The Boxer and the Blacksmith

by Edie Cay

  “I was always told to not ask questions,” Bess said idly.

  “Is that why you won’t tell me what’s wrong?” Os grabbed her wrist. His hands were big and square, large enough to wrap all the way around a woman’s wrist and then some. But with Bess, his fingers couldn’t even touch. He marveled at it. His match even in size. They were of a pair.

  As he was busy marveling, Bess’s eyes began to fill like a duck pond in a rainstorm.

  “Oh no, no.” Os shushed her. “I won’t be gone but a week or so.”

  Bess shook her head, clearly willing away any actual tears. “You say that, but that’s home. You’ll be back to your old haunts and find you miss it. Back to folk you didn’t know you needed. That’s the way home works. But it ain’t nothing but my own fault for having expectations. I knew better.”

  Something shifted uncomfortably inside Os’s chest. “What kind of expectations did you have?”

  “I thought, I, er—” Bess cleared her throat, gathering herself to look him square in the eye. It was a terrifying, intense glare, the likes of which made him feel about ten years old. “I was under the impression that you were fond of me in the way that an honorable man might feel about an honorable woman. I can see now that while you are an honorable man, your thoughts for me are not the same.”

  Her speech stunned him. “Bess, I don’t think you’re beneath me.”

  “Why not? Everyone else does,” she said, the bitterness blooming in her voice.

  He pulled her wrist towards him, propelling her to face him fully. “I think you are an honorable woman. I admire your prowess in the ring. I admire your ethics in your neighborhood. I admire what you’ve done for Violet.”

  Bess sniffed loudly and stared at a blank spot on his chest. “It’s fine. My fault. I know better.”

  Os shook his head. “Did you not hear what I said?”

  “But that’s your home, Os.” Her jaw was set in certainty.

  Perhaps he should tell her everything, share the burden of his past, the precariousness of his search, but he didn’t want to bring up things that would make her feel even worse. How to reassure her, even when he knew, given a choice, he would pick his mother over her. Os furrowed his brow. “My foundry is here. This is home. You are home.”

  She looked up at him, softened by his words. How many times had she been so ill-treated that a short trip made her go to pieces? So he was tender. He bent his head that small distance to meet hers. Foreheads touched, and he moved to kiss her. Softly at first, unlike the other encounters they’d had. Gentle, like calming a spooked horse.

  He tasted just a little bit of salt. When he brought his hand up to brush away any tears on her cheek, she pulled away.

  “Don’t be so chuffed. It’s just my lady glow from sparring,” she said with a grin.

  “I would never wipe away your glow,” Os said.

  “See that you don’t.” She stepped in, backing him against the workbench. Her breasts grazed his chest, but she didn’t lean in quite yet. She kept her eyes on his but smirked when she noticed he couldn’t keep his gaze on hers.

  “Are you sweating, Os?” she whispered.

  It was enough of a question, loaded with so many promises of skin and heat, that reason faded from him. Instead of his mouth working, his head clear, he saw a haze and his trousers tightened.

  He shook his head, nothing smart to say back. He was sweating with the effort to keep his body from taking control.

  “Miss Abbott?” Jean popped his head into the wide double doors, reminding them that they were in full view of the street even if it was dark. “Oh.”

  But that blessed woman didn’t move an inch. “Yes, Jean?” she called, her eyes locked on Os’s. Heat was growing in her gaze, and it made Os dumb. “Mrs. Martin is expecting Violet for dinner. Would you mind escorting her home?”

  “Of course,” Jean stammered. “And—and I believe there is something at Covent Garden I must attend. I will be out very late. Very, very late.”

  “Most kind, Jean, thank you,” Bess called out.

  Os couldn’t find a way to talk. Every base act he could think of rioted through his mind. “I have to close the doors,” he managed.

  “Quick about it,” she said.

  Taking his time, giving himself some breathing room, he managed to get a hold of himself. If they were about to do what he thought they were, he needed to clear his head. He didn’t want to show himself as green or greedy. He closed the doors and bolted them, the sound of the locks loud in the empty foundry. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her standing there, now at the door leading to the cottage, arms crossed.

  He walked as if he was working still, purposefully, carefully checking on every inch of his business. But even thinking of what might come next continued the rush of heat to his groin.

  When he finally stood in front of her, the challenge of her, the light spilling from the open kitchen door shadowing her face, he couldn’t think straight. Her ears were rounded and bubbled, the consequence of her years of fighting, but it was the smoothness of them that intrigued him. Round like river rocks. Her hair gleamed in the low light. He could see her legs outlined through her thin skirt.

  “I need to clean up,” he said.

  Her eyes flicked up and down the length of his body. It made him want to flex his arms, show her how he could be, how he could preen. “A simple wipe-down or a full bath?”

  “A bath seems a bit much at a time like this, doesn’t it?” he countered.

  “A waste, really.”

  “Upstairs,” he directed. He lit two candles and handed one to her. “You first. I want to see your legs through that thin skirt you’re wearing.”

  Bess grinned. “My pleasure.” And she started up the stairs.

  “Second room,” he growled, and she went into the dark room, finding the waiting ewer and bowl, with fresh towels. He always laid things out at midday so they would be ready in the evening after a full day’s work.

  Bess poured a small amount of the water in the bowl, soaking the smaller rag. “You’ll have to take off the dirty clothes if you expect to get clean.”

  He placed his candle on the dressing table, next to hers. He unrolled the cuffs of his shirt and then pulled it over his head. She watched him, enjoying the view but also assessing him in some way he’d never been measured before. “What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing. I’m admiring the balance in your limbs. Many people have one place where they have stronger muscles because of their profession. But you, you seem to be well-muscled all over.”

  “I haven’t yet taken off my trousers,” he said.

  “And I’m waiting.”

  So off went the boots, the socks, the garters, and the trousers. He stood in front of her bare, and never had he felt so powerful.

  She dipped the rag in the water again and wrung it out. Starting at his face, she wiped gently. He felt her cotton skirt with every pore in his body, willing her closer with every breath. But she was systematic, dunking and wringing out the rag time and time again. Discarding the water after she’d wiped down to his neck.

  He grunted in frustration. But she returned, poured fresh water, began anew at his right shoulder. The rag ran down to his fingers, where she meticulously wiped under every nail. She changed the water again and went to the left side. Same attention to detail.

  She changed the water again, and this time went around to his back. She kneaded and wiped his skin, giving a blend of the attention one might give to an athlete and also the softness a mother might use to wash her infant.

  It was killing him, but he was happy to drown in the pleasure. His cock waved in the air, hard and wanting. But it could wait. It had waited this long. At the rise of his buttocks, she stopped and came to the front, wiping down his chest.

  “You’re thorough,” he rumbled. His breath hitched when the cool rag hit his belt line. The fabric of her skirt swung near his cock.

  “Very thorough,” she assured him
, her tone suggesting far more.

  “I don’t know how much more thoroughness I can take,” he said, closing his eyes. It was everything in him not to grab her, rip off her dress, rut like a stag.

  “You can always tell me that you’re clean enough,” she said.

  “Clean,” he growled, finally allowing the lust zinging through his veins to take control.

  “Thank God,” she said, throwing the rag onto the dressing table.

  Os felt like he dove for her, pushing to get as close as he could. His mouth found hers, just as eager, and he cupped her perfect arse. How he’d dreamed of this, waking with the mess of his fantasies. Finally she was here, smooth muscle and warm flesh pressed against his.

  Her arms encircled his neck, her knees lifting. He scrabbled at the thin cotton skirt, pulling the fabric higher, revealing more of her woolen stockinged legs, allowing her to cross her ankles behind him. He levered her back against the wall for counterbalance.

  “Do we need to talk about this first?” He panted, raking his fingers down her perfect, muscled thighs. Her legs clenched around him, her strength matching his, making him ache with anticipation.

  “No,” she said and bent to kiss him again.

  His every touch scorched her, burned with an invisible branding that she didn’t mind. She was no timid virgin—there had been tussles with boys when she was young—and then there were her clients. It wasn’t without the knowledge that she was exotic to them. Most of those men weren’t as tall as she, weren’t as strong as she, wanting to be pushed around and mounted as if she were the barbarian and they were the innocent maiden. It was strange, but if the money was right, who was she to complain?

  The one tender affair she’d had when she was young ended poorly, of course. Gifting her with the knowledge of what she was: ungainly, manly, an unusual bit o’ stuff to play with. But whatever was happening between her and Os was new and put her out of her depth. She wasn’t sure what cliff she was dropping off of, but when he pulled at her, pressed into her like he would die without her, she didn’t care.

  Os wanted her, that’s what she knew. Wanted her so badly that he grew hard when she was in the room, fully clothed. It thrilled her to think she could make a man so desperate. Her, the giantess, the Amazon, the Long Meg—she made this beautiful man ache with longing. She kissed him, not wanting to be separate from him any longer. The leverage between the two of them required both to work, she straining around him, feeling his thickened cock pressing against her own needy flesh.

  She pulled him closer, tightening her legs around his middle. Secure now, he moved one hand from her bum to her neckline, pulling the kerchief from the front of her dress, allowing her skin to be exposed.

  In response she worked her hips against him, the sensation sending waves of pleasure through her and giving him a reason to moan.

  “I won’t last long at this rate,” he said, pulling away.

  “Then let’s find your bed,” Bess panted.

  “I want to see you just as you see me,” Os said, his eyes on the low neckline of her dress.

  She grinned. “Then what do I get?”

  Os flicked his gaze back up to her face. “Anything you ask.” He put her down gently, giving her a moment to find her footing.

  It might have been the quickest she’d ever shed her clothing. When she stood in front of him in nothing but her worn linen shift, his expression was pure hunger.

  The bedroom was sparse, not unlike her own, but his bed was larger than hers, which seemed downright luxurious.

  He backed up to the edge of the bed, as if fighting with himself on whether to see her fully or touch her instead.

  Bess became suddenly aware of the squareness of her shoulders, the smallness of her breasts, the serviceable nature of all her clothes. She was not built for seduction, but Os didn’t seem to care. He looked entranced.

  “Come here,” he beckoned, and she’d be damned if she passed up this chance.

  Even if it wasn’t real, even if he was leaving her for only God knew what in Manchester, the chance to be with a man who could seduce her like he loved her, that was a rare gem indeed.

  He kissed her forehead, then her nose. He kissed her lips in a way that felt reverent. He kissed the hollow of her neck, tracing down over the shift between her breasts and her flat, hardened stomach. Finally he got low enough and pulled up the hem of her shift.

  The reverence and tenderness of his actions made her ache for him even more. No one had been this way with her before. No one had wanted to make her body a church, and here he was on his knees for her.

  They were bare to each other. She knew it was a mistake to do this, it had to be—she knew that feeling like a loose tooth. That ache when someone can’t love you back, even if they want to, because you are just too strange, too unfit, too broken.

  But tonight Os made her feel like she wasn’t broken—far from it. She was the mold of what a woman was supposed to be.

  Os leaned forward and placed a kiss on her sex. The feel of his breath there, the cool air on her wet flesh, caused her to gasp. His hands slid up to her bum, pulling and kneading at that flesh. The sensation of it all was near to sending her over the edge. She’d never wanted a man this badly before.

  He ran his thumb over her nipples, now so sensitive that his touch there echoed between her legs. He bent to put his mouth on her breast.

  Games were done, exploring was done. She could no longer wait. Pushing him gently, she sat him down on the mattress.

  She reached out and slid her hand up his cock, hot in her fist. Os sucked in his breath.

  “I won’t be able to last,” he gasped.

  Bess nodded and climbed over him, laying him on his back. “Then I’ll lead.”

  He palmed her breast as she lowered herself onto him. It had been a long time for her, long enough that it felt strange to have a man inside of her again. Strange that this was a man who wanted her for her own sake.

  She had missed it, this feeling, her entire life. There was no harm in pretending to believe him, believe that he cared for her, admired her, and all those noble things he said—that he could desire her as she was.

  She began to move, rocking slowly at first, trying to look into his eyes, trying to show him how much she appreciated his regard. But it was too much. The pleasure that crashed in waves built and built, each wave larger than the last. Faster and faster she moved as he rocked with her, his breath coming in pants. He shook his head as if he didn’t want to reach his own culmination. He grabbed her hips, kneading the skin, and her hands gripped the flesh of his shoulders. They rode hard, him trying to reach up to go deeper, her trying to fall down into him. Both unable to get close enough, until she felt him change, and he arched upward. She angled her hips to deepen the thrust, and the last, ultimate wave hit as she felt him surge inside of her.

  She laid down on him, resting her face in the crook of his neck, still trying to catch her breath. He put his arms around her, a loose embrace, but enough to let her know he didn’t want her to leave.

  She let one of her long legs extend bare along the side of his bed, the quilt covering the rest of her body. He cradled her hand, wanting to still touch her, but lacking the energy to do much else. Strange how her hand fit so well into his, as if there were no question about being matched for one another.

  “How long will you be in Manchester?” She asked, staring at the ceiling.

  He squeezed her hand. “As long as it takes.” He listened to her breathe, feeling her hesitation in the dark.

  “Why are you going?” She squeezed his hand in return.

  This prompting wasn’t a question but an invitation. “It’s a long story.”

  “Mrs. Martin is watching Violet all night. I’ve got time.”

  “Aren’t you worried about your reputation?” Os asked.

  Bess snorted.

  Os stared at the ceiling. Was it nerves that made him not want to tell her about his past? He didn’t want to entangle he
r in a search that she’d never understand, for she’d made clear that she didn’t know her own origins either. And how to tell her that if he had to choose, he would choose his mother every time? How could he tell her this and have her not become angry? And how could she listen and not hear shame?

  “Tell you what,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “One for one. You tell me where you were born and I’ll tell you where I was born, and the like. We can stop whenever you want.”

  “You start,” Os said, unable to summon the courage to tell the story that might make this woman leave screaming from his bed.

  “Just so you know the kind of lady I am.” She let go of his hand and turned on her side to face him, her long, bare leg still above the quilt, rising at the curve of her hip. If he were ten years younger, he might have had the stamina to start all over again, running his tongue along that smooth, strong thigh.

  “I’ve been told that I was born in the actual gutter. That my mum was so low she didn’t have the decency to find an alleyway to birth a child in. I’ve been told I was born in a brothel, and then, once, I was told I was born in a gin swill. Now, this isn’t what the children in the workhouse told me—they said other nasty things, but none of them was keen enough to get as close to what the grown folk said. So I don’t know where I was born, but it weren’t anywhere good.”

  Os let his eyes drift up towards the ceiling again. “I was born in Barbados,” he said. “And that’s all I know for certain. There are pieces others have told me, and there are bits of memories, though I’m no longer sure what is real and what is a dream. I remember my mother humming, her head bent as she worked some stitching. I remember the sunlight. I remember feelings and smells, but those are hard to describe in words.”

  “Did you remember your father? Did he raise you up and you just don’t know his name?” Bess asked.

  “You are supposed to go first,” Os said.

  “Right,” Bess said, giving him a tentative smile. “I’m told my father was a chair carrier, big handsome fellow, but perhaps not. I didn’t know him, in any case. Or my mother, who may or may not have died in childbirth. I ran away from the workhouse eventually, dodged the orphan-catchers, didn’t always succeed. I was big for my age, like Violet, so I could pass for being older than I was, sometimes pass as a boy. I stole food, nicked coins off drunks, made friends with whoever would feed me. That’s how I met Tony, who was the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had.”