“Can you work a hand down between us— gentle, though?” Thessaly managed it, though she had no idea how. She felt like she was fumbling every time she moved. But then her hand grasped around something hard and hot and swollen, and it was Vitus who was moaning, pushing into her hand. He managed to suck in a breath, focusing on her so intently it almost hurt. “Last chance, my love. Do you want this? Nod if you do.”
Thessaly managed the nod. Almost instantly, he was shifting, moving as nimbly as any master of the duelling salle, to settle between her legs, his hands braced on either side of her shoulders. Then he moved one, arranging himself. “This might pinch. You let me know when I can move.”
What she felt wasn’t a pinch, not exactly. Oh, there was a stretch. There were new feelings she didn’t have names for. But it was the heat, the solidness, the presence that got to her. She whimpered, not sure how to express what she was feeling at all, before just staring at him, meeting his eyes, and nodding.
Vitus began to move inside her, slowly at first, walking her through the dance of it at half-speed. That didn’t last long, though, because her hips kept insisting on rising to meet him, like responding in the moment to the mazurka. She wanted the speed and the rush, everything slipping together into perfection.
Whatever it was he saw, it lit him up. He was grinning like a fool, then he put his right hand back beside her shoulder and began thrusting in earnest. He put his hips into it, the weight and leverage of his body, over and over again, and she let herself delight in the feelings. One of her legs came up, curling around to try to pull him closer.
Then, without warning, he did something else. Vitus flipped them around so he was on his back, her thighs were on either side of his hips. He was even deeper inside her. Vitus’s handscame up to guide her, moving like on a horse, though astride, something she hadn’t done since childhood. He arched beneath her. Then once she had the feel of it, it meant his hands could tease and stroke her body. He seemed to touch everywhere, now her breast, now teasing that place that brought so much pleasure, now cupping around her hip. She drove on and on, her back arching, then her thighs lifting her.
It couldn’t last. Humans were frail. She could feel herself dripping with sweat, like the aftermath of the best bout in the salle. Thessaly could feel her thighs becoming exhausted. She felt herself rising to the pleasure, over and over again.
In the end, he decided for them. He flipped them once more, so she was on her back again. His hand darted between them to tease, as he began to thrust even harder and faster. Everything was urgent. Each movement shoved her breath out of her, until she was gasping with it. She hovered on the edge for a few final strokes before he was begging her in an undertone to please, please, that, please.
She finally understood what the books were on about. Everything came down to a surge of pleasure that made everything fade out of existence except Vitus and her joy in having him. Thessaly felt her body clench on him, hard, over and over again, far stronger than she’d found with her own fingers. He grunted, and then, just as her pleasure was easing a hair, she felt him deep inside her, and a sudden heat and liquid. He managed a few more rolling thrusts before lowering himself to his elbows and nuzzling at her breasts and her neck. She got a hand up into his hair, stroking, but that was all she could bring herself to do.
It took a few minutes until he slipped out of her and nestled beside her. By then, she didn’t want to move. She wanted to linger in well-earned satiation and exhaustion for as long as she could. He arranged them so there was a blanket overthem, pillows under their heads, and she curled into his arms. Everything else in the world could wait.
18
THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
The first Vitus knew of anything wrong was getting kicked in the shin. It woke him enough to realise that he was not in his own bed. He was not in his working rooms. He was in Thessaly’s bed, and she was having a dream. Nightmare, more likely, the way she was reacting. The sun had not yet risen, but at this time of year and this far north, that only meant it was sometime before eight in the morning. It was still oppressively dark out, not a glimmer of light.
Thessaly twisted, still in the dream's grip, and Vitus wondered about waking her. He’d heard it was dangerous to wake someone in the middle of a nightmare, especially if there was any chance of a premonition. He had not in fact discussed that with her. He hadn’t thought to be sharing her bed yet, and it had not been a priority to this point. Besides, plenty of people wouldn’t admit to it, even if they had a hint of truth in their dreams. He pushed up on one elbow and waited.
Perhaps thirty seconds later, she blinked several times, her hand reaching out. “I, wait, oh....” That was not much for sense, but she had only just woken up.
Vitus cleared his throat. “A dream? A bad one?” She startled at the sound, but then reached for his hand and squeezed it.
“Yes.” She rubbed her eyes. “What time is it? There’s a clock there, on the table.” She gestured vaguely with her elbow at the table.
Vitus called a small charmlight to his hand. “Midnight. A few minutes past.”
“Oh.” Thessaly let out a huff of breath. “I don’t really know what to make of it. Or why it was upsetting?” She frowned, her forehead furrowing. “There was something satisfied, and something hollow, and something, I don’t know. About time? I’m not making any sense at all.”
“How about you write down whatever you remember and— you said there was food on the cart that would keep? You could use a little. I could, too.” Vitus could at least take care of her that way. She nodded, and he rummaged for the dressing gown. It was a shimmering grey silk, flowing, abundant in a way his dressing gown at home wasn’t. That done, he padded off to the sitting room to investigate the food. There was a stew, lamb, held under magic for the winter, and vegetables, Welsh cakes, hearty bread and smooth butter. And some wine, which was somehow not what he’d expected.
Thessaly was a few minutes, and she came out rubbing her nose and tugging the wrapper around her, since the fire had died down to coals and ashes. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense. Why would I be dreaming of Philip Landry? And there was lightning, but it, I don’t know, I wasn’t scared of it? It was strange. I was inside, so I don’t know why there should have been lightning, anyway.”
Vitus wasn’t sure either, though he also didn’t want to put ideas in her head. “Have you been talking about either recently? The last few days? And here, there’s stew? I don’t know what kind.”
“That’s lapsgóws.” Thessaly said, cheerfully. “The northern version of cawl. Lamb, leeks, carrots, potatoes, broth. Oh, andCollins brought up the wine. Grand. It’s Welsh. Someone got it into his head to make a vineyard like the mediaeval ones, but I rather like it? The idea he’s trying to rebuild history, as much as the wine, but the wine’s quite drinkable.” Whatever uneasiness the dream had brought, the food seemed to have banished.
Vitus pulled together bowls for both of them, a heartier pottery than he’d expected from this sort of house. But it was entirely in keeping with the Arts and Crafts feel of all the spaces he’d seen. There was something satisfying about them, not only to hold, but the way they were meant for use. They were a sturdy beauty rather than distant perfection and the fear of crushing a delicate bit of porcelain in the hand.
The food was also excellent. He’d expected that, from his previous visits, though those had been tea or biscuits or such rather than a full meal. If Thessaly were eating like this regularly, he might stop worrying about her well-being quite as much as he had been. They were both quiet while eating, other than the sounds of the spoons and the glasses, but when they’d put their bowls back on the cart, Thessaly leaned against him. “Back to bed?”
He nodded. She disappeared into the bathing room for a few moments, and when she came out, he did the same, washing up and making use of the facilities. By the time he came out, she was in bed with the covers pulled back on his side, making it clear she’d stripped out of everything she’d been wearing. “Is that a hint? How do you feel, then?”
“Grand. Like I want more, if you’re willing.” Thessaly was lying on her side, facing him, one arm stretched out. He wondered, suddenly, if he’d ever be able to carve her into a piece, the way she was both languid and ready to move, like a great cat considering pouncing.
Vitus felt himself smiling. “Willing is not the problem. You’re not sore? Too sore, I mean?”
She shook her head again, and stretched, a very physical stretch that made it clear how well she knew her body. “Much less than after some duels. More, please?”
“Something a little quieter. If you turn the other way, I could nestle behind you. You’d like my hands, I suspect, and then I’d rock into you.” The idea hit her as both novel and interesting. He could see the expressions across her face, just before she obligingly twisted, her other hip now against the bed, then her shoulder. He shrugged off the dressing gown, slipped his feet under the covers, and then pressed up close to her. It would take him a little while to be more active about her desires. He suspected, from the way he was rising to the moment already, that it would not be frustratingly long. In the meantime, this let him make the best use of his right hand, his left coming under her to stroke her skin and cup her breast.
