She barely heard their words.
For a while she played with the babe, but his chuckles failed to bring her even a laugh. When he slept, she left the nursery and walked slowly along the farthest turret rooftop where the sun baked the stone like an oven.
It was there the king found her, standing beneath an archway with her face to the wind, letting it demolish the maids’ painstaking work with her hair piece by piece by piece.
He caught an errant strand and she turned, lips parted with surprise. But when she recognized her companion, she composed her expression into careful neutrality.
“My lord,” she said.
“Lady.”
Staring at the ground, she jumped at his sudden touch on her cheek. His thumb outlined the shape of her cheekbone, a gesture unusually demanding and possessive, and she swallowed hard as she looked at his face.
“For many a day,” he said. “I have watched you pine for something all the gold in the world cannot buy. Tell me, fair Elisse, what I must do to unlock this fortress you have built for yourself.”
Even in the shade his eyes seemed to catch the turning light of leaves trapped between sun and wind. Pale green. Like her son’s eyes.
She shook her head, dislodging his hand. Her throat felt stifled. Her eyes burned.
“Nothing,” she whispered, and her voice scraped across the words.
“Nothing?”
She shook her head, desperately looked at him, willing him to understand.
“Can you not see? There is nothing to be done. I am warped like tangled thread.”
She dropped her gaze to his boots, twisted her hands together. Beyond their feet, the black, severe shadow of the archway arced, and about them, the wind had nearly stilled, save for a breath now and then as if the sun hung in suspended silence. Listening.
“Then,” he said at last, and his voice hummed in the stones around them. “If we cannot untangle you, we must cut you free.”
Slowly, so slowly, she raised her gaze again. The king was smiling, stroking his beard while his gaze traveled from her flushed face to her neck to the turquoise gown cut, she realized, lower than any other she owned. So consumed had she been by her melancholy she had not even noticed it when they dressed her.
“I think,” said the king, “…we shall start with these laces.”
The sun glinted on the blade of the dagger twisting so quickly she could only gasp as the blue ribbons fluttered, severed, to the ground. Pain grazed her chest, belated like the tiny thread of crimson across the white surface of one bared breast.
Half-unclothed and marked, she stood before her lord, and he, smiling, sheathed his blade. It had been no accident.
Her chin came up.
“Ah,” he said. “There is the girl who first came to my court. Who dared me to challenge her.”
A giddy sensation swept through her chest, heating her naked skin. She recognized it as mischief when it whispered to her that she should run. Run and see if he gave chase. Too late she heeded it, but by then he caught her easily about the waist, spun her around to face him. Deftly he tied her wrists. With what, she could not see but much as she struggled, he managed to hold her fast.
No dreamlike, magical binding this. She heard his grunts as he drew the knots tight, and his arms, bared against the summer heat, pressed muscled and damp against the skin her torn and slipping gown revealed.
This, she thought, was how such things should be.
His savage kiss, when once her hands were tied, took her breath away. His scent was leather and steel and earth and air, his hands roughened from blade and harness. And he made no attempt to soften the force of his touch.
Why had he waited so long to take her this way?
Hands on her naked shoulders, he forced her to her knees, and the hard ground met them without mercy. The sudden impact rattled her teeth, made her unbound breasts sway, and she heard the king’s harsh intake of breath. Between sun and shadow, she could not see his face as he stood above her, the smooth, taut fabric of his breeches before her lips.
Heat made the ground shimmer and the metal on his buckles and weapons as he undid his belt. It blurred her vision like a veil between worlds. The sun’s scorching fingers raked her back, and the stone burned under her knees. She knelt in flame and his voice rang in her blood, a musical, resonant note. Husky with his need.
“Now to make you mine.”
Laces dangled free. His flesh was smoother, softer on her tongue than she had imagined. Like stone, or the glossy underside of a leaf. She closed her eyes, her body aching from the strain of her position and faint from the heat that enfolded her. Unaccustomed to his width, her jaw hurt, and her lips, and her throat. Hair fell into her eyes and his hands smeared it over her face, smoothed it back, tangled it again. The space between her legs knew the pleasure her mouth gave, and it hungered for pleasure in kind.
But her mind. Oh, her mind was clear. She tumbled with the river’s flood between banks of red earth, through the heart of forests thick with trees. She moved with the wind over expanses of purple heather and sang through muddy reeds of the fens.
She was heat and flesh and she was nothing at all.
Until she heard his roar, louder than thunder, and she marveled at the taste of him, a taste like nothing she might name. Greedy, she wanted all of him. She would share him with none.
The sun caught his hair as he shuddered one last time. She lifted her lips and watched light catch in the strands of his beard, on cheeks and chin tilted to the sky as his passion ebbed. Her heart pounded madly, urging her to her feet. Get up, get up, it insisted. She must see his face.
He looked down and saw her trying to rise, caught her bare arms and raised her to his chest. She looked into his eyes, green like spring itself. His face perfect in the light of midsummer sun. Human.
But not.
“You,” she breathed. “I know you.”
The king smiled. “Yes. You do.”
“But how? But why?”
She shivered as he untied the thongs about her wrists with a warrior’s capable fingers. And with unearthly ease. Free, her hands reached up to touch his face in wonder. The silk of beard and skin, the beads of perspiration that trickled from his brow.
“I wanted all of you, my love,” he said in a voice she knew from dreams. “Your body and your dark passion and your pride and your hand, all willingly given. But I wanted your heart too.”
Joy bubbled through her entire body like the flush of passion.
“And I know your name.”
He nodded. Her king and her husband and the father of her child. She laughed and laughed again, and then, slowly, she smiled.
She had learned more than need.
“Say it, Elisse. For I love you more than your heart desires.”
He stroked her bare breast and she leaned into his touch, craving more. And then she said his name.
SENSITIVE ARTIST
Donna George Storey
The storm hit just as I pulled into town. Exhausted after a five-hour drive, I crept slowly through the unfamiliar streets, windshield wipers slapping, until I reached my final destination: 777 Prince Lane. I was looking for a charming Victorian, but the jagged slashes of lightning made the place look more like Dracula’s castle, a hulking structure with turrets soaring into the night sky. The rain was so violent, even the sprint from the car to the porch left me soaking. Foolishly, I’d packed my umbrella deep in my luggage.
It wasn’t the way I would have chosen to meet Alex face to face for the first time—my curls pasted to my cheeks, my blouse clinging to my body as if it had been painted on—but I was so relieved to be inside, I wiped my hand on my jeans and offered him a cold handshake.
His fingers were slightly tingly against my skin, like champagne.
“I wasn’t sure you’d make it here tonight,” my new landlord said, giving me a pitying once-over.
“Orientation for the summer session starts tomorrow. I have a thing about keeping commi
tments.”
“Very responsible of you,” he replied with an approving smile.
After bringing me some fluffy towels to dry off with, Alex led me up to my apartment on the third floor. “Speaking of being on time, I’m afraid there’s been a delay in the delivery of your stove and refrigerator. But you’re welcome to use the main kitchen downstairs. Consider breakfast tomorrow on me.”
I murmured thanks, but in truth I was busy appreciating his sturdy male form as I followed him up the stairs. My friend Lily had been talking up her old college buddy since she suggested I rent a suite of rooms in his house; he lived in the same college town where I’d be taking an art education course for the summer. Alex was such a great guy—a sensitive artistic type—and handsome, too. He’d just never met the right woman to make him happy. The handsome part was now patently obvious, given the way he filled his jeans and those beguiling sea-green eyes, but the sensible side of me counseled caution. While our increasingly friendly emails over the past weeks were a promising sign, I pictured a long, uncomfortable summer if we took things too fast and foundered.
We reached the top of the stairs, and he opened the door with a flourish. Alex had sent JPEGs of the rooms, so I was expecting the antique four-poster bed, but not the gorgeous damask coverlet or the gauzy canopy.
“What a magical bed!” I cried out without thinking.
He smiled. “I’m glad you like it. It’s made up for summer weather though. Here, let me get you some quilts to keep out the damp and cold.”
His unerring thoughtfulness charmed me. I decided to keep an open mind about the summer’s possibilities and wished Alex a warm good night.
“Sleep well,” he said with a final nod.
“I will,” I assured him.
But I didn’t.
In fact, it was one of the most tempestuous nights of my life. The rain pelting the tall windows was the least of it. Although it looked new, the mattress had a dreadful lump right in the center, an oddly shaped area of about one-by-two feet. It wasn’t exactly painful, but whenever my body rested against any part of it, my skin began to prickle. I tried shoving the extra comforters under my back, but they gave no relief from the unnerving sensation.
The worst was yet to come.
When I finally dozed off, curled up at the edge of the bed, the dream began.
“I know why you’re here. Properly dressed for the occasion, too.”
He was only a voice at first, yet my whole body blushed at his insinuating tone. Looking down, I realized I was wearing some sort of pale, silky robe that was tied loosely to expose plenty of cleavage.
“Don’t just stand there. You want this as much as I do.”
I nodded, although I had no idea what he was talking about. Fortunately my body seemed to understand. I found myself walking over to a Victorian fainting couch and perching primly at the edge.
“Well, are you going to open the robe?” The voice was clearly annoyed.
Bashfully I unknotted the belt and parted the silk. My stomach did a somersault. The view before me—suddenly it was as if I were standing outside myself watching—was frankly obscene. My upper half was wrapped in a scarlet corset with generous holes to expose my nipples, which seemed as red and glossy as the fabric. Down below I wore nothing but black stockings attached with ribbon garters to the corset. I felt like a whore.
“A fitting outfit for a trollop like you,” the voice agreed, “but you know what I really want to see.”
My pulse was racing and my throat dry. I knew I needed to please this regal male presence, but I wasn’t quite sure how.
His right hand made an impatient, sideways wave. For the voice had a body now, tall and sturdy, holding a pad of watercolor paper in one hand, a delicate paintbrush in the other. “Come on. Show it to me.”
Show you what? Then, as if they understood, my knees began to part, slowly, shyly. I glanced down. My vulva was deep red, moist, swollen with arousal.
He clicked his tongue. “Well done. Now all of your female secrets are revealed to me. All but one.”
The man had a face now.
It was Alex.
“Touch yourself until you come,” he ordered.
This time, at least, I had some clue as to what he wanted me to do.
“No, please.” My protest was faint, unconvincing even to myself.
“If you can’t do that much for me, then we’re through. Please go now.”
“No,” I pleaded again. “I’ll…I’ll do it.”
I felt rather than saw his smile.
My whole body was trembling as my hand crept down between my legs. My flesh there was unbelievably tender and smooth, like silk. At first I stroked the lips gently as I might a kitten’s belly. Then my middle finger wandered to my clit. I pressed down.
And immediately had an orgasm, a body-wracking wave of pleasure that came crashing down upon me again and again and again.
I woke up bathed in sweat, my hips still jerking from the climax. I’d never had a wet dream before, and it took a few moments to recover from the shock. During the night, I’d rolled back onto the lump in the mattress; it still throbbed faintly beneath my buttocks like a pulse.
I leapt out of bed, rushed to the bathroom, and splashed some cold water on my face. That was one hell of a dream. I stared at my own haunted face, trying and failing to make sense of what had happened. Finally I decided I simply had to get some sleep before class, so I dragged the quilts from the bed and curled up on the floor. No more dreams tormented me in my drugged, post-sex sleep. I awoke to buttery sunlight streaming through the windows.
Before I went down to breakfast, I ran my hands over the center of the bed. It was flat, firm, and cool.
Alex had a lovely spread waiting for me: French press coffee, fresh strawberries, a Greek yogurt-granola parfait. He asked how I’d slept with such genuine concern, I had to admit that I’d been troubled by a rather strange dream.
“Are those rooms haunted by any chance?” I asked playfully. In the light of day it all seemed almost amusing, if you discounted the fact my stomach muscles were still aching from that nuclear orgasm.
“Not that I know of, but it is a house with a history. What did you dream about?”
If only he knew. Now I regretted mentioning it at all, but I could hardly refuse to answer. “There was a man. An artist,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “He wanted to paint my portrait, but the interaction between us was strange, as if he thought I were someone else. He was obviously angry with this other woman. I wanted to help him, I just didn’t understand how.” While sanitized, I realized my summary gave the nightmare a new coherence for me.
Alex lifted his eyebrows thoughtfully. “Only a sensitive artist would have such a dream.”
I laughed. “Perhaps. If being an art teacher with a few local exhibits on her résumé counts as an artist. By the way, I’m not usually a complainer, but the mattress has a hard spot right in the middle. It’s shaped like a large box. Perhaps there was an irregularity in the manufacturing?”
Alex face took on a strange expression—if I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked guilty. “Really? Listen, I’ve got to do a photo shoot this morning down at the beach, but I’ll check out that mattress as soon as I get back. I’m terribly sorry about this.”
In his contrition he looked even more appealing than he did the night before. No doubt about it there was powerful chemistry between us.
“Thanks, I really appreciate all your help,” I replied with my sweetest smile.
Since the orientation for my program ended at noon, I decided to skip the class tour of the university art museum and head home for a nap. I slipped into my Japanese sleeping kimono and was just about to get into bed when I heard the jiggle of a key in the lock of the apartment’s main door. A moment later Alex walked in, briskly, like a man with a mission. He stopped short when he saw me.
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to come in without your permission. It won’t happen again.”
“I’d forgotten that I’d stored a few old things under this bed, and I thought I’d remove them for your comfort,” he said hurriedly, avoiding my eyes.
“Oh?” Instinctively I knelt down and peered into the shadows under the bed. A single cardboard moving box was stationed dead center under the mattress, but it wasn’t even touching the box spring. I laughed. “I don’t think one little box is causing the problem.”
Alex cleared his throat. “Yes, that would be unlikely. I’ll order another mattress right away, a different brand.”
“Thank you.” As tired and indecently dressed as I was, I was tempted to ask him to stay for a chat.
“We’re not getting off to the best start, are we? Freak storms, lumpy mattresses, rude intrusions. I feel like I owe you a homemade dinner tonight at least.” With this, he met my eyes and smiled.
I felt a sexy pang between my legs. “You don’t owe me anything, but I’d be delighted.”
He’d hardly closed the door behind him when I was back down on my knees gazing at that intriguing box. I didn’t want to snoop, but then again Alex had showed himself capable of bad manners. Plus, now I had the weirdest hunch this box had something to do with my lascivious dream.
With some difficulty, I reached under the bed and coaxed the box out into the open. It was marked “Laura—Personal.” My friend Lily had given me a thumbnail sketch of Alex’s past. A family with a history of prominence in the community, pressure to abandon artistic interests for something “real” like law school, a beautiful fiancée who betrayed him but also gave him the excuse to escape from lawyering to live the life he’d always wanted as a photographer and restorer of old houses. Was Laura the fiancée? I decided a quick peep inside wouldn’t be too terrible an infraction. If it were full of moth-eaten sweaters, it would at least put any supernatural fears to rest.
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