by Jayden Woods
*
Eleanor lay on her bed with all her clothes on: the elaborately buttoned jacket, the belt with an assortment of straps, the boots with a variety of pouches. She unbound her hair, only so that she could press her head to the sheets without discomfort, and did not bother to move after that.
A gentle knock.
An inevitable response. “Come in.”
She did not turn to look as Rebeka entered the room. Instead she stared out the window, watching the amber rays of twilight, inhaling the musky scent of a fall breeze. It never got very cold in Dearen, she knew: only cool to send shivers down one’s skin, or to pinch one’s cheeks with redness.
“Eleanor.” The soft hands fell upon her jacket. The touch was light, but its weight was heavy. Eleanor sighed and turned to look upon the Scholar. She had looked at Rebeka many times, but not in the way she did now. Now she focused on the ruby redness of her lips, the elegant sharpness of her chin, contrasted by the beautiful slope of her neck. Rebeka’s dewy chest rose and fell with the strength of her breath. Eleanor reached up and put her hand against it, feeling the heart leap against the ribcage.
“Rebeka,” she whispered. “Your inner drum. It’s ...”
“I don’t care.”
Rebeka grabbed her hand, moved it, and placed it upon her breast. Then she gasped with pleasure, pushing her chest to fill Eleanor’s palm. Eleanor felt the nipple tighten under the fabric while the heartbeat quickened. Rebeka threw back her head as she breathed deeply, a little moan escaping her lips with the exhale.
Eleanor could even comprehend what was happening. “I ... I ...”
Rebeka brushed Eleanor’s lips with one hand, as if to wipe away the words building behind them. Then she moved forward, one leg sliding onto the bed, straddling her hips over Eleanor’s. Her hand continued moving back into the yellow tangles of Eleanor’s hair, free and flowing about her shoulders. Rebeka gripped a knot and held her still, staring straight into the eyes of the King-wife.
“Eleanor,” she said, “the world will bow its head to you. Don’t you feel it? I felt it the first time I ever saw you. You can have anything you ever dreamed of. Don’t you know that? Don’t you feel it?”
Then she pressed her hand to Eleanor’s chest, as Eleanor had done to her not so long ago. Except this time, Rebeka’s hand slipped under her jacket. She reached beneath the folds of the clothing and grasped Eleanor’s breast in her hand. The sensation jolted Eleanor’s body, like a current of fire from her chest to her belly, fanning heat through her limbs.
A button popped and rolled away as Rebeka forced her hand lower.
“Eleanor,” she breathed, “tell me you feel it.”
“I ... I ...”
Perhaps she would not say whatever Rebeka wanted to hear, and Rebeka knew it. Whatever the case, the Scholar rushed forward and closed Eleanor’s lips with her own. As her soft mouth poured into Eleanor’s, the King-wife knew all resistance was futile. This was what she wanted.
“Rebeka ...”
At long last she reached out to embrace her lover. Rebeka’s black hair spilled across her face and they kissed amidst its strands. They fell back onto the bed, the heat of Rebeka’s body pouring across her skin. Suddenly she wanted to be free of all her clothes, every stitch and fragment. She pulled and yanked the linen, popping buttons, breaking straps. Rebeka helped her, then reached for her own clothes, the removal of which Eleanor desired even more so.
As her impatience took over, Eleanor pushed Rebeka to the bed and got on top of her. She pulled down the last of the clinging fabric and gazed down upon the bare, blushing flesh. Then she leaned down and tasted Rebeka’s nipple. It was even sweeter than safra.
Rebeka cried out and arched up. She pushed her hips into Eleanor’s, spreading the slickness of her thighs against Eleanor’s skin. A tart aroma brushed Eleanor’s nose, and she realized the sweetest dish of all waited elsewhere, so she trailed her lips down Rebeka’s stomach.
Far beyond them night fell, a moon arose, and a storm grumbled in the distance. Eleanor paid no heed to the crack of thunder, the rush of rain, the flash of lightning. Nothing mattered anymore, but this.
Pure bliss.
11
Storm