Night of Fire

by Barbara Samuel

  It was instinct again that made him straighten, take a breath, and look into her face. Sensation made her eyes limpid, and her mouth was parted the slightest bit, but he did not kiss her. Taking her hand, he drew her to the table. "Some wine now, I think," he said, and poured it.

  "But—"

  He grinned wickedly. "What?"

  She looked at him, and then at herself in the gauzy covering. "Weren't we in the middle of something?"

  He pressed the glass into her hand. "We still are." He drank some wine and leaned in to kiss her with that taste on his tongue, then pulled back and laughed at the astonishment on her face.

  "But I liked what we were doing."

  "I saw that you did." He drank a little more, plucked an olive, and chewed the fruit away from the pit. He was extraordinarily aware of his body, perhaps because of her gaze touching him everywhere. He felt the brush of his hair along his shoulders, the clasp of his boots on his feet, the air on his chest and belly, the earnest and eager thrust of his sex. He gave her a marzipan strawberry. "You will like this, too."

  "Not as much."

  He laughed. "Such a rebellious student."

  "What are you teaching me?"

  "Anticipation." He found another olive that pleased him, put it between his lips, and sucked on it.

  "Sensuality is everywhere, not only in sex."

  She licked her bottom lip, and he had the sudden sense that it was deliberate, that gesture— and it had the effect she wished. He found his own tongue moving in his mouth, wanting to rub against hers. Her nostrils flared, in amusement and arousal.

  "What is it you think when you stare at my tongue that way?" she asked.

  He put his glass down, and took hers. "I'll show you." He took her hand and led her to the bed. He sat there and pulled her into his lap, her legs straddling his waist, her sex pressed close to his. He waited a moment. "Is this all right?"

  Her hands were on his shoulders and he felt their faint tremble, but she wiggled a little closer. He grinned.

  "Yes," she said. "I like it."

  "Excellent." He brushed his mouth over hers, asking invitation, which she gave, and he parried, drew out her tongue, then brushed it with his own. He groaned softly when she followed his lead, then parried on her own, sliding her tongue along his lips, into his mouth, drawing him back into hers. For a long time it was enough, the dance of their kiss, and he felt the press of her sex into him, hotter and hotter, and even a little restless movement that took him too close to completion.

  Gently, he lifted her from his lap, unable to form explanations as he pushed her backward into the pile of pillows, bending over her breasts to taste them as he untied the chemise drawstring. He tugged the fabric from her, never ceasing his ministrations until the cloth touched his mouth, and he lifted his head only long enough to uncover her before his mouth claimed the hot, pointed flesh again.

  She moaned, and he raised his head. "Oh, please, Basilio," she whispered. "I do like that, very much.

  Don't stop."

  "There is more, my sweet." He went back to it, and at the same time, slid the chemise upward as well as down, so it bunched in a pool around her waist, leaving all else bare. She shied away a little when his hand lit on her thigh, but he rolled his tongue over her nipple, fast, then slow, and she quieted again. Very gently, he curved his fingers around her thigh, feeling a loosening in her hips that let him go closer, closer

  —a whisper of hair on his hand, the heat below it. A brush over the dampness, a tease of his fingers, then slow fingers between her legs. She went rigid for a minute and he stilled immediately, though he did not remove his hand. He shifted to one elbow to look into her face, and she opened her eyes as he bent over her. Kissed her lightly. "You are so beautiful, Cassandra. I can barely breathe for all the beauty."

  He kissed her and moved his fingers the slightest bit, feeling her tenseness give way under his mouth, under his hand. He stroked her and felt the ease more, then felt her fall into the pleasure of it. She closed her eyes and her head moved restlessly, and he kissed her throat, and her breasts, and moved his hand against her with long, lazy strokes—longer, harder, until she was quivering. "Shall I stop now?" he whispered.

  "Oh, no. No. No!" Her body drew up and her head went back, and she convulsed around him, violently.

  Her arms went around his shoulders, and her teeth marked his shoulder as she reared, was stolen, taken far from him. When she fell back again he fell beside her, breathing hard, and when she would have taken his hand away, he did not let her. "Not yet," he whispered, feeling the tremors still shaking her in rhythmic bursts. He knew this much, knew how to coax them along. But to his amazement, they slowed, and slowed, but then the tension was back again— and another wave shook her, almost as violently as the first time.

  Her hand went around his wrist, tight as a vise. "Wait," she cried raggedly.

  "If you wish," he said raggedly, his words slurred with heat. "But I will tell you that right now, in this very moment when you are so soft and shivery, you will like the way I feel inside of you. Are you ready to try that?"

  "I'm not sure," she said. Then, "No." She sat up abruptly and Basilio fell on the pillows, hiding his disappointment, a disappointment that eased when she gathered the chemise from around her waist and pulled it off, throwing it carelessly behind her. Her hair tumbled in glorious disarray over her arms and shoulders and breasts, and there was no shyness as she moved close to him, bending over him as he'd bent over her. "Let me touch you first," she whispered, and kissed him. "Can you bear waiting just a little more?"

  Dizzy with her beauty, with the sorcery of her hands on his body, he nodded. "Anything you like."

  She touched him as she had before, running her hands over his torso, touching his neck and nipples and the length of his arms. He watched her, his hand resting lightly on the curve of her hip, and knew that this would be forever imprinted in his mind—that poetry for the rest of his life would contain the curve of her white breast, shifting softly with her movements; would be lit with the fire of her hair and the darkness of her eyes, touching him in curiosity and admiration. Her hands grew bolder, moving on his thighs, and over his sex, and finally to the fastenings of his breeches.

  "Shall I help you now?" he offered.

  "Yes." She rocked back on her knees, her hands folded primly on her thighs, and not over the tangle of curls higher, which he loved. He lifted his hips and quickly skimmed away the last covering he wore, and kicked them away. Then he lay back, revealed to her.

  There was a little fear. More than a little.

  "A fearsome thing, no?" he said, gesturing to his sex. With a grin, he winked. "We men all think so."

  There was only a hint of a smile in return. Act-ing on instinct, he touched himself firmly. "Only silly flesh."

  He took her hand and pressed it there. "See?"

  Their hands tangled over his organ, and Basilio's breath caught when her nipples pearled. Lifting a little, he captured one in his mouth. "We can touch together, you see?"

  Her hand moved on him, hesitantly, top to bottom. "It's very hot," she whispered.

  He chuckled. "Yes."

  "And really—I hope you do not mind me saying—kind of silly."

  He nuzzled her breast, let his hand fall on her thigh, teased close to her heat again, and she made a soft sigh. Basilio suddenly remembered that she had not been afraid when she straddled him earlier, and he sat up. "You will be the mistress, I only your servant," he said raggedly, and pulled her gently to him.

  "Remember, any moment, I will cease. You need only say to stop."

  She nodded, her eyes very large. He felt tension in her arms as he settled her atop him as they had been before, but now with no barrier between them. Her breasts pressed into his chest, pliant and supple, as he kissed her, moving his hands over her back. Her arms softened, fell around his neck, and she breathed, "I am ready, Basilio."

  He shifted then, his arms trembling with desire and the need for
strength, until she lay on her back, her legs around his waist, her eyes open as he knelt over her. He kissed her, and then, with all the control he could muster, eased into her—only the smallest bit at a time, gauging her reaction at each move. It was agony. It was heaven. He died and lived at the quivering around him, the sweet slick heat.

  With a low groan, Cassandra suddenly arched upward, hard, and pulled him into her, her arms and legs fierce and sure. "Oh!" she cried breathlessly, "you were right. It does feel wonderful."

  Basilio finally allowed himself to move. And when she met him gladly, he managed to keep control for a little while more, just a little, till he coaxed her over the edge once more, and he was at last free himself to let go.

  It was not like anything he had known, but a deep, almost agonizing pleasure that spread from his groin through his legs and up his spine, and into his arms, and his mouth. He kissed her with a kind of roar, and she took his hair in her fists and locked her arms tight around him and arched high, taking him, all of him, crying out his name.

  He dropped his head into her neck, shattered, his hands trembling, his chest heaving. And not only from exertion, but from a wild burning emotion in him—a fierce and pained recognition that he had nearly let her go, his Cassandra.

  Cassandra lay against him, spent and sated, a languorousness in her limbs that she had never dreamed existed. His hand covered her breast. "I have never felt this, not in all my life, Cassandra." His voice was slow, and she closed her eyes.

  "Nor have I," she whispered around that thudding in her chest. She rolled to her side, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

  "Basilio—" She stopped, hardly knowing what to say. "It is a terrible thing when a writer has no words,"

  she said at last. "But there are none for what I'm feeling now."

  His hand cupped her cheek. "All the words that ever come from me hence will have Cassandra in them."

  His lips twitched faintly. "Cassandra's breasts and Cassandra's eyes and"—he rose to one elbow, bent over her, his hair falling around his face in that heavy extravagance— "Cassandra's legs and Cassandra's kiss…"

  She did not trust excess, in anything. "You do love to show off."

  "No," he said soberly, and he put his hand on her belly. "I am a most earnest poet who yearns to express what cannot be said. If the perfection of moments is the purpose of our lives, then I must surely be close to death, for I cannot imagine a moment more perfect than this."

  "Basilio—"

  "I am most sincere, Cassandra. My heart is alive with all the songs, and my soul weeps with pleasure, and my body cannot think of anything else. You are rare, and I am blessed."

  Her heart, already full, burst entire at that. She put her hands in his hair and pulled him down to her, letting her lips and her hands express her feelings in the oldest way. She kissed his mouth and his brow, his chin and his eyelids. She kissed his throat, and the lobe of his ear. "There is no other man in the world but you," she said at last. "None."

  "And no other woman but you."

  And somehow, they were making love again, and this time Cassandra felt not even a tiny nudging of fear.

  In her freedom, she was wanton and drunk on him, and even screamed, which made him laugh. Then they were both laughing, and that was even better.

  Spent at last, they curled amid the covers and pillows, cradled close, and shared cheese and cool well water.

  "Now we shall tell stories," Basilio said.

  "Stories?"

  He lifted one eyebrow wickedly. "We have not got to the third day. Or is it the fourth?"

  "Certainly we've made it to the fifth or sixth by now."

  "Then tell me a tale, Cassandra." His hands moved on her back, easy and smooth. "I cannot remember what sort of tale is to be said for the fifth or sixth day."

  Somehow she could not recall, either. She slid a little closer, pressing her hips close to his. "There was a woman who lived in London, who had lost her courage in a terrible marriage, and had come to believe the only good men God had ever made were her brothers and father."

  He gazed down at her, his thick-lashed eyes very sober. "And what happened to her?"

  "A letter arrived from a stranger in a faraway land: a letter that brought with it the scent of the sea and olive trees. The images and words were very beautiful, and the woman wanted to know more about any man who had such beauty in him. She thought he must be a middle aged scholar, balding and sincere."

  Basilio's eyes crinkled. "She did not imagine him to be the most virile and handsome of all men?"

  "Oh, not at all. Quite dull, really, since the woman's experience had taught her virile, handsome men often had little else to recommend them."

  "Ah, poor thing. She should have traveled to Italy, where she could have found a fine stallion."

  Cassandra laughed low in her throat. "Are you telling my story?"

  "No, no. Please continue."

  "So she wrote to her balding scholar and painted a picture of herself that would reassure him: a widow who'd made her own way and cared little for the conventions of society. Over the months they shared many letters, telling their deepest thoughts to one another, secrets they had not shared with any other. It was safe, you see."

  "Yes." The word was a whisper.

  "But all of that changed when the man challenged the woman to be brave and see his country, and she recklessly took his invitation."

  He pushed against her a little, wickedly. "And then she discovered a virile stallion."

  She shook her head. "She discovered a man who was beautiful inside and out, when she had despaired of ever knowing such a man."

  He kissed her and she kissed him back, stroking his body, his back and arms and hips. "Thank you, Basilio," she whispered.

  He tugged her close to him, and exhausted, they slept.

  Chapter 8

  Cassandra awakened to puddles of buttery light flooding into a room she did not quite recognize. She grew aware that she was entirely naked, and that she was not alone, and in a startled remembrance, turned over. Basilio lay on his belly, his long, vigorous body wholly revealed. One knee was cocked and his hands were flung over his head, and his hair, thick and black, fell on his sleeping face.

  Such a violence of emotions rose in her that she had to close her eyes, and breathe, and then open them again. A shadow of beard had grown on his lip and chin, making him appear older, yet his luxuriant hair and lashes made her see the boy he'd been. His body was sturdy and strong, with weight across the shoulders and suppleness down his long back. He was in no way fat, but she liked the substantial look of him, his healthy robustness. The curve of buttock to thigh seemed suddenly vulnerable, and she wanted to cover him protectively, but realized with a smile that she, equally bare, was as vulnerable as he. Together they would remain revealed.

  The freedom pleased her, and with an odd sense of her own self, she rose and walked to the table clothed only in her hair. She had never been naked like this in her life, simply walking from one place to another with nothing on, not even in a private room, all alone. It made her feel wild and free and brave to do it, to stand by the table in a bar of sunlight and see her own breasts touched with light, even to see the beautiful glitter in the hair on her belly and thighs, glinting red.

  She poured water and drank it, resisting the voices that warned her she was a wanton, wicked thing for enjoying this, for loving the feel of her own flesh on her own bones. Defying them, she put the glass down and stretched her arms above her head, revealing even more to the kiss of sun.

  When she turned back to the bed Basilio had shifted position, his head at the foot of the bed where his feet had been, his head propped on his hands. He smiled sleepily. "I cannot imagine a more dazzling sight."

  Given leave, she raised her hands again and whirled in a circle for his pleasure, then dashed back to join him, tackling him happily, her arms around his shoulders, her breasts pressed into his back. "I am a goddess," she cried. "That's what you've done for
me."

  He laughed, wiggling a little as she brushed her fingers down his side, discovering to her delight that he was quite ticklish. "Stop that."

  "Are you one of those men who awakens in an ill-temper?"

  "No." He looked at her above the curve of his elbow. "I am only very ticklish." He lay his head on his arm and reached for her. "Today we travel to Firenze for the opera, and perhaps we will have time there this afternoon to work."

  "Work? I have no desire to work. Especially not in Florence!"

  "Ah, but we must." A lift of one dark brow. "It is my duty to see that you spend time with Boccaccio while you wander his world." He brushed hair from her face. "And I will attempt to capture the wonder that is Cassandra in my humble poetry."

  "Must we sit inside? Is there not some fine piazza?" She frowned, suddenly realizing that she was perhaps indiscreet. "Oh! Do you wish for me to remain hidden? Is your betrothed there?"

  A flicker of something in his eyes, then it was gone. He looked at their hands, tangled together. "She is no longer my betrothed, Cassandra."

  "What?"

  "I could not be so dishonorable as to give my love to you while another believed me inviolate." He raised his dark, sober eyes. "She wishes to be a nun, and I wrote and told her to take her vows, and wrote my father to break the betrothal."

  Cassandra went very still. "I will not be a wife, Basilio. Only your lover."

  His lips curved and he lifted her hand to kiss her palm. "I know."

  But she saw that he did not believe her, that he believed she could be charmed to his view, soon or late.

  "Do not make me say this again, Basilio."

  "I should not have told you."

  She slipped her hand from his grip, frowning a little. "Perhaps not."

  For long moments, there was silent awkwardness between them. Cassandra thought to pull the sheet over her shoulder, but only sat with her back to him, reluctant even now to hide her newborn freedom.