the senses: embossed Japanese paper panels on the wall, a medley of cotton and silk fibers, the velvet nap of the sheared pile carpet, the soft, white leather of the low-slung chairs.
Miach took it all in with one glance and then smiled when he saw the window: a single plate of glass that made up one whole wall of the room. A marriage of art and technology, with a fine view of the garden below. It made the space, even on the second floor, feel open to the outside world. The antithesis of the claustrophobic storage vaults beneath the old galleries. In here, she could breathe.
She opened the desk drawer that was filled with pens and markers. Miach searched them, then playfully held up a novelty marker, bright pink, with a fuzzy cap on the end.
He was trying to charm her, to worm his way back into her good graces. “ No ,” she said, to both the novelty marker and the effort it represented.
“I didn’t think so. This one suits, though.”
A silver pen. Another novelty. One she used on party invitations. Her favorite writing instrument in the drawer, actually. An indulgence of sorts, a flourish that made light work of the tediousness of addressing envelopes. And he had picked it out unerringly.
He reached for her hand, intending to draw the mark on her arm.
“Not so visible,” she said. “Most of my summer work dresses are sleeveless.” And the thought of walking across campus in a jacket during an August heat wave was deeply unappealing.
“Where, then?” he asked. “Where I placed it before?”
To her annoyance she felt the very spot, high on her inner thigh where Miach’s mark had been, tingle and flush again with warmth. This time she willed that warmth, with mixed success, not to travel.
“Are there certain places that work best? Like the ley lines?”
“I’d very much like to say yes . But, no. Not really.” His little smile, and wistful tone, were exasperating.
“Then lets skip the sexy-time option, shall we? Put it over the one that bastard gave me, the one your wards burned off.” Obliterating it.
She turned and presented her back to Miach.
He stepped behind her, and hesitated. Then he lifted her hair and draped it over her left shoulder, the movement more sensual than she expected. He looped a finger under her tank top strap and pulled it down slowly, almost reverently. She found herself anticipating the kiss of the pen against her skin, the glide of it over her back.
Which was wrong. She needed to remember what he was. Ancient, jaded, inhuman. If she let him, he would use her.
But the minute the ink-slick tip of the pen touched her back, she knew that she would enjoy it, enjoy having his mark on her. Knew that it was disingenuous to pretend that sex was something he would take and she would give. Acknowledged, even if only to herself, that there were things she would like to use him for.
Images flooded her mind, and her body heated in response. Miach straining over her. Helene arching her lower back to meet him. A frenzy of thrusting and sweating, her heels digging into his muscular buttocks.
The pen flew over her back, fast as a signature, and then it was over, and the images faded. He pulled the strap back over her shoulder. She took a moment before turning to get her breathing back under control. He would know anyway how much the contact had affected her, would suspect how much she wished she could have him, free of consequences.
But he was Fae, and there was nothing safe about him.
• • •
M iach knew he should not have mentioned Deirdre. Human women wanted promises and permanence. The first he could give them. He promised them pleasure, his fullest attention while it lasted, support for any children they might conceive, comfort, even luxury.
Permanence though . . . that was impossible. The Fae lived in the moment. He would enjoy Helene’s company while it lasted—indeed, he felt certain, enjoy it immensely—but she was mortal, and there would be others after her.
Miach took it all in with one glance and then smiled when he saw the window: a single plate of glass that made up one whole wall of the room. A marriage of art and technology, with a fine view of the garden below. It made the space, even on the second floor, feel open to the outside world. The antithesis of the claustrophobic storage vaults beneath the old galleries. In here, she could breathe.
She opened the desk drawer that was filled with pens and markers. Miach searched them, then playfully held up a novelty marker, bright pink, with a fuzzy cap on the end.
He was trying to charm her, to worm his way back into her good graces. “ No ,” she said, to both the novelty marker and the effort it represented.
“I didn’t think so. This one suits, though.”
A silver pen. Another novelty. One she used on party invitations. Her favorite writing instrument in the drawer, actually. An indulgence of sorts, a flourish that made light work of the tediousness of addressing envelopes. And he had picked it out unerringly.
He reached for her hand, intending to draw the mark on her arm.
“Not so visible,” she said. “Most of my summer work dresses are sleeveless.” And the thought of walking across campus in a jacket during an August heat wave was deeply unappealing.
“Where, then?” he asked. “Where I placed it before?”
To her annoyance she felt the very spot, high on her inner thigh where Miach’s mark had been, tingle and flush again with warmth. This time she willed that warmth, with mixed success, not to travel.
“Are there certain places that work best? Like the ley lines?”
“I’d very much like to say yes . But, no. Not really.” His little smile, and wistful tone, were exasperating.
“Then lets skip the sexy-time option, shall we? Put it over the one that bastard gave me, the one your wards burned off.” Obliterating it.
She turned and presented her back to Miach.
He stepped behind her, and hesitated. Then he lifted her hair and draped it over her left shoulder, the movement more sensual than she expected. He looped a finger under her tank top strap and pulled it down slowly, almost reverently. She found herself anticipating the kiss of the pen against her skin, the glide of it over her back.
Which was wrong. She needed to remember what he was. Ancient, jaded, inhuman. If she let him, he would use her.
But the minute the ink-slick tip of the pen touched her back, she knew that she would enjoy it, enjoy having his mark on her. Knew that it was disingenuous to pretend that sex was something he would take and she would give. Acknowledged, even if only to herself, that there were things she would like to use him for.
Images flooded her mind, and her body heated in response. Miach straining over her. Helene arching her lower back to meet him. A frenzy of thrusting and sweating, her heels digging into his muscular buttocks.
The pen flew over her back, fast as a signature, and then it was over, and the images faded. He pulled the strap back over her shoulder. She took a moment before turning to get her breathing back under control. He would know anyway how much the contact had affected her, would suspect how much she wished she could have him, free of consequences.
But he was Fae, and there was nothing safe about him.
• • •
M iach knew he should not have mentioned Deirdre. Human women wanted promises and permanence. The first he could give them. He promised them pleasure, his fullest attention while it lasted, support for any children they might conceive, comfort, even luxury.
Permanence though . . . that was impossible. The Fae lived in the moment. He would enjoy Helene’s company while it lasted—indeed, he felt certain, enjoy it immensely—but she was mortal, and there would be others after her.
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