by J. L. Carter
Aidar’s fingers brush over the crystal pendant, first. Then they tug at the silver chain. Finally, they run lightly over actual flesh. He isn’t smiling now. There’s something dark and primal in his purple tinted eyes. “I am very much interested in that. You see, I’ve touched this pendant before. Not one like it, but this very necklace. Your Duke is lying to you.”
“He wouldn’t—”
“This isn’t his. It has not been his for countless millennia. It belongs to my people.”
“There’s no way that the Duke could have it, if it was part of your—”
“It is. He does. Perhaps you should ask him about it? I’m sure that he will give you an honest answer,” says Aidar. And then, before Margaret can try to protest or question again, he leans forward and kisses her.
There is nothing soft about the touch. It is pure aggression, want, and need. Aidar presses a hand tightly against Margaret’s hip and another against one of her shoulders, effectively pinning her against the bookshelf. It digs into the small of her back, something just borderline uncomfortable. Aidar breathes into her lungs and her heart and her mind, until all that she can think about is him.
He presses against her, their hips slotting together just right.
Someone could walk in here.
The thought is fleeting, quickly devoured by the sudden weave of want. Margaret tangles one hand in the front of Aidar’s button down shirt, and the other curls in the side of his slacks, if only because she doesn’t know what else to do with it.
Aidar presses forward, strong and steady. The prominent bulge in his pants presses against the inside of her thigh. Their lips haven’t even completely parted before he is rutting against her. It seems almost desperate, fleeting, like there is more behind the action than a simple need to get off but even that makes little sense.
Margaret gasps. She paws at the Prince’s chest. “Door—the door.”
“Leave it,” growls Aidar, lips moving to press against Margaret’s ear. His breath is hot, tongue wet when he drags it over her flesh. “Focus on me. I got you the letter. I found your cousin. You have yet to fully teach me the ways of the human body. I want to know everything about you and how this works. I want to know what you want – what your limits are.”
Limits? In that moment, Margaret doesn’t feel as if she has any limits.
She is weightless, breathless, lost between reality and some other place in time. The tick tock of the clock is suddenly deafening. Her own heart beat seems non-existent.
“I want this,” says Aidar. “And I want this now. Proper is keeping true to your word.”
Lips press against Margaret’s neck. Teeth and tongue follow suit, leaving small indentions and dark spots in the skin where they meet. Margaret’s chest is heaving and she surges forward to press her breasts against his chest. “Alright,” she pants, because her mind has turned to mush and he is still rutting against her like some sort of wild thing, and it isn’t the same as being in bed those nights before.
Then again, Margaret had already known nothing would be the same. She hooks her arms around Aidar’s shoulders and all but collapses against him, boneless in his grip.
Except that she is not in his grip anymore. She is on the ground, on her back, and the folds of her skirt are being pushed up around her hips and even farther. They form a pillow between their bodies, and her legs are suddenly very cold.
Rather than pushing down his pants, Aidar merely undoes the snap and the zipper, tugging himself free from the fabric. It’s the first time that Margaret has gotten an actual look at his cock and she almost regrets it, for though there is no doubt it will fit, it’s still a terribly large thing. Trepidation rips through her spine, and she drops her head back against the tile, throwing her arms above her head.
Aidar says something in a tongue that Margaret doesn’t recognize, the words almost canine in sound. He drapes himself over her body and makes short work of bucking against her, wedging himself between Margaret’s legs and—pain, for a moment. All she knows is pain. The pain of a massive cock in her pussy, and of teeth in her neck, and the crystal being pressed tightly against her chest.
Again, with every shift of Aidar’s hips, some thick liquid spills into her. It’s not cum, but it eases the passage in a way nothing else ever has or will. He fucks her with deep, hard strokes; virtually pounding her against the ground. There is such force behind the actions that it makes her hips hurt and Margaret is lost, then, in the amazing sense of pleasure it produces.
She is lost, then, in thoughts that aren’t her own.
We have to get out of here. It’s not safe. Hurry! Hurry—but be quiet. We can’t let them know this is happening. We can’t let them know…
Explosions echo in the distance. Margaret knows that they aren’t real, but it still makes her heart pound that much harder. Somewhere, there is a battle, and this battle is long and difficult.
Somewhere, people are dying. War is being waged and it is a terrible thing, one in which neither side will come away truly unharmed.
Somewhere, the Duke sits in a dark room, looking over maps and papers that he only just understands.
But that is not here.
Here, Margaret is in Heaven, and she never wants it to stop.
19
Over the next week, Margaret and Aidar continue their trysts. He grows bolder with every meeting, until there is not a place on Margaret’s body that hasn’t been stained with his cum. It is just as thick as the oils that serve as lubrication but far warmer.
But, again, with each meeting, Margaret begins to wonder: is this nothing more than a tradeoff for him?
Is there no meaning to their nights spent together past exploring a body and showing dominance?
For some reason, thinking that it might be so leaves Margaret feeling very uneasy. After stewing on the thought for several days, she confronts Aidar in the kitchens.
“There you are,” she says, a literal storm of uncertainties and anger. “I need to speak with you!”
Aidar picks up an apple from the bowl on the counter. He passes it from one hand to the next. “Oh, do you?”
“Yes,” huffs Margaret. She folds her arms over her chest, blustering forward before she can lose her nerves. “I need to speak with you, right now. It’s important.”
“If it’s so important, then ask me.”
“I’m going to! Don’t you be rushing me, mister. You’re the one that needs to be explaining yourself, not me.”
“I don’t need to explain anything to you—or anyone else.”
“You do,” insists Margaret. “You need to tell me if there’s anything more to this, to us. Is it just about control, you and me? The time that we spend together, is it just about getting more knowledge on humans?”
Aidar blinks. “Pardon?”
“Is there something to this,” repeats Margaret, drawing the words out long and slow. “What we do—at night, I mean. Is there something to what we’re doing?”
Aidar’s fingers dig into the apple. The tips of his nails press against the bright red skin, hard enough that pale juice beads up around them. “You’re concerned over what I told you, before.”
“Yes,” answers Margaret, firmly. “Well, no. I don’t want to say that I’m concerned, but I’ve been thinking about it. I want to know what your thoughts are on it. You need to be honest with me, Aidar. I have to know.”
For a long moment, Aidar doesn’t say anything. His mouth twists into a thin line, and his grip on the apple goes tighter, tighter, ever tighter. Juice runs over the peel unbidden.
Finally, though, when Margaret doesn’t think that she can hold onto her temper any longer, he says, “perhaps. I cannot quite put it into words that you would understand—not for your culture, I don’t think. Even I don’t completely understand it. This is... foreign for my people. For me, even. But, on some level, I do enjoy spending time with you.”
There’s static hooked to the words. It sinks under Margaret’s skin, makes her
words catch in her throat. She wasn’t expecting that answer.
She had been expecting agreement, for Aidar to say that, yes, it was nothing more than a lesson, nothing more than exertion of his control over a small, human woman. Not this – a subtle admission of affection, of genuine connection. Margaret is struck speechless.
Aidar, on the other hand, is not. He steps forward, using his free hand to take one of Margaret’s wrists and tug it out. He presses the punctured apple against her palm. “You are an impossibly strange woman, with an addicting personality. I enjoy cavorting with you, but I also enjoy speaking with you on a far more intellectual level. You are different from the other humans.”
Margaret breathes, “am I?”
“Yes.” Aidar presses both hands against her cheeks. “You are. I have met many humans over the years. Even when I wasn’t speaking with them, I was watching them. Chronicling them – taking notes and following my studies of the human form to a level that no one in this realm will ever understand. I was patient. I was careful. I knew what I was going to see, who I was going to see. But you?”
Aidar’s hands slide down, so they can rest on Margaret’s neck. Fingers glide over her skin, tangle in the edges of her hair line.
He says, “you are different. You have defied every expectation, every preconceived notion. You have changed things in a way that I can’t explain.”
Margaret’s heart is pounding viciously in her chest. It feels as if it’s trying to escape, to break free from confines beyond her control. Her tongue is leaden, voice rough and low when she speaks. “I have? What—in what ways am I different?”
“Every way,” says Aidar. “You are different in every way. From your personality to your attitude – from your thoughts to your speech. Look around you, Margaret. No other human has been brave enough to dare try and befriend one of my people. No one has been willing to try and learn about us.”
His fingers go down, farther. They tangle in the thin silver chain of Margaret’s necklace, they slide down to ghost over the crystal and – there’s a blast of searing heat, of almost pain – images dancing over the inside of her eyelids of fire dancing through the skies, of a great hole bursting into being at the center of London. The clock tower is riddled with cracks, face replaced with a massive bronze gear, and people shuffle through the streets bare foot and bleeding. Smoke curls in the air, in her lungs, and she is choking, gasping, but the things that she sees aren’t right. It seems everyone is wearing strange clothes and the buildings have been replaced with sheets of metal and frosted glass. Words of light dance above the doors and great black cords hang on the ground, sparking with light.
And then that is gone and she is standing at the edge of the hole, staring down into oblivion. She is staring into the hole and two massive eyes are staring back at her. They look something like the Duke’s eyes and something like Aidar’s eyes and something like no one she has ever met before but should know. Margaret’s breath hitches in her throat. She is struck with the overwhelming urge to scream, to call for help—
But then she opens her eyes and Aidar is standing before her once more.
He is frowning, and it looks out of place on his usually serene face. Aidar isn’t touching the crystal anymore. The tips of his fingers hover over the faceted surface. Aidar says, “this makes you different.”
“This,” echoes Margaret, but her voice sounds weak. She has a headache starting up, the sort that hangs just behind her eyes. “What’s this?”
“I have wanted this stone for so long,” says Aidar. “All of my people have. It used to be ours.”
Margaret huffs. She doesn’t move away, but she wraps her fingers around one of Aidar’s wrists, grip light enough that he can easily break free from it. “You said something like that before. But Julian—”
“Is lying to you,” says Aidar, seriously. He leans close, bending down so that his breath ghosts over Margaret’s face with every word. “He is lying to you, Margaret, and you must accept that. The Duke is not what he appears to be.”
“I think, sometimes, that no one is who they appear to be. I don’t see how it has anything to do with this, though, or with you. Even if this crystal was as old as you say, that doesn’t mean Julian is lying. He’s confused. I’m sure that his family claimed it to be an heirloom.”
“That’s not correct. The Duke knows. He has always known.”
Margaret frowns. Gently, she steps backwards. Her skin is tingling. “I think you’re wrong. I trust Julian.”
But the words taste stale, like bread that has sat uncovered for too long.
For the first time in a while, she doubts her fiancé.
20
The next time that the Duke comes home, Margaret confronts him. She meets him in the foyer, dressed in her night gown. The hour is late. Most of the candles have been put out. There is little light in the hallway, in the small front room.
He looks surprised to see her, but happy. Julian holds out his arms in welcome. “My, you look more beautiful every time that I get to see you!”
“Compliments, compliments,” says Margaret. Even though she has a plan she needs to follow, it’s hard not to smile at the Duke.
He has always been good to her, after all. He has always loved her, even though their marriage was thought up as a need and not a want.
It makes this whole thing seem a little sour.
Still, Margaret curls her fingers around the crystal and tugs it out from the place beneath her blouse. “Tell me about this.”
Julian blinks, confused. “My necklace? Well, that seems like a strange question. Is the history of a gift really so important at this moment?”
“Yes. It’s horribly important. I’ve been told that it’s not really a family heirloom.”
“You think that I stole it?” Julian laughs, but the sound is bitter and airy. “That is a ridiculous notion.”
“It’s not normal,” says Margaret. “I deserve to know about it.”
And for a long moment, Julian just stares at her. Something shimmers in his eyes. His mouth twists into a scowl – but just for a moment, just long enough to be seen. Then it’s gone, smoothed away, schooled into something much more kind and loyal and loving.
Julian steps forward, boots shuffling over the ground. “You don’t understand.”
Margaret frowns. “You’re right. I don’t. Make me understand!”
“I can’t! Not right now, at least. Right now, we must focus on—”
“Right now, you’re going to tell me everything.”
“I can’t!”
“You don’t have a choice,” spits Margaret.
But the thing is, that’s an incredibly wrong statement. Everyone has a choice. Their actions cannot be dictated by another person nor by another person’s thoughts or actions.
In that moment, the Duke has several options laid out before him. The one he chooses is this: surging forward and capturing Margaret in a blazing kiss, with so much heat that it’s borderline painful. While he’s a short man, his shoulders are broad, his arms strong. He puts hands on Margaret’s hips and presses her back against a wall, kissing her with a passion and fierceness that has never been felt by the young woman before.
To say Margaret is startled would be an understatement!
This is certainly not the answer she had been expecting. But it’s also not one that Margaret can refuse, for she has grown fond of the Duke over time, and she has grown fond of his touches.
In a matter of moments, Margaret finds herself swept off to the nearby sitting room. Floral wallpaper dances in the shadows of almost forgotten candlelight. It’s dimly lit, with the wicks dying out fast.
Soon, the room will be completely shrouded in darkness.
For now, though, there is enough light to see by, to undress by. There is enough light for Margaret to be swept off her feet and pressed against a nearby wall, for her skirts to be pushed up around her waist. Julian’s eyes are still glimmering. She thinks it must be a trick of the wan
ing light.
She thinks, too, that this is certainly just a way to sway the topic. It works, better than it should. Margaret mouths at the Duke’s neck, runs her fingers through his tussled hair. She pushes at his over coat, tugging at the buttons of his black shirt.
He chuckles lowly against her skin. It’s more breath than actual sound. “You’ve always been so beautiful. I’m trying to keep you safe, Margaret. Can’t you see that? I’m just trying to keep you safe!”
A large hand settles on her breast, lightly kneading the soft tissue. They seek out her nipples through the fabric of her night dress, giving them light tweaks – gentle touches that leave her heart fluttering.
It’s hard to stay angry.
It’s even harder to deny that she, truly, has missed Julian.
Though there have been others in the house, it has felt dreadfully empty without him. This is his home, after all, and she was meant to be his wife.
Was?
Is?
In those heated instants as her undergarments are pulled down and her legs hefted up to wrap around his waist, Margaret can’t remember which it’s supposed to be. She can’t decide which she wants it to be, either.
Thankfully, this is not the moment for deciding one’s fate. This is the moment to let go, to relax. While Margaret doesn’t want her life to be ruled over by men, she’s come to the decision, the realization, if you would, that she’s not opposed to them taking charge in matters of the flesh.
She’s expecting Julian to hump her then – to take her long and hard, without the use of oils or lubrication. Instead, Margaret is dropped onto the ground, a mess of long limbs and silken skirts. Julian’s hands land on her shoulders, urging her down even farther, until she is kneeling before him.
“Open wide, princess,” he says, followed by a low, throaty laugh as his hand comes down to rest on the back of Margaret’s head. Fingers thread lightly through her hair.
Margaret’s brain feels mushy. She listens, though, tilting her head back and watching as Julian brings his hands to the belt. He undoes the buckle and slides out of his pants and briefs, followed by his socks, all of which gets thrown off to the side.