No Fury

Now: Eighteen

I feel the subtle shift of bodies behind me, the rustle of Mary's skirts, and then the quiet that only comes with a room full of bodies holding their breaths.

"Cathryn," Da hisses across the ale house.

I turn, gasping and falling to a deep bow at the foot of the steward.

"I require the girl."

"My Mary?" Mother asks, breathless with surprise.

"The younger. She's to serve the prince his afternoon meal."

My stomach dissolves away, my heart incinerates.

Mary's eyes turn to me, terrified of scandal. Da beams in oblivious pride.

"Go on then," he says, hand to my lower back, shoving.

I stumble forward, tripping after the steward. My parents don't know what there is to discover, but I do.

"Sir," I whisper behind him as he storms across the field, into the hall, up the great staircase. "Please, sir," I beg, tripping after him along the velvet hallway, up the last set of stairs. "Not like this. Not in the light of day. Servants talk, you see. You'll ruin me."

"It's not up to me, lass." He holds the door open, waving me in. His expression is vacant. "The prince demanded your company."

~~

My blood heats. He stands by the window, turning only when I close the door behind me and give him the smallest, shallowest bow.

"Rise," he murmurs. "Undress."

I stand, mouth tight and, with shaking, furious hands, untie my dress, pushing my skirts down my hips. In these rooms, he's only ever seen me in dim light, after being washed, and in my bedclothes. Here I am in daylight, covered in wort spilled from the brew kettle, fingers scorched and sticky.

"I've come to you a mess," I warn, bare before him, reaching to pull my hair free of my bonnet.

He doesn't seem to hear me. "Get on my bed."

I walk across the room, aware of his eyes on my backside, my hips.

Laying back, I watch as he prowls after me onto the mattress, fully clothed.

His lips find my breasts, my neck, my ear.

Goose flesh breaks out along my arms and I grip the bed linens at my hips to keep from holding his head to me, to keep my fingers from weaving into his head of dark, unruly curls.

"Tell me what you felt last night," he says against my cheek.

"You took me, my Lord."

"That isn't what I mean and you know it. You gave in to pleasure. You joined me in pleasure," he whispers. "I've thought of nothing else in the hours since."

Pressing his hips forward, he growls, angrily, "Do you see what you've done? I close my eyes and taste your breast. I walk the grounds and feel the wet clasp of you."

Hard and urgent, his length stabs against my thigh.

My breath catches as he reaches between my legs, touching.

"Is that it?" he whispers, stroking. Stroking. "Is it there you feel the most?"

I squeeze my eyes closed, struggling to hold the ache at bay.

"Tell me, Cath."

My eyes fly open at the sound of the unfamiliar, tender nickname. No one calls me Cath. Only ever Cathryn. Or, within my family, Catie.

He's called me that before. All these nights he's called me that: every single one. A hard consonant, a soft finish.

Cath.
Oh, Cath.
Cath.

Again, and again, and again as he moved in me.

He is staring right into my face. His eyes are a more brilliant green than I have seen, even in the fields.

"Is that it?" he repeats, fingers sliding around and around over the tiny slope, the single spot that turns my mind to fire and my body to heat.

So wet for him.

"Is that where you feel your pleasure?"

When you touch me, I feel it everywhere, I think.

"Please. I need to know. I need . . ." he trails off, ducking to press his face to my neck. "I just need to know."

Reluctantly, I nod. He moves lower, covering the blush peak of my breast with his tongue, before baring his teeth and scraping me, making me gasp.

"Show me how to give you pleasure like I did last night. Show me how to make your body coax my seed when I take you."

But he doesn't stop what he's doing. He knows it is already right. He can see it written in my wide, begging eyes, my wet, parted mouth.

"Your body around me," he whispers, awed. "The fit of it. The feel."

Swallowing, I close my eyes, letting my lips part as he continues to pet me.

"When you aren't biting your lip . . . what sound do you make when your body gives in?"

Without thought, I reach down, wrapping my hands around his wrist, rocking up into him.

It is the first time I've touched him, and he doesn't make to pull away.

He smiles.

"Give me everything, Cath," he says gently. "I can offer nothing in return but I want it all."

When his fingers bring me relief, he presses his ear right up against my lips, as close as he can get, listening to every sound.

I let loose a heartbroken sob, a relieved, stifled cry.

And after, he pulls back just enough to gaze at my face, eyes victorious as they flicker back and forth between mine.

"Truly?" he asks.

"Truly."