by Viva Fox
Ana smiled at him, shrugging. "Sure. I can't promise he'll listen, but—"
Will beamed, throwing his arms around Ana's neck in an exaggerated hug. "Thank you so much! Seriously! He'll totally listen to you, all he does is talk about you anyw—"
"Leave." Castor's steps were brisk, book in hand as he came barreling down the aisle.
"Yep!" Will practically hopped away.
Ana's shoulders shook with a silent laugh, lips pressed firmly in a poor display of disapproval. "Don't be so mean."
Castor tossed his book on top of the shelf. "Why?"
"He's just a kid."
"What does it matter if he's a kid or an adult? At what age do you deem it appropriate for treating someone like the annoying and useless little asshole they are?"
"He was hardly being an asshole."
He leaned back against the shelf she was sorting through, arms crossed and giving her a blatant once-over. "I don't like people who can't get to the point."
He leaned in toward her abruptly, eyes playful and brighter somehow. "Speaking of which, how's Vincent? Still dancing around his burning desire to fuck you?"
She pinned him with an open look of hurt, before narrowing her eyes and dismissing him. "Not half as often as you."
"Ouch. Clever girl."
Ana sighed and placed her book back on the shelf. "Go outside. People can hear us."
They walked under the threat of rain to the small park that divided the avenue between tourist-antiquing-haven and functional, every day shops.
Ana lit a cigarette, content to let him stare at her while the smoke filled the space between them.
She blew a cloud straight in his face, marveling at his preternatural stillness. She'd never seen him so much as flinch or blink. "Where do you disappear to?"
The hint of a smile played on his lips. "What are you worrying about, Ana?"
"Only curious. Indulge me."
He shrugged, looking down the avenue toward the fish market. "I have a family in Bar Harbor. Can't always stay away."
Ana tensed, her face apparently not quite as masked or impassive as she would've liked to believe it.
He rolled his eyes. "Gullibility doesn't suit you."
She smacked him on the arm, fingers burning slightly from the cold touch of his skin. "I don't know anything about you. Why shouldn't I believe you?"
"You know enough. Knowing everything would be boring anyway, wouldn't it? No one will ever know my mind, just as no one will ever know yours. Keeps things interesting."
"Why do you do that?"
"What?"
"Deflect with these glib platitudes when you don't like my question."
That earned her a smile. "Found me out."
It was the first time she'd seen his teeth, a full-blown and genuine smile that transformed the severity of his features into someone so prepossessing she was left disarmed.
She cleared her throat and mumbled, "As good an answer as any, I suppose. Anyway, what did you want?"
"Let me stay over." His tone was low and serious enough to stir her pulse.
"No."
"I'll be good. I swear. I'll just sit on the couch, properly intriguing and sullen. You could write one of your stories about me."
"As tempting as that sounds, I think I'll pass."
He leaned in toward her and inhaled. "I don't have to be good, if that excites you more."
"Answer my question and I'll consider it."
"Which?"
"Where do you go during the day? Where do you disappear to when you leave?"
"Into the woods."
"Don't fuck with me. Be serious."
"I am. That's where I go."
His earlier comment rang true. "Whatever, I should be getting back. I'm tired."
He grabbed her arm, releasing slowly as though he'd just realized how much pressure he'd applied.
"Please."
"Why?"
"You're not any more tired than I am. I'll be gone again for a few days, and the only thing I want is to share the same space as you before I do. Please."
How could she refuse that? Even if she'd told herself otherwise, rehearsed it even, it's what she wanted.
******
Castor entered the house and went immediately to the hallway toward her room. "Which is yours?"
"Last on the right."
She stepped through the doorway to see him opening the drawers in her dresser, peering inside before he moved to the closet and began shoving pieces of her clothes to the side, occasionally stretching a shirt or dress out from its hanger to inspect it closer.
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing? Rifling through your personal effects."
He moved to the desk next, picking up and observing the few pieces of jewelry and photographs strewn across the top. He picked up a thin sliver of a chain she'd purchased on a whim once in Argentina. She'd never worn it.
"Can I have this?" He asked, dangling it in the air as he continued to flip over photographs.
"Why?"
"How old are you? Stop asking that. Not everything needs a reason."
Something about Castor made her want to give him everything in her possession. "Sure. It's yours."
He pocketed it with satisfaction, turning to face her with a clap of his hands. "So. What are we going to write about me tonight?"
An hour or so later he lay stretched across her sofa, feet dangling over one end, arms behind his head. Rain began to pelt down on the roof, drowning out her nerves and settling her into a lull. She couldn't shake the image of Castor's head between her legs, the urgency she'd felt in his hands as he'd gripped her tight. The way he looked at her as if she'd struck a match and lit it at his feet.
She slapped her laptop closed from where she lay on the floor across from him.
"I don't think I'll get anything else done tonight. Sorry if I'm boring you."
He shifted on his side, fully facing her. "You can't imagine how infinite my patience is."
"Try me."
He slid down from the couch and crawled toward her, stopping to hover just inches above her, legs straddled over either side. "I'm perfectly willing to wait years, lifetimes even, to get what I want."
Ana's lips twitched in amusement. "You promised you'd be good."
His expression was grave, voice quiet as he leaned further in, lips a whisper against hers. "The only time I'm good is with you."
He kissed her deep and slow, languishing. She felt him press against her, hard and yearning. She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth as he ran a hand down her side and under her sundress, kneading the space between her hip and ribs. Then he sat back on his knees, something predatory in the narrowing of his eyes as he looked her over.
"Will you undress for me?"
She felt as if she were on autopilot, under a strange spell as she sat up, ready to give him anything he asked as long as it pleased him. He took her hand and helped her to her feet, moving himself to sit on the couch as he faced her, standing shy in the middle of the living room floor.
She pulled the dress slowly over her head, more gracefully than she thought herself capable. His unabashed appreciation of her had made her bold. She unhooked her bra, letting it fall at her feet, then slipped noiselessly out of the small piece of lace around her hips. His eyes were dark and weighted with lust as he motioned for her to come nearer. Once her knees pressed against the couch, he pressed his face against her stomach, biting soft and slow around her hips and sides as he slid the flat of his palm between her legs, moved measured and agonizingly against her, left her wet and burning from his touch.
He rose to his feet, and began unbuttoning his shirt. He was lean and solid, surprising and exquisite. If they'd started out slowly, he was building the pace into something feverish—he pulled her with him to the floor and ran his nails along her rib cage, closing his mouth around her nipple and biting down lightly. She moaned out his name and he pinned her arms over her head, enclo
sing her wrists in one hand while the other pinched her clit hard and painful and fucking astounding.
He was worked up and panting, voice so deep it made her shiver. "Did he do this to you?"
She knew he meant Vincent, and though she felt a small wave of confusion, it did little to diffuse the sensation of his mouth searing across her neck. "Is that what you want to hear?"
He gave her that full blown smile again, something evil and magnificent. He worked his palm against her again, lips grazing her ear. "It turns out I have a perverse liking for jealousy."
She turned her head to snap at his lip, but he jerked away, grinning and wicked. "He was gentle," she panted. "Reverent."
He pinned her knee to the floor, pushed her leg wider and spread, then pinched her clit painfully until she cried out. "Is that how you want me to fuck you? Slow and gentle?" He pinched her again.
She shook her head, wringing a hand free to reach down and stroke him through his pants. "No. Not in the fucking slightest," she breathed.
He made a noise of pleasure deep in his throat, thoroughly delicious and primal. And then his hands were off of her, unzipping and tossing his pants to the side, crouching back down over her. She lifted onto her elbows and he pulled her up by the waist to straddle him, his fingers digging into her flesh with a fever. Castor pulled her down onto him sharply, filling her so perfectly and fully that she moaned into his mouth as he moved her hips with him, hard and circular. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her chest tightly against his. He assaulted her neck, working his way up to bite down on her lower lip, whispering "You're fucking perfect."
They tumbled backward, all of Castor's weight pressing her into the floor. He grabbed her by the hips and angled her upward, back forming a perfect arc as he pushed into her with abandon. If Ana had ever thought she'd been well-fucked before, she knew she'd had no idea until now. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop," she practically chanted it. With a fistful of her hair in one fist, he reached between her legs and applied the barest, slightest pressure to her swollen clit, thrusting into her until she came completely undone beneath him. He groaned and spilled into her, mouthing in a language she didn't understand against her.
******
Some days later, Ana was sprawled naked across the floor of her kitchen after he'd fucked her against the counter. He lay beside her, pretending to breathe heavily in rhythm with her as their fingers lightly touched and tangled.
She had been sullen and quiet that night, so he'd done the only thing he knew could make him feel close to her. Alive with her.
"What's the worst thing you've ever done?" Her voice was so quiet he might not have heard it if he were a normal man.
It surprised him, how little thought it took for him to answer. "Resignation."
She turned to look at him. Her lips were pink and raw, the sheer beauty of it almost impossible to him.
"What?"
He sighed heavily, turning to stare at the ceiling again. "I'm afraid the worst thing I've ever done is resign myself to the reality of me."
"That makes absolutely no sense to me, Castor."
He reached over, brushed three fingers lightly from her forehead down to the tip of her nose. He pressed a thumb to her lips. He couldn't help himself. "I know."
"I did something. Something terrible." To his total horror she had begun to cry. He felt the first twinge of true and painful regret creeping up through him. He knew what this was about, and until this moment had never considered just how heavily it may have weighed on her.
He rolled onto his stomach, cradling her face in his hands. This was his fault, and he couldn't believe how much he wanted to fix it. "Think for a moment. This something terrible. Will it matter to you in five years? Will it matter in ten? Will it matter to anyone other than you?"
"I don't know," she sobbed, turning into him to hide her face.
He held onto her, tilting her chin toward him.
"Remorse is ok, maybe even good. Can be its own kind of atonement and will pass in due time. You can designate a beginning and an end with remorse. But guilt is useless. Are you hearing me?"
She nodded her head, looking at him like he knew every secret, every stray thought and agenda, every dark corner of her.
"Carrying guilt won't make you a better person. It serves no one but you until it doesn't serve you at all, Ana."
"You don't know what I've done."
"Does anyone else?"
She shook her head.
She gasped as he slid his hand between her thighs, slow and lingering.
"Then throw it away. I'll help you."
THE END
Seized By My Soldier
I woke up, eyes wide and senses piqued, expecting him to be beside me. But of course he wasn't. Still, that didn't stop me from believing it for several groggy moments, thinking that at any point he would come emerging from the around the corner of the bedroom door, full and intact and as mine as he ever was.
I think there was a side of me that knew this to be a ridiculous notion, yet at the same time I just couldn't help but believe it to some degree, and I held my breath, thinking that it just had to be, and that his absence was the dream, as opposed to his return.
But as the minutes kept on ticking along, and as the morning continued to dawn, it became abundantly clear that I was holding out hope for nothing but disappointment, and that the reality I was hoping for was intent on eluding me as it did every morning.
Finally, it became ridiculous to keep expecting anything to change, and I had to give up, to face the facts, and to go on with my day as I did every single morning, deprived of what I truly wanted, what I longed for, and what seemed so lacking from my life that I could scarcely control myself over the loss.
Still, though, even after I knew that I was only deluding myself, and accepted the fact that that was what I was doing, I didn't yet have the drive to change things, to roll my ass out of bed and to go about my day without him. Instead, I closed my eyes for just a little bit longer, and inhaled a deep breath, holding it, and feeding my fantasies just a little bit more.
I imagined him there, in the bed beside me, his heat, his substance, his presence next to me like some life-preserving force. Thick and perfect, wrapping me up in his embrace, pulling me so deeply into himself it was like I was imprisoned in his flesh.
His kisses, so sweet, so gentle, as they softly brought me into the new day, so tender and so loving that they would leave me with nothing but happy thoughts for the whole day to come. I loved him, tasting my flesh like this, and God how I craved it now, and how I burned for the fact that I knew that it was so far separated from me.
And hell, even his scent I missed- not an especially wonderful scent first thing in the morning, and I'm sure this was mutually true. But the intimacy of it, the knowledge that what I inhaled was my own, property of yours truly, and myself property of him. God, how powerful scent can be, and how severe an absence it can be when it's taken away.
Still, even though I knew that I would find no luck in this regard, I took in a deep breath, praying to the God he believed in that there would still be some lingering essence, some remnant of the beautiful bastard to sustain me through this new day, even the faintest trace of him still hanging behind on the pillows to give me hope, to give me the knowledge that things could somehow be alright.
I began to grow desperate after a few seconds of this, actually burying my face in the pillow, practically smothering myself, thinking that there must be something, something I was just missing somehow, and that I would find it if I just kept trying.
But all there was to be found was the cool, neutral scent of fresh linen, empty and impersonal, pleasant under certain circumstances, but in my case disappointed as hell, and seeming to rob me of nearly every ounce of hope.
I began to feel suddenly like crying, like gushing out and dissolving into my own fears and sadness, and accordingly I yanked the comforter up over my head, burying myself beneath the blankets and encasing
myself in the warm, toasty oven of my own body heat. I dreamed for a while longer, or fantasized, one or the other, about his embrace, his touch, his caress, making me feel secure and able to handle everything going on around me, and carrying me through into the day as he'd always done when he was at home.
But then, after a while, I just couldn't do it anymore. I had to get up, and I was somewhat prompted into doing so by the sound of canine claws scratching against my bedroom door. I sniffed, then touched my cheeks, noticing that a slight stream of tears had begun to form along my flesh.
I dabbed them away, and then managed to pull myself up out of bed. I walked over toward the door, and pulled a plush bathrobe from the hook- I was wearing a tank top and panties, and knew that my dog's demands would require a little bit more concealment.