, quickly, then twice, going slower now, and then a third time. I breathe out a long, silent breath of either disappointment or relief—I’m not sure which—and then the bottle keeps going. Slower and slower, but it keeps moving, gradually, gradually, appearing to stop in front of Saint.
The air itself seems to crystallize; next to me, Saint’s entire body trembles. But then the bottle nudges just the tiniest bit left so that it’s pointing at the spot between Saint and myself.
I swallow.
“I think it’s Poe,” Delphine says, having apparently nominated herself the moderator of our game. True to her earlier confidence, she doesn’t sound jealous or bothered in the least as she coordinates her fiancé kissing another person.
I look up and meet eyes with Auden. He stares back at me, shocked.
“Go on,” Delphine urges. “I won’t be upset.” Indeed, she even seems excited, and I try to use this to mentally clean away my own worry and guilt.
It’s just a game, Proserpina. Just a kiss.
But there’s nothing just about the twisting thrill in my stomach as I get to my feet. Auden stands too, and we meet in the middle, neither of us seeming to know where to look or where to put our hands. For a minute, I feel like we really are teenagers, not adults at all, with nothing between us but nervousness and hormones.
“Hi,” Auden says as we finally meet.
“Hi,” I say back.
“I suppose we’ve already done this once before,” he says. “Nothing new.”
“Right,” I say back. There’s something violent threatening to shiver through me, and if I let it, it will shiver my body right apart. I’m so aware of Saint behind me watching us, of him seeing my reaction to Auden, and I hate it, I hate that I’m so stupid, I hate that I want two people at the same time—hell, five people, if I’m being honest—although it’s only Saint and Auden that make me feel like my very life depends on touching them. I hate that they can see me wanting them; I hate that all the wild desires curling through me like vines have become so tangled and thick.
I hate that at Thornchapel, I’m both not myself and more myself than I’ve ever been.
“It’s just a game,” Auden whispers to me, his hand sliding around to cup the back of my neck. “Just a kiss.”
Please, God, let this kiss be just a kiss.
My hands come up against his chest, almost of their own accord, spreading against the soft cashmere of his sweater and the warm, firm lines of his chest underneath. His hand at my neck slides up through my loose hair to cradle the back of my head, and it feels so good I want to purr. Maybe I even do purr a little, because the hesitation that had been written all over his face disappears in an instant. And in its wake is the same hungry ownership I saw in his face when we were children.
I want to tell him to ti
ghten his fingers in my hair, I want him to wrap his other hand around my throat so I can feel the pressure of his touch against my pulse. I want another wedding, another crown of flowers, I want to be his in all the bruising, sighing, sparking ways I can.
He dips his face low and pauses for the barest second. In that pause, I see his eyes are the perfect fusion of my vivid green and Saint’s deep brown. A starburst of emerald around the black pools of his irises, ringed with a dark coffee that reaches inward in ever-lightening shades to mix with the green. His eyes are hypnotic, his eyes are everything.
His eyes are like windows to summer and winter all at the same time.
The pause ends in the space of a single breath, and then he lowers his head all the way down and we kiss.
Chapter 12
The touch of his lips on mine is the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt.
More powerful than caning, than flogging. More powerful than suspension or bondage, more powerful than having all of my senses denied me or being so overwhelmed with sound and noise and touch that I want to cry.
Auden’s kiss is all of it. Every single bit of it.
Like being hurt and loved all at the same time.
His lips are firm, but they’re not sure. They’re not certain. There’s hesitation in each brush of his mouth over mine, his hand in my hair is shaking, and I can feel every rigid muscle in his chest quivering under my palms. Like he’s as terrified as I am.
Like he knows this kiss is not just a kiss.
His lips part ever so slightly, and mine follow suit, and then there’s the flicker-fast silk of his tongue against the top of my lower lip. I don’t know what he tastes there—Scotch, most likely—but whatever it is has him giving a soft, tattered sigh against my mouth. His fingers in my hair tighten to the point of pain, his other hand finds my upper arm and grips me tight, tight like the way I want, tight like the way I crave, and I’m yanked in even closer. Suddenly, he’s in all of my senses, his body pressed so completely against mine that I can feel his erection against my belly and the fast heave of his chest against my own. I can smell that pine and pepper and lavender smell of him, a smell that should be feminine, but it’s not, it’s so very masculine, and on him it seems like what Thornchapel itself could smell like. Forests and flowers and danger.
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