Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  “Ah. So your father enchants people to part with their money. Just like mine.”

  The development was on the far side of Ashvale. All through the ten-minute journey, Sam had sat laughing in the passenger seat. Still cross and resolutely businesslike, Rosie tried to ignore him as she led him down the side path. The back garden was an oblong of churned soil. Inside, the house was unfinished, all plaster and dust sheets.

  “We can go inside to make coffee,” she continued. “There are usually workmen around.”

  “Oh, good,” he said. “My virtue’s safe, then.”

  Rosie prodded his arm to make him look at her. “My fairy glens don’t happen without a lot of hard work,” she said gravely. “It will be tough.”

  “Are you serious?” he said. “You’d really consider me?”

  “Looks like it. You asked for it, you’ve got it.”

  Sam grinned. “Anything to piss off Matthew.”

  “One of these days,” she said tightly, “I am going to chain all three of you to a bloody great rock and drop you in the river. Jon too, while I’m at it.”

  “I’ve got the picture, sweetheart. Matthew grooms Alastair as his devoted protégé. Then he marries you off to each other and hey presto, he’s in complete control of his tiny empire. Foxy cunning.”

  “And you think you’ll have a go at pulling my strings too?” she said crisply. “Get the tools from the truck. You can turn the soil and pick out all the stones and builders’ crap. I’ll fetch my plan and start marking things out.”

  “Yes, boss,” he answered, startled.

  She made him work hard. It felt good to watch him digging the winter-heavy soil. She was punishing him a little. Sam was fit, she had to concede. He uttered not a word of complaint but his eyes gleamed sardonically at her, as if he knew her game and was defying her to break him.

  There were two workmen inside, fitting kitchen units. After a couple of hours, one of them stuck his head out and called, “We’ve finished here for the day, Mrs. Duncan; can you lock up when you go?”

  “Sure,” she called back. When they’d gone, she went inside and switched on the kettle. She needed a break. The house felt strange with no one there, raw and echoic. It was like stepping into another world. “Leave your boots outside,” she said as Sam followed her. “They get mad if we tread mud on their nice new tiles. Coffee?”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Duncan,” he said mockingly.

  As she made drinks, she was acutely aware of Sam’s presence, the sweat of his work-hot body and of her own, mingling with the smell of new wood and plaster. They stood sipping their coffee, Sam leaning against the sink, Rosie at right-angles against a worktop. Now she had calmed down, she felt tongue-tied. Funny, she’d never been lost for words with him before.

  “This is different,” he said.

  “The coffee? Is it bad?”

  “No, this situation. Being your employee.” He winked at her. “I rather like it.”

  “I’m not working you hard enough, then,” she said.

  She meant it to be a quick break. The slate tiles felt cold through her socks. Sam was behaving impeccably, but what was he thinking? She saw an awful vision of the future; a pleasant secure life with Alastair on the surface, but in secret—in the underworld—snatched frantic moments with Sam, rough and hot, almost violent, compelling, decadent and rotten with guilt. God, it would be so easy. And in the end, it would kill her.

  “Come on, we can do another hour.” As she leaned past him to put her mug in the sink, pain caught her left shoulder. She lifted her opposite hand to soothe it.

  “What’s up?” Sam asked.

  “Pulled something. Must have been bending over for too long.”

  “That would be impossible.”

  His eyes gleamed so wickedly that she had to bite down on a smile, despite herself. “Can I say anything without you finding a lascivious innuendo in it?”

  “You have to seize every chance you get, love,” he said. “Turn around.”

  She did so, presenting her back to him. His hands came down on her shoulders and began to knead. The heat and pressure felt amazing. The sweet pain as his fingers worked into the ache was so exquisite that her head fell back and she groaned out loud. His mouth came close to her ear. “That good, eh?”

  “Oh god, yes,” she whispered.

  The strong fingers went on working deep into her. She went weak at the knees, letting herself relax against him so that their legs touched, half intertwined, her bottom nestling into his hips. She realized that the hard ridge pressing into the small of her back was not his hipbone.

  After a few minutes his hands came to rest on her shoulders, transmitting heat, sliding gently around her as she turned to face him. They looked at each other. He wasn’t smiling now; his expression was somber, his beautiful lips parted. Everything changed. “Better?” he asked.

  “I didn’t know you could do that.” Her voice was low, her breathing steady but fast. Then they just stood there, looking softly into each other’s eyes, neither making a move.

  “I’m thinking that cold tiles and plastic sheeting don’t look very inviting.” Sam’s voice was unsteady. “Every time I’m with you, I want you so badly I can’t see straight. But if it’s going to end with you running away, tearing yourself up with guilt and hating me, I’m not doing it anymore. You’re using me, Rosie. I suppose I deserve it. But even scum has pride, you know.”

  “And you’re not using me?” She drew herself taller, noticed his gaze flick to her breasts as she did so. “Laughing at me because I put on this indignant pose of being a happily married woman, when you know that I collapse into a complete mess every time you touch me?”

  “I’m not laughing at you.” He stroked her cheek. “Never that.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t get a malevolent thrill out of what we’ve done. It’s all over your face when you look at Alastair. You love it.”

  “Well . . . yeah.” He tipped his head to one side. “So?”

  “This is a game to you.”

  “How else do I get to play with you?” His hands tightened on her shoulders. His eyes turned fiery. Blue-green fire. “You think I’m dirt. You think I’m easy.”

  Rosie laughed. “You are easy, Sam!”

  “Well, yes, okay, I’m a tart. For you. But I can’t go on being your sex slave, Rosie. I can’t.”

  “You haven’t even started yet.” She stood gazing into his eyes, pulling her lower lip between her teeth, feeling the blood rush into it. Sam’s eyes softened as he looked at the lip, entranced. Everything went still inside her. All of her good resolutions evaporated like mist—being honest, she knew they’d never been anything but vapor—and in their place a deeper, Aetherial self took over; one that could set aside human conscience in order to hunt down the truth. Her voice low, she asked, “Will you come upstairs with me?”

  “Oh, I’ll have to think really hard about that,” he whispered. “Why?”

  “I need to know,” she said simply.

  “Need to know what?”

  Rosie didn’t answer. Her other-self felt as purposeful as a wolf and slightly crazy, as if she’d entered a trance. She took his hand and led him into the hallway, up the sweep of the stairs. Sunlight sparkled through the windows, illuminating specks of dust. There was carpet on the landing, protected by a plastic runner.

  “It’s going to be the show house, you see,” she said. “All beautifully furnished to attract the buyers. They’ve almost finished up here.” She pushed open the door to the master bedroom. “Nice, isn’t it?”

  The room was inviting; simple yet opulent, glowing in diffuse sunbeams, with an acre of creamy carpet and plain silk curtains of palest gold. Three walls were painted biscuit, and the fourth—facing the door and framing a huge double bed—was deep burgundy. The bed was dressed with layered silken covers and scattered with cushions in the same shades of coffee, pale gold and dark rich plum. Beaded fringes glittered. The burgundy against the softer colors was em
otive, almost visceral, like blood.

  “I’d buy it,” said Sam, a bit hoarse.

  Rosie closed the door behind them, quickly discarding her un-erotic socks behind his back. “You still want to see me naked?” she asked. She was shaking a little now, hardly able to believe she was doing this.

  “Uh,” said Sam, his face a picture of astonishment. “Yes. Of course. God, please.”

  “I want to see you, too. Lie on the bed. Pull the covers back first; we don’t want to get into trouble for creasing all that beautiful silk.”

  He obeyed, and now he actually looked nervous, startled by a Rosie he’d never seen before. He pulled off his jacket and threw it on the floor, settled back against pillows and white linen.

  “One condition,” she said. “No touching.”

  “None at all?”

  “Not until I say so. Promise.”

  “Fine, I promise. This isn’t a horrible practical joke, is it?” he asked, half-smiling. “You get me naked and then all the workmen burst in with cameras?”

  “Sam,” she said, and pressed a fingertip to her lips. “Shh.”

  She began to peel off her clothes. Not the most glamorous garments in the world, but he watched enraptured. She slid her jeans over her hips, stepped out of them. Flexed upwards to remove her T-shirt, her hair falling in a static cloud as she discarded it. And it was like shedding the veil of her everyday self: the self that kept pretending she was fine and didn’t want or need Sam. In her panic of denial, she’d relinquished mastery to Sam, given him free license to manipulate her desires and fears. All along, he’d been winning the game. Now it was time to reclaim her power.

  In lacy bra and briefs of darkest crimson, she twirled, looking back at him over her shoulder as she did so. He must realize she didn’t usually wear expensive underwear to work. No, Sam, this was a mistake, this is never happening again, she kept saying, and yet she’d taken to wearing satin and lace under her clothes . . . just in case.

  Time to stop pretending.

  She was self-conscious at first; but Sam’s reaction, his parted lips and shining eyes, gave her confidence. She leaned over him, hands on either side of his chest. He tried to rise, his mouth questing for her.

  “Ah-ah-ah. No touching.”

  “Oh god, Rosie . . .”

  “Put your hands behind your head. Keep them there.”

  He was wearing a charcoal-grey shirt. She undid the first two buttons and pushed her hand inside, palm flat against his chest. He smelled wonderful. Warm skin, fresh sweat, and the earthy, aphrodisiac fragrance he used that always drove her mad. She felt the quick rise and fall of his rib cage, the beating of his heart. She went on unbuttoning the shirt, then swooped to kiss his chest. He exclaimed in surprise.

  As she slid the shirt off him, her eyes blurred. His torso was lovely, so lean and beautifully muscled, shoulders just broad enough. She pulled off his socks, and even his feet were strong and perfect, like those of a classical statue. Then to his jeans . . . she ran her fingers inside the waistband, caressing downwards until she grazed a fingertip over warm, tumescent flesh. He tensed. She looked back at his face and saw his eyes were closed. He was trembling.

  Rosie caught her breath. This was too much fun. This was incredible.

  His jeans and black briefs fell to the floor. As she stood back to admire him she felt tears in her eyes, gathering and spilling. Long legs and narrow hips and English-pale skin. Angular, sensual face resting back between his folded arms, his mouth and eyelashes feminine against the male planes. Smooth chest. Hair brushed back, dark at the roots then bronze, then tipped with gold and already a bit tousled. Oh, dear gods, she thought, he really is gorgeous. She studied the dark curls at his groin, the stiff, magnificent rise of the wand, a deeper reddish purple against the pale skin. She realized she’d never really seen it before; felt it, certainly, but never had the chance to admire it. It was all part of his beauty, and gods, so exciting. The sweet ache inside her was growing unbearable.

  Sam opened his eyes. “Christ, I thought you’d left the room.”

  “Just looking.” She smiled.

  “I wish I could take a photo of you ‘just looking.’ Your face . . .”

  “Am I what you hoped for?” she said, coming close to him.

  “You know it,” he said helplessly. “Can I at least touch the lacy bits?”

  “Patience,” she murmured. And she leaned down to take him in her mouth, gently tasting, finding the surface as smooth and delicate as the inside of her own cheek. Sam gasped and groaned, but she released him, smiling as he propped himself on his elbows to stare at her.

  “Bloody hell, are you trying to torture me?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said with a grin.

  She rose, put her hands to her hips and slid out of the wisp of lace. Control. That was what it was about. She’d given it all away to him and now she was taking it back. And realizing how complete her power over him could be, she felt a thrill of nervous excitement, felt herself blossoming into the true, wild, authentic Rosie she had never been before.

  “Is this nice?” she asked.

  Sam watched spellbound, as helpless as if she’d handcuffed him. Here she was at last—exactly as he’d dreamed but a thousand times better because she was really here, her compact body as neat and smooth as ivory, and the lovely lines of her stomach leading into the promise of that dark, fleecy triangle. Only her breasts were still concealed by crimson lace. Her scent was all around him, clean, warm and divine with arousal.

  “Is this nice?” she asked, as if genuinely uncertain. That faint blush of innocence drove him beyond reason. She looked as if she had never, ever shown herself off like this before, and was startled to realize her own glorious power.

  He guessed, almost in disbelief, that no one had ever told her how amazing she was.

  “God, yes,” he croaked. He couldn’t find the words. “Understatement of the century. No tattoos. Where’s Shrek?”

  She ran her hands down her waist, hips swaying. “No scales. No leaves, no wing buds. Just my skin. Do you like it, Sam?”

  “Rosie,” he said, blood rushing haywire through him. “You don’t expect actual words, do you? You can see how much I like you. As compliments go, will that do as a down payment?”

  He smiled at her and she smiled back; a truly warm smile from the heart that he’d never had from her before. The tip of her tongue came out and touched her lips. “All right, you can touch me.” Leaning down to his jacket, she picked up a black leather glove that had fallen from his pocket. She pulled the glove onto his right hand and added, “But only with this.”

  “You’re crazy,” he said, startled and strangely delighted.

  “Yes, I am,” she agreed. “Be creative.”

  He flexed the encased hand. “Oh, I will.”

  Rosie knelt on the bed and settled herself across his hips, gasping at the delicious rigid pressure of him against her. The sensations were almost unbearably sweet. Sam’s gloved hand went everywhere, caressing, worshipping; tracing her shoulders, her neck, her collarbones. She leaned down to him and let him undo the clasp of her bra. As her breasts came free, he craned upwards to kiss them. Rosie moaned. Okay, he was bending the rules a bit, but she didn’t try to stop him.

  “Oh my god, at last,” he murmured, teasing with lips and tongue until she was close to dissolving. “So beautiful . . .”

  She sat up, arching her spine. The glove traveled up and down her arms, across her belly, creating thistledown lines of electricity. The leather felt incredible, like sensuous alien skin. Her head fell back. She began to move on him, couldn’t stop herself. In a blinding rush of light they exploded on each other. Crimson light and zinging, muscular ecstasy, as intense as pain. Sam was moving under her, gasping. Probably the whole building site had heard them, but she was past caring. The outside world had ceased to exist.

  In that golden, hallucinatory moment, Rosie drew her hand over the damp skin of Sam’s chest, drawing swirls and spirals,
then running her fingers in the same designs over herself from pelvis to throat. Drawing Otherworld runes.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered. His eyes were half-closed and shining. He clearly couldn’t believe this wild, unsuspected Rosie.

  “Anointing us,” she said solemnly. “Covering us in each other.”

  “You know it will never wash away?” Sam pulled off the glove and threw it on the carpet. “May I touch yet?”

  “Oh—yes,” she groaned. “Please. Everything.”

  He was still as hard as ever. He gave a conspiratorial smile, as if to say, Surely you didn’t think I’d finished? Dizzy and sensitized, she slid onto him, holding her breath as he filled her. Every nerve flowed with energy. She’d never known such bliss and it was scary, because how could anyone come back from this?

  She felt cotton gliding against her back and realized he’d grabbed his shirt and was draping it over her. He was gripping the fabric on both sides, using it to ease her against him. “I’m not sure I’m ready to touch you yet,” he said.

  “Sadist,” she breathed.

  “It takes two.” His thumbs brushed lightly against her arms. He held her shoulders, palms hot through the shirt. “Now you’ll smell of me,” he said. “And when I put it back on, it will smell of you. Hot, glowing Rosie. And I’ll never wash it again.”

  “Nice,” she said. Underneath the flippant asides an ocean was surging. What does it mean, that we will always be covered in each other and never able to wash it away? Does it mean anything at all, or is this just sex, incredible sex, but nothing else? How can there be any such thing as just sex, when it’s like this, like the whole universe turning inside out?

  “I’m no good, Rosie,” Sam murmured as he moved under her, eyes lambent. “You always saw it. That’s why you shied away from me. It’s why I couldn’t do the decent thing and leave you alone. I’m wicked.”

  “You’re bad,” she agreed, voice rough. “And you’re proud of it. That’s why I want you. And you want me because you can’t have me.”