Her skin is coated with the stuff of galaxies—bits of stars and suns, moons and milky ways spangling her arms, her breasts. Darkness and the absence of darkness—pure, molten light—burns along her limbs, the sloped muscles of her stomach, the angles of her jaw and collarbones.
I stand back, the brush poised in my hand as I regard the canvas. I ache to see the painting I’ve created. It is raw and sure and perfect, and I know, undoubtedly, that it is the best thing I’ve ever done. There’s something empty inside of me now, because I’ve put so much of myself on the canvas. It's part of myself, and it is part of her—and, in this painting, the two of us are joined together forever, in a single moment cut from time.
The painting is finished.
The spell is broken.
But maybe…maybe there’s some time left. Just a little, before the rest of life moves on. Before everything changes.
I turn to Charaxus, and I drop the paintbrush into the jar of paint thinner, stepping toward her, stumbling toward her, as if I’m drunk on fumes, but I’m not. Not at all.
I don’t think I’ve ever been more clear-headed in my life.
I reach Charaxus, and I stand in front of her. I’m spattered with paint, and when she glances down at my arms, my stomach, my thighs, my face, I wonder what she sees. I painted galaxies on the canvas, and I wonder if that’s reflected in my arms, speckles of gold paint, of purple hues and brilliant blues, melting into my skin.
She is the subject that I have spent my whole life perfecting, my whole life painting. And here she stands before me, the metal in her hand the only thing truly sharp about her. Her hair falls over her shoulders, dry now, an ink-black mane that contains stars. There are storms in her eyes, reflecting the thunderheads outside, as she gazes at me, licking her lips, the scent of cinnamon, of spice, rising around her, drawing me to her, ever to her.
I've spent my life drawing closer to her...
“What—” she begins, questioning, but I raise my finger, and I press it against her full mouth. She sighs against my skin, but she falls silent, watching me, her bright blue eyes unreadable.
“You tasted me last night,” I tell her, the heat rising in my body, in my cheeks. We’re both naked, but it’s not just that. Looking at her, holding her gaze, having just brought her to life on my canvas…I’ve never felt more open, more vulnerable, more exposed.
And it’s electric, the shimmer of power radiating between us, as I press my finger against the softness of her mouth, as I feel her hot breath upon my skin.
I can’t breathe, can’t think, can only feel as I step forward, as Charaxus lets the tip of the katana sink to the floor, stepping forward, too, and then the paint across my breasts, my hips, my thighs, smears over her skin as we move together, the katana falling, metal clanging dully against the floor, forgotten.
“You tasted me last night,” I repeat, licking my lips as I stare up at her, as my voice falters, breaks, the need so raw I can hardly breathe. “Please,” I whisper, gazing from one eye to another, “let me taste you.”
Charaxus hesitates, pauses, her jaw tightening as her fingers curl at my elbows. She lowers her face to mine, and she presses her forehead against my own, her eyes tightly closed.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs to me, voice tight. “But no.”
My heart catches in my throat, and I close my eyes, too, feeling the warmth of the skin of her forehead against mine. It’s so tender how we stand, pressed together, and it is diametrically opposed to what she just told me.
No is no, and I must respect it. But as I’m nodding, as I’m pulling away, the euphoria of painting fading fast, knowing that this moment is about to end, knowing that Charaxus must start her quest, knowing that everything is about to shatter…she stops me.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and there is such exquisite anguish on her face as she stares down at me that I’m not sure what’s wrong. I press my fingers over her heart.
“Don’t be sorry,” I tell her, shaking my head. “It’s all right if—” But she interrupts me, raising her hand, cupping my cheek, staring down at me.
“No one has ever been that close to me,” she says simply then. “And you… You must know that you are the woman of my dreams, Mara. I cannot risk ruining that.”
“Wait…what?” I ask, but her jaw is tightening, and she shakes her head again, lifting her chin.
“I have dreamed of you all of my life.” Her voice is formal now, as if injecting formality into her tone will somehow distance her from the emotion of the moment. But her bright blue eyes are brimming with tears that she refuses to shed, and her jaw is so tense, she’s almost grinding her teeth. She breathes out, tries to relax—fails. “If you touch me…it will all be over,” she whispers. “Don’t you see? I won’t be what you wanted, and the dream… The dream will fall apart.”
“Hold on,” I tell her, and I soften my voice, my heart breaking as I stare up at this beautiful knight…this beautiful knight who stands before me, afraid. “Are you worried that I’d…that I wouldn’t like you? That I wouldn’t enjoy having sex with you?”
“I have never let a woman touch me,” admits Charaxus softly. “I have been…” She inhales deeply. “I do not wish to be that hurt. To let someone touch me, caress me, know my deepest parts…and then leave me... It is too vulnerable. If I touch them...” she whispers, bending her head, brushing her mouth across my shoulder. I sigh at the heat of her lips on my skin. “If I touch them,” she repeats, straightening, holding my gaze, “I can make them feel good. Glorious, maybe. But they will never get close to me.”
“You’re afraid of getting hurt,” I whisper, staring up at her. “You’re afraid to let any woman get too close to you, because she’ll break your heart.”
“My heart,” whispers Charaxus, her voice raw, “has already been broken by my family. I cannot allow it to break again.”
I raise a paint-splattered hand and delicately, oh-so-delicately, like one would reach out and brush fingers over the broken wingtip of a bird, I place my hand again over Charaxus’ heart, pressing my warm palm against her skin.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen after we leave this room. I don’t know what plans you’ve made. I don’t know where I factor into them. I know,” I tell her, raising a finger as she starts to speak, “that you must find the shard and your brother. And that you must go home, back to your world. I understand that. But, right now, this moment… Can it be enough? I won’t hurt you, Charaxus. I’ve loved you too long to hurt you,” I whisper.
And then I say it: I whisper the words that are true, even though it takes every last bit of courage within me to voice them. “I’ve loved you forever. Since I was a little girl. You’ve always been the one I was looking for, my whole life spent looking…and now here you are. If…if you let me touch you, taste you,” I whisper, shivering, my cheeks red, my legs trembling, “if you let me in, I will be gentle. I will be loving. And I will not break your heart.”
Charaxus breathes out, and a single tear traces itself down her alabaster cheek. “Oh, Mara,” she murmurs, her voice thick with pain. “You already have.”
I don’t know what to say—so I say nothing. For a long moment, we hold one another’s gaze, my heart aching for her, my eyes traveling the lines of pain on her face, in the slope of her shoulders as she bends toward me.
But then Charaxus is nodding, almost imperceptibly, her jaw relaxing as she steps forward. There’s something completely unreadable in her eyes, an emotion I can't identify—that is, until she takes my wrist, curling her fingers over my palm.
Holding my gaze, her blue eyes dark, deep, she moves my hand slowly, slowly, over her breast, my fingertips tracing her skin, following a line down to her belly.
I'm gasping as I touch her; the heat between us is electric. I gulp down air, feel the heat rising in me, the need, the desire burning so strongly that I have to ask her again—I have to know for sure, yes, definitely.
“Is this all right? Do you want this?
” I whisper as she lets go of my wrist, as my hand pauses against her belly, feeling the sculpted muscles beneath my fingertips, cherishing the heat of her body.
She is silent for a full minute, wrestling with something deep inside of herself, something buried, secret. But then she comes back to me, comes back here, to this moment, and her attention is latched on me as she leans forward, tension crackling between us like a live wire.
And she whispers a single word, her entire body pulsing with the syllable: “Yes,” she growls, and she says it again as I lick my lips, as—heart pounding—I sink down to my knees in front of her. Charaxus watches me, and she reaches out tentatively, curling her fingers in my hair, gazing down with darkening eyes.
“Yes,” she murmurs, and her voice breaks. And then: “Please.”
It’s the please that does me in.
I lift my chin, lean forward as Charaxus moves, spreading her legs hip width apart now, breathing out softly in the stillness as I curl my fingers over her lean hips. I can feel the muscles rippling beneath my palms when she stiffens at my touch, but I look up at her again, my eyes wide, watching her, gauging her, making sure that, yes, this is still okay.
And it is, because Charaxus presses her fingers a little harder against the back of my head, encouraging me. She’s tall, and her legs are long, but when I rise on my knees, my mouth is at the perfect height to lean forward, to press a kiss against her jet black curls.
She just came from the shower, and the normal, sweet scent of my vanilla soap, merging with the scent of her—her spice, her musk—is utterly electrifying. I inhale deeply, gazing up at her again before lifting my chin a little higher, bending forward a little more, curling my fingers tighter against her hips and drawing her toward me. She gasps as my tongue quests between her folds, the sound of her voice low in the stillness. I breathe out, breathe in again, inhaling her as I taste her.
She is so sweet, and as I press my fingers harder against her hips, resting my nails against her skin, I realize…she tastes familiar. Of course, that's impossible—I’ve never met her before, only in my dreams. Still, the taste of her answers a craving, a taste I know I will crave for the rest of my life. As I trace my tongue over her clit, as I dip my head lower, drawing my tongue lower across her slit, I moan out, tasting her wetness there, the wetness that is already shining against her inner thighs.
She's familiar, and at the same time, so wholly unexpected. Charaxus rises over me, curving forward, her fingers tight in the hair at the back of my head. I move my tongue over her, find the perfect rhythm, one that we both respond to, and I can’t believe I’m doing this, can’t believe that my hands are gripping the hips of the woman of my dreams.
But the moment is fragile; I can’t think too hard about this, or it will all disappear. So I don’t think. I taste, I touch, I worship, and I drink her deeply, my tongue drawing her wetness up to her clit, flicking teasingly across it at first, then harder, letting my lips drift over it, drawing it into my mouth gently, applying pressure.
Charaxus moans, long and low, her fingers curling tighter into my hair, and I think about what she said, that she’s never let another woman touch her. So I slow down, though everything in me is aching to press my fingers between her folds, to feel her center spasm around my fingers, to taste her deeper, my tongue questing into her slit and savoring every inch of her.
I’m gentle, soft, as I trace my fingers across her center, but I don’t press up and in like I want to. I caress her, drawing the wetness of her across her folds, soft, softer still, making her groan again above me, making her fingers curl reflexively against my scalp, making her push me harder against her hot center.
“Yes,” she growls to me, and she bucks her hips against my face, the motion gentled, stifled, because I can tell she wants more. “Yes,” she repeats, and that’s when I glance up at her, over her mound, watching her move above me, and I push my fingers through her folds into the tightness, the wetness.
And it is so tight, so very tight—I’m terrified of hurting her—but I don’t, and every motion she’s making over me, above me, is one of surrender, of want, of “more.” So I push up; I push up until my knuckles press against her center, until I am deep inside of her, and she is hissing out, bucking her hips harder against my mouth, against my hand.
I moan again, and she grits her teeth, gasping, her whole body quivering. Her body becomes slick with a thin sheen of sweat—mine, too—as I pant against her, wanting, more than anything, to make her feel just as good as she made me feel last night. Lust roars through me, the taste of her awakening something deep inside of me, something so primal, so wild, that, as I gaze up at her, as I taste her, as I bring her closer and closer to orgasm, I realize that we’re, impossibly, merging, like two stars that collide in a spangled sky, the light coalescing until it’s impossible to tell where I end and she begins.
And that’s when she comes, the orgasm pushing through her so quickly, so intensely, that her wetness drips down over my chin, leaking to the floorboards beneath my knees. I close my eyes, feeling her muscles move against me, tasting her, drinking her until I gasp for air. Euphoria is cresting through me, too, and Charaxus’ fingers, deep in my hair, flex a little. Then she’s groaning, her body shivering against me as she presses my face to her center, her hands softening against my head.
I draw out the orgasm for a good long while, moving my fingers in and out of her, slowing my pace until, finally, her entire body curves over me, and she sinks down, down to her knees. She gathers my face in her hands, and she lovingly kisses me, tasting herself on my lips, her tongue in my mouth, her warm fingers cupping my face so gently. Her knees rest on either side of mine, my fingers still deep inside of her.
I kiss her, and I push my fingers into her. She gasps against my mouth, and I don’t want this moment to end.
But all moments end eventually. And as I start to move inside of her again, as I kiss her hard, deep…that’s when it happens.
The knock at the door.
Our stolen moment is over.
Chapter 8: A Goldfish Breakfast
Charaxus stiffens against me, and she stares into my eyes, her own wide and achingly blue.
I hold her gaze, my heart hurting so terribly, I resist the urge to double over in pain.
“Hey, Mara?” calls Iris from the other side of the door, “Sammie’s whining… Should I let him out?”
I blink a little, and then I glance at the wall clock beside my bedroom door.
How is that possible?
It’s noon.
“Oh, crap, yeah, Iris. That’d be great!” I call to her, and then I move my fingers out of Charaxus a little awkwardly as we both sink onto our heels. I draw in a deep breath, gazing at Charaxus, and there’s so much regret moving through me…
Slowly, Charaxus composes herself, shoving her hair over her shoulders, a mask of serenity descending over her features. She sits back on her heels, and she places her hands on her thighs, seeking my gaze.
“Mara… I didn’t know how much I needed that. How much I needed you,” she tells me, and that perfect, gracious mask of serenity almost cracks as she looks at me, as something fleeting passes over her face: true pain. It’s quickly replaced by stillness. She sighs. “Mara…”
I lick my lips as her voice trails off. We both know that she has to go.
“It’s…late,” she murmurs then, clearing her throat, sadness in her voice. But then she sighs, and she attempts to lighten her tone just a little, though the words break at the end: “I…I must find the shard.” I watch unhappily as a few expressions flit over Charaxus’ face, finally ending on broken-heartedness. And, yeah, that last one stays.
“I am sorry. Truly, I am sorry,” she whispers to me then, and her voice is hoarse. She leans forward on her knees, and she presses a kiss to my cheek. It’s pretty chaste, and in its chasteness, it’s shattering. She leans back onto her heels, and then she’s standing, raking her fingers through her hair in frustration before offeri
ng a hand down to me.
I take her hand, and she pulls me up gently, her arms flexing. We keep a careful gap between us, not that it matters. Her sex still gleams on my mouth, along her thighs, on my fingers, and the electricity crackles between us. Keeping our distance from one another isn’t going to change anything—but it’s all we know how to do.
“The circumstances that brought us together... It seems as if an ill star follows us,” she says flatly, glancing at me. “I have wanted…” Emotion makes her voice tremble, and she clears her voice again, leaning away, her dark hair sweeping in front of her face. She's hiding herself from me; I can’t see her profile anymore. But she draws in a deep breath, and then she’s saying, “Mara, I have waited for you. I have looked for you. And now you come to me in my darkest hour. I wish that you had come sooner.”
I am utterly gutted.
My longing for Charaxus is something that’s alive inside of me, this insistent need. I lick my lips, tasting her again, and I feel so broken. I pad over to the easel and, leaning down, scoop up my sheet. I wrap it around myself, hiding my nakedness from her, because—in this moment—I feel too vulnerable, and I hurt too much.
I lift my hand reflexively, pressing my thumb against my gold pendant. “I wish you’d come to me sooner, too.”
Oh, how much truth lies in those few words.
Charaxus looks at me, pain etched into the lines of her face. We stand a few feet apart, and the heavy silence hovers until she clears her throat, until she says, with her soft, broken voice, “What do we do?”
There’s no right answer. No clear answer. No answer that makes any sense.
She could leave the Ceres right now, go on her way, find the shard, her brother… Open a portal back to her world. And I’d never see her again.
A Dark and Stormy Knight Page 12