Battles of Salt and Sighs by Val Saintcrowe

CHAPTER TWELVE

AFTER DINNER THATnight, Larent brought a bottle of wine back with them and he put it on the side table next to the couch where she usually slept. He nodded at it and told her to drink.

Onivia considered refusing, because she didn’t like being ordered around. But she knew that the fact he was offering her alcohol meant they were about to do the exploring he’d spoken of, and she decided it might be better to be a little impaired for that.

So, she seized the bottle and upended it into her mouth.

Larent stopped her. “Enough,” he said, taking it from her, drinking deeply from it, and then setting it down again. He was standing over her.

She was seated on the couch. The wine was going to her head. She felt a little dizzy, a little dim. It was welcome.

He sat down next to her, but he didn’t look at her.

For some time, neither spoke. The wine worked its way through her and she relaxed into the pillows on the couch, closing her eyes.

He cleared his throat.

She opened her eyes.

“I’m going to touch you now,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m delaying.”

She tensed. “Fine.”

He screwed up his face, turning towards her.

She wondered if he wanted her to sit up. She decided she didn’t care and lay there, unmoving. She decided not to even look at him, and she picked a spot on the wall above his head to focus on. She blinked at it, wine coursing through her, feeling loose, free of the tight anxiety that had hitherto gripped her about this.

The wine had been a gift from Fortune. Thank Fortune for the wine indeed.

His hand suddenly closed over one of her breasts.

It stunned her, and she lost focus on the spot on the wall, lost focus on everything except the sensation. She stopped breathing.

No one had ever touched her here, not purposefully. She’d touched herself there—oddly, she’d done it right here on this couch, in the dead of night. She would have thought that she was far too gone to pleasure herself in this place, but somehow, in the darkness, it only seemed like comfort, like one shred of normalcy, and she would take whatever pleasure she could. No one knew about it, anyway, so it was her secret. She could pretend it had never happened.

He drew in a breath and then put his other hand on her other breast.

She let out all the air in her lungs in a noisy whoosh.

He was staring at her, and she was looking back. His hands there were gentle, just cupping her. He gave them both an experimental squeeze.

And that was when she remembered it wasn’t true that they’d never been touched, because when she’d been sorted, to… to give to him, the fae militem had squeezed her here, and why had she forgotten that?

She felt like crying, and she reached over, blindly, for the wine bottle.

“Careful.” He was not touching her anymore. He was reaching over to stop the bottle from toppling.

She put both hands on it and brought the bottle in to her chest. Clutching it, she took another long, deep drink.

“Did I hurt you?” His voice was soft.

She shook her head. She set the wine bottle back down.

“But you didn’t enjoy that?”

“I can’t enjoy—”

“You can.”

“But I don’t want to do this.”

“Your physical body does not care about that, domina.” He reached up to begin working at the buttons of her dress.

She shut her eyes again, and she didn’t open them, even when she felt the air of the room on her uncovered skin. He stuck a finger underneath her corset, but not in any attempt to caress her, only to hold it in place as he undid the first set of hook-and-eye catches.

This accomplished, he continued, opening the corset from top to bottom.

She kept her eyes closed.

When he had the garment open, he parted it, exposing her breasts and belly to the air and to his gaze.

Still, she kept her eyes closed. The wine was churning a bit in her stomach now. Perhaps drinking more of it had been a bad idea.

He sighed.

She waited.

Nothing.

Finally, she opened her eyes. “Well?”

He was looking at her breasts, not at her, and the expression on his face was a determined mask.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Perhaps you’re not… I’ve heard it said that some women are not particularly sensitive here. My own experience precludes this, but if you have some… knowledge of your own body, perhaps we could just skip this part.”

Was he asking her if she touched herself? She gaped at him. “It’s none of your business if I have… knowledge.”

He sighed again.

“I don’t see why we’re doing this, anyway.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to wonder that myself.”

“Why did you want to do it?” She glared at him. “Are you enjoying this?”

“Not exactly, no. This is… confusing.” He sniffed. “I’m doing this for you.”

“I don’t want you to—”

He touched her breast again, his hand on her bare skin. He weighed it in his hand, and then his thumb curved up and brushed her nipple.

The sensation went through her like cannon fire.

She gasped.

“Well, then,” he said. “Sensitive.”

Her nipple puckered against her flesh and they both looked at it.

He closed his thumb and forefinger around it—too gentle to rightly be termed a pinch, more a fluttering pluck.

She couldn’t suppress another noise.

“How much pressure do you like?” His voice was husky now.

She bit down on her bottom lip.

“Can I do it harder?”

She nodded.

He did. This was a pinch, but it wasn’t very forceful either. “That’s all right? Can you take it harder than that?” He demonstrated.

She winced.

He let go.

The after-sensation of the pinch was far more gratifying than she would have guessed. She made another noise.

He raised his eyebrows. “Sometimes if…” He shifted, uncomfortable. “If a vaguely painful sensation is followed by a caress…” He pinched her nipple again—very hard.

She cried out.

But he let go and soothed it with his thumb, and her body flushed with goodness, and she clenched somewhere inside, somewhere good. She let out another noise.

Now, her breath was a little labored.

“Well?” He eyed her. “Domina, can you bear that?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Then, some horrible thing rose up in her and took control of her mouth. Maybe it was the wine. “Do it again?”

He let out a disbelieving laugh, but he obeyed, this time with her other nipple.

She moaned.

Now, his breath was labored.

“I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s all right.” He pulled her corset over her skin. “Let’s just move on. You seem… similar to other women that I’ve… in this region.”

“How many other women have you been with?” Why was she asking him that?

He fumbled with her hook-and-eye catches, because they had to be pulled fairly taut, and she was leaning backwards on the couch. “Two.”

She blinked and sat up.

“Maybe only one, depending on how you’d view the first encounters, which happened when I was very young with my dominus’s wife, and might not be strictly considered consensual.”

She took over fastening up her corset, pushing his hands out of the way.

“I can’t say I was unwilling exactly, and I also can’t say I didn’t enjoy myself, but I also… well, it wasn’t as if I could say no, so…” He squared his shoulders. “She did it to get back at my father, who kept my mother in the main villa in her own quarters right next to his.”

“The dominus was your father?” She should have guessed this. She should have known from what he had said, from the little pieces of things he had told her. It only made sense. No wonder he’d been hated his entire life.

“I killed him,” he said.

Her gaze flicked up to his.

“Why am I telling you this?” His voice was hard.

“I… I’m sorry that you—”

“Shut up.” His voice shook. He reached for the wine and took a long, long drink. Then he handed it to her.

She took a drink too.

They were quiet.

He took a deep breath and let it out, his shoulders rising and falling visibly. “Do you want to lift your skirts yourself, or do you want me to do it?”

“Do we have to keep doing this?”

“Yes,” he muttered. “Women’s cunnies—there is a lot of variance.”

“How do you know if you’ve only ever seen two of them?”

“I’ve seen more than two.”

“Oh, so you’ve only fucked two of them.”

“Yes.”

“What have you done to the others?”

“Nothing, I just looked. There are places—women take off their—you know of this.”

She supposed she did. It wasn’t something that was spoken of to her, but in the cities, especially, there were clubs for gentlemen. Men just liked to look at naked women. It was pleasing for them.

Suddenly, she shot a glance at Larent’s crotch, and she could see that there was a bulge there, because he was aroused. She remembered the first time, he’d rubbed himself until he’d grown stiff, but apparently, the sight of her—or maybe touching her—had been enough for him.

He followed her gaze and realized what she was looking at. He let out another sigh. “Does this offend you? It’s not exactly within my control, I’m afraid.” He grasped handfuls of her skirts and began lifting them, exposing her stocking and then the edges of her drawers.

“Why didn’t looking at me before make you stiff?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The first time, when you… when you took my virtue, you had to rub that grease on yourself.”

“It wasn’t exactly an erotic experience, domina.” He pushed her skirts up over her hips and then started tugging on her drawers.

“But this is?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it shouldn’t be.”

“But it obviously is,” she said. “What was the grease for?”

He let go of her drawers and gaped at her. “You can’t truly not know that?”

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. You rubbed it on me too. Is that… do people always do that?”

“No, it was only because you weren’t going to be wet,” he said.

“Wet,” she whispered, and she understood, because she knew about the moisture that gathered within her when she stroked herself, but she honestly didn’t like it, because it had a bit of an odd smell, and she would rather it didn’t happen at all. Now, however, she realized why it happened. It was to ease the intrusion of a man’s cock into her, to make her slippery for him. She was so busy thinking about this that she barely registered that Larent was tugging on her drawers until they were down to her knees. Then, belatedly, she made a move to stop him, then realized she must allow it, and set her hands down next to her on either side.

She was leaning into the arm of the couch, and her legs were in the air.

Larent pulled her drawers off and tossed them.

She put her legs back down on the floor and pressed her knees together.

“Domina,” he said, irritated.

“What?”

“Open your legs to me.”

Why did his saying that make a strange flutter go through her? “I need to see your cock again,” she blurted. Fortune deliver her, maybe the wine was not a gift after all. It was making words come out of her mouth and she had no control over them. She recognized dimly that she should feel embarrassed or ashamed of herself, but the wine had flooded those emotions out of her, and she only felt loose and numb and bold.

He let out a noisy breath. “What did you just say?”

“Because you would be making me touch it,” she said. “If we were really fucking all the time, then you would be making me do things with it, maybe even making me suck it, and I don’t know anything about how to touch it, so, you’d best show me now.”

“No.” He got up from the couch and walked to the other side of the room. He put his back against the shelf and stared at her with something like terror written all over his face.

She sat up, pulling her skirt down over her knees. “But I doubt you would be spending a lot of time pleasuring me. It would be the other way around.”

“I just want to be able to make this encounter we’re going to have with Akiel less than horrific for you, that’s all. I don’t need you to… how do you even know about… sucking? You were a virgin.”

“The girls talk,” she said.

“Oh, yes, you’re quite close with Marta,” he muttered.

“You’ve never let Marta—”

“No,” he said. “No, but… the officers talk about her.”

“I should probably have her teach me,” mused Onivia.

“She’d wonder why you needed instruction,” he said in an annoyed voice, and now he was coming back across the room, fumbling with the buttons of his trousers. By the time he was back over to her, he had parted them. He stood there, in front of her, and he took himself out.

She sat up straight, and his cock was eye-level. It was thick and long and pointing straight at her. She suddenly noticed that it was surrounded by tiny, tight green curls, even though the hair on his head was black. Why hadn’t she noticed this before, the first time?

I expect it was shock,she thought.

And then she started giggling.

“Are you laughing at me?” His voice was tight.

“No, I just… it’s not you.” She attempted to stifle the giggles, leaning back into the couch. Of course, whenever one tried to stop giggling, one never could, and her attempts to stop only seemed to make her laugh more.

He tucked himself back inside his trousers and began buttoning them again.

“No, don’t.” She stopped laughing, sat up, and reached out and put her hands on his.

He went still. His voice was soft. “I really don’t need you—”

“If I have to let you touch me, you have to endure it the other way around.”

“Endure it,” he repeated in a strangled voice.

She reached into his trousers and found him, wrapping her fingers around his girth. Oh! That was a fascinating sensation. His skin was wondrously soft. Satiny. She’d never felt anything quite so smooth. Underneath the layer of softness, he was a slab of granite. She bit down on her lower lip and studied him, dragging her grip experimentally from the root of him to the tip. His skin here was dusky with hints of pinkness. His engorged head was nearly red.

He made a strangled noise.

“Oh, apologies,” she murmured, loosening her grip. “Is it very sensitive?”

He let out a harsh breath. “No,” he breathed. “Well, yes, but not in that way. You can… tighten your…”

“Oh,” she said, smiling. She did.

He grunted. “Let’s stop this.”

“We’ve barely started,” she said.

“There’s nothing complicated about a cock, domina.” His voice was hoarse. “It likes to be gripped and surrounded and stroked in long up and down motions. That’s it. There’s nothing else.”

“Stroked,” she said thoughtfully. “Like this?” She loosened her grip to rub him.

“Tighter,” he said.

“But…”

He let out an irritated noise and put his hand over hers to demonstrate. He had a bit of loose skin that moved over him, easing the movement of her hand so that her skin didn’t chafe against his. Otherwise, she supposed something would be necessary to lubricate movement, like her cunny’s wetness or…

What did he use that grease for normally? Why did he just have it sitting around in his tent? Did he use it to pleasure himself?

She looked up at his face, and he was glaring at her. This startled her. “I thought… what am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing,” he snapped. “I told you, it’s not complicated. You can stop now.”

She didn’t stop. “So, this is good? You don’t seem to be enjoying—”

He seized her wrist and squeezed.

“Ouch!” She let go of him.

“Apologies,” he rasped. He backed away from her and turned his back on her, gasping for breath. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He busied himself with putting himself back together, but when he turned around, she could still see that he was straining against his clothes.

She couldn’t tear her gaze away from that part of his body. It was immensely intriguing to her for whatever reason. “Is it uncomfortable when it’s big and hard like that?”

“Ancestors save me, stop it with the questions,” he muttered. “Let’s finish this for fuck’s sake.” He sat back down on the couch next to her and yanked up her skirt.

She cringed, pulling away from him.

“Domina.” His voice was gravelly. He exposed her, exposed all of her legs and her hips and pelvis. “Open your legs.”

She clamped her legs tighter together.

He muttered some half-inaudible oaths, and then he put his hand on her knee. His palm was large and warm.

She twitched.

He slid between her knees, forcing his fingers between them.

She didn’t fight him but allowed it. She didn’t open her legs either. There was something nice about the feel of his hand there.

He slid it up, between her thighs, and every inch that he traveled was nice. Sensations went through her, each one more pleasant than the one before. Her breath was uneven and she tensed in anticipation of his fingers making contact with her most sensitive place.

And then…

They did.

She sighed.

His fingertips dragged over her outer folds, up to her mound. He put the heel of his hand against it, cupping her there, fingertips tickling her near her opening. “Show me this, now,” he said firmly in a voice like the night sky.

Her legs fell open at once. Oh, she hated this man. She hated him so much. She could not think for how much she hated him. And yet, here and now, she parted her thighs and surrendered the center of herself to him.

His fingers parted her folds, but then he removed his hand entirely in order to look at her.

She couldn’t suppress a noise of protest at the lack of his touch.

He squirmed at that, as if it affected him.

She liked the idea that it did, for some stupid reason.

Likely the wine,she thought. Or perhaps I could… could I use this against him? Is this another weakness he’s exposed to me? Does he want me? What can I do with that?

He was looking at her, looking into her, mouth parted as he contemplated what lay between her thighs.

“Well? How do I vary?” she said. The wine, the wine, the wine. It had done awful things to her lips and made them far too loose.

He licked his lips. Was that a smile? “You’re, um… quite…”

“Everything where you’re expecting it to be?”

“Pretty,” he said.

Her body lurched. Then she forced herself to laugh. “I have looked at that part of my body, and I assure you it’s the opposite of—”

“Delicate and tidy and secret,” he murmured. “Like the inside of a flower.” He touched her then. He ran a finger down one of her open folds and then up the other. Then he touched her right where her folds parted, gently, barely sliding his fingers over the bud of her there.

She let out some kind of noise, and she couldn’t say what it was, but it was too loud.

He made an answering noise. “It’s… yes, everything’s where…” He let out a sort of groan. He stroked her, and he spoke, but she wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or to himself. “It’s always about being gentler, of course. As gentle as you think and then even more gentle. Just the barest of touches.”

The strokes were gentle, perfect and affecting, and she threw her head back and let out more of those too-loud noises, her legs falling even wider open.

“Do you like circles?” He switched and now his finger was going around her, not even touching the most sensitive part, but all around it in long, languid circuits, and that was the most wondrous thing she’d ever felt in her life. Her hips started to move against his finger, seemingly of their own volition, and she was unable to stop the noises that were ripping their way out of her lips.

It felt…

Oh, Fortune deliver her, it felt like a battle in her, battering at her defenses and tearing them down, invading her with the sweetest of attacks.

“I could stop?” he whispered. “I seem to be able to… you seem very responsive to me. Sacred magics, you’re wet.”

“Don’t stop,” she managed.

“All right,” he breathed, and the circles quickened.

She moved her hips against him, in time to his rhythm.

He slid a finger inside her.

She moaned.

He pumped the finger in her for a moment and then murmured, “No, wait…” Then he stopped, and he curved it inside her, and she felt it rubbing her from the inside out, his fingers teasing her pleasure from both outside and inside, the onslaught of her defenses complete.

He had penetrated every last safeguard she might have. She was conquered.

And she climaxed with a whimper, losing herself in a volley of clenches that went through her like enemy gunfire shaking her pelvis.

She sobbed.

His breath was ragged.

She managed to sit up somehow, and she put her hand on his chest and shoved him.

He let go of her, sinking into the other side of the couch.

She retreated, echoes of her pleasure still reverberating through her. Tears were pouring down her cheeks. She pulled her skirt over her legs, and she wrapped her arms around her knees, making herself small.

Then it was quiet for some time.

Quiet except for her sobs, which she was trying to suppress, but every now and again, one broke through.

She hunched her shoulders and bowed her head.

Time passed.

Finally, he spoke. “You said not to stop.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she felt him get off the couch.

She heard the floor creak as he moved away, heard the door to his bedchamber groan, heard it close behind him.

Only then did she lift her face.

She sprang up and went to get her drawers, which were crumpled on the floor. She picked them up.

There was a knock at the door.

She straightened.