He smiled down at me and licked his lips. Even after knowing him this long there was still something...
animal
about him, something strange and unknowable. There was always that frisson of danger, of not knowing what he’d do next. He moved the candle this way and that; I looked up at it and then down at my breasts, panting now; from my position it was impossible to judge exactly where the wax would fall, but he had a perfect view. He could tease me and trick me; and he would.
And then he did the one thing I wasn’t expecting. He simply said, “I love you.” His lips were on mine before I could respond, a slow and gentle kiss and—
God!
A river of heat and pain, unleashing a burst of ecstasy that made me groan, our teeth meeting as I panted against his lips. He’d dripped a whole curving line of wax around one breast, painting me with it. He drew back, smiling slyly down at me. Just like the early days: I didn’t know whether I wanted to kiss him again or kill him.
He looked down at my feet. I’d locked my ankles one over the other, and was grinding my thighs together: I hadn’t even been aware of it. I stopped.
“No,” he said. “Keep doing it.”
I started again, feeling the heat rising in me. What I wanted was to touch my aching core, rub at the throbbing nub in a way I knew would take me over the edge...but he still held my wrists.
Another sudden drip. I gasped and arched, my knees coming up. He was working his way around my breasts, but not in any predictable pattern; keeping me guessing. The wax was cracking and pulling as it stiffened; like being pinched by tens of hands at once. And still he didn’t drip it onto my nipples – was that mercy or denial? Sometimes he’d go over an area again, and the first layer protected me, diminishing the pain. But as the thicker wax hardened, it gripped me even more securely, making every tiny movement trigger new sensations. There were so many levels to this: so much he could do to me....
And then he let go of my hands, moved down my body and eased my knees apart. I tensed in fear.
He laughed at my reaction. “Don’t worry, Lucy. The candle stays up there. This time.” My eyes widened. “Oh, we’ll do it there too, but you should be ready for it. Naked.”
My chest was heaving at the thought of hot wax dripped
there.
At the idea of being shaven completely, bare and exposed for him. I was scared...but I could feel myself getting wetter.
“Reach your arms out to the sides,” he told me. “Good. Now keep them there. If you lift them off the floor, I will stop.”
He knelt between my thighs and lowered his head toward my sex, his arm outstretched, the candle above one breast. He started immediately, his tongue tracing the length of my folds. There was no more wax for now: but I knew when it would come, knew he was going to finally unleash that blessed fire on my nipples just as I came. And so the whole time he was building me up, his mouth working me with expert grace, I was torn between wanting it
now
and wanting to prevent it.
He was making me hold myself back from the brink
.
Asterians are the greatest lovers in the world; don’t let anyone tell you different.
I was fighting a losing battle, though, as I thrashed and moaned, alternately grinding harder against him and pulling desperately away. He was in control and he decided when I’d come, and as I spiraled upwards he started with the wax, each hot drop a note in a crescendo. My hands formed fists as I arched and cried out, the pain so much more intense on my sensitive flesh, but the pleasure doubled, tripled from before. I was helpless, drawn skywards by him like a leaf in the wind. I seemed to only exist in those instants of time when the wax hit; a series of snapshots.
God!
His lips at my folds—
Ahh!
His tongue deep inside me—
Yes!
His mouth on my core—
I exploded, fingernails digging into my palms as I bucked and ground against him, chest heaving as it raged through me, leaving nothing behind: not even thought.
When I came down, he had his jeans down, a condom on. It felt so good, when he filled me, I swear I almost wept.
He pulled off his t-shirt and then his bare chest was on me. I gasped as it rubbed against the wax, like a thousand fingers pinching and pulling, sending glowing sparks of pleasure through me. He rooted himself in me, the size of him making me moan, and I wrapped my legs around him to urge him on.
His hands came down on mine, our fingers knitting together and he rode me as I thrashed and twisted beneath him. He raised himself just high enough that he could gaze down at me, watching my reaction to every thrust, every stroke of his pecs against my ultra-sensitive breasts. And when I bit my lip and shook and cried out his name, he pounded inside me and cried out mine, too, and we were together like never before.
***
We fell asleep in that room, and thanks to the cushions I had easily the best night’s sleep since we’d gone on the run. When the dawn light woke me, he was already up and half dressed: jeans and a bare chest. I looked groggily at him. At first I thought I must be dreaming, but…yes, he really was writing – no,
drawing
on the wall.
“What are you doing?” I asked. I wrapped the blanket around me and walked over. He stood back to let me see.
He’d drawn a map of Asteria. All the mountains and rivers, the major towns and roads. I couldn’t vouch for its accuracy, but it was jaw-droppingly detailed. “How long have you been up?”
“A few hours.” He went over to the makeshift bed and retrieved something from where I’d been lying. His t-shirt. I’d been sleeping on it, I realized, and he hadn’t wanted to wake me. “This is our best route to the border,” he told me. “Away from towns, away from roads.”
“Okay….” I said slowly. “How do we get there?”
“We hike. And camp. We’ll need equipment. I made a list.” He showed me a torn-off piece of wallpaper with a lengthy list of items and a smaller version of the map.
I looked up at him.
He
was back: that fierce creative spark, the way he came up with things – we had nothing, and he was still coming up with plans. I knew he’d lost faith in himself: in his ability to rule. But at least he was still fighting, even if it was just to keep us alive.
I kissed him. “For being you,” I told him. “Now: how do we get the equipment?”
He chewed his lip. “That’s the risky part,” he said.
***
It was a simple plan. We’d go to a nearby shopping mall, disguised as best we could. We’d use one of Jagor’s cards to get cash out of an ATM and then quickly buy everything we needed at a camping goods store. The military would be watching for any activity on Jagor’s account, but we figured that if we moved fast, we could be gone before they arrived.
The bike Jagor had “borrowed’ was, amazingly, still parked where he’d left it. It was so new and shiny and leaving it out on the street in this neighborhood was so ridiculously stupid, the local thieves had probably thought it was a trap and left it alone.
“When all this is over....” I said to Jagor as we climbed on.
“We have to make sure the guy gets his bike back?”
“I was going to say, “You’re never riding a bike again.”’
We roared off towards the shopping mall. He hadn’t got enough practice on the bike to actually improve: he was just adding more speed each time we went out, hoping it would stabilize him. It didn’t.
Four nerve-shredding minutes later, we pulled up at the shopping mall. I had the blonde wig, sunglasses and fastened-up raincoat on. Jagor had on a grey hooded top with the hood up; as long as he kept his head down, we were pretty anonymous.
We hit the ATM first, Jagor withdrawing every dollar it would give him. Halfway to the camping goods store, we nearly ran into a crowd of people staring at the window of an electrical store. Every TV was showing the same thing. It was an action movie, one of those scenes where the bad guys have taken hostages. Tearful women and helpless children kneeling with hands on heads, while muscled soldiers with machine guns walk in circles around them.
Then I saw the bald-headed soldier who’d captured me near the palace and I realized it wasn’t a movie.
The sound suddenly cut in: a man’s voice, and one I knew. The white-haired guy from the sex club.
“Prince Jagor: we know you are still in the city. Give yourself up and we will release the civilians unharmed. If you continue to run, they will suffer for your cowardice.”
The camera cut to a sobbing woman, the barrel of a machine gun pushed against her cheek. There was more, but I was already dragging Jagor away. He allowed himself to be led, walking as if in a trance.
“Get on the bike,” I told him as we walked through the exit, tears in my eyes.
“Lucy—” he started.
“G
et on the bike!”
He was even less in control of the bike than usual as we rode back, but I barely noticed: I was sobbing, because I knew what was going to happen.
As soon as we were safely inside the apartment, I rounded on him. “You can’t!”
He was white-faced but stoic. “I have to.”
“They’ll kill you!”
“They’ll kill them instead if I don’t. They blew up the opera house just to try to kill me. They don’t care about innocents.”
I flung myself at him. “No! Jagor, no!” Tears were streaming down my face, now.
“You have to go to the border. You have the cash now. Go to a different mall, buy the gear we were going to get and do it yourself. You can make it.”
“No!” I fought to breathe. “If you’re going, I’m going with you.”
“No.”
“Yes!”
He was crying too now, something I hadn’t seen since he’d told me about his brother. “You are my exkella,” he told me, “And I am
ordering
you to go to the border.” He pulled me close and hugged me, and I knew then that I was going to lose him; that there was nothing I could say that was going to make him stay.
“I love you,” he told me, and kissed me hard, his lips salty with tears. Then he was pushing out of the door, crashing down the corridor and down the stairs. I wanted to chase after him but I could barely see, could barely breathe. I heard the bike start up and roar off, and I knew I was never going to see him again.
Chapter Twenty Two
I spent the next few hours crying. It wasn’t the healing sort of crying, where the tears flush out the dregs of a toxic relationship or vent pain. It was the end of my world. The tears took everything I had and spilled it out of me: when they eventually finished, there was nothing left. I just felt empty, as if I was no longer a person. I didn’t want to run for the border. I didn’t want to do anything, not even lie there on the bed. I wanted to not
be
anymore.
Yes, I thought about it.
After a while, I was aware of something inside. Small and hard but not painful or jagged. It was still there, and it was all I had left.
It was
resolve
. Iron strong and lava hot. When I stroked it with my thoughts, it warmed me.
I’m going to get him back.
It was completely ridiculous. He was already dead, and even if they’d just captured him to execute later, what could I do? I was a translator: the librarian of our jokes, when I needed to be a soldier. I was a foreigner, when I needed to be a local. I was a woman – and an uncollared woman at that – when I needed to be a man. And right now, I was the most wanted person in the country.
But what was the alternative? Give up?
I tried to think what Jagor would do, and the pain of thinking of him almost overwhelmed me.
Sarik,
I thought.
He’d set up some secret meeting with Sarik and get information.
But Sarik may well be dead. Even if he was alive, the SSV would be under the control of the military now: no way they’d let their security service operate unsupervised.
I tried to think of another idea. There wasn’t one. So I packed a few things into the pockets of my raincoat and set out.
***
I had to walk ten blocks to find a payphone, then another two to find one that worked. I explained to the operator that I wanted to place a collect call to the deputy head of the security service, and spent the next few minutes convincing her I was serious.
There was a moment of agonizing silence while she tried to connect me. Was he dead? Had he and Telessa come back to the opera house, only to be caught in the blast?
“Sarik Taum,” said Sarik, carefully.
I couldn’t say who I was: the army probably had his phone tapped. I knew he’d recognize my voice: the question was, would anyone else who was listening?
“Mr. Taum, this is….” I looked around frantically. I’d walked so far I was in a slightly nicer part of the city, with a couple of pavement cafes and some shops. One of them was a dry-cleaners. “Your dry-cleaning reminder call. We have a suit here that needs to be collected. Urgently.”
“Of course,” he said, no less carefully. “Remind me of your address and I’ll be right there.”
I found a street sign and told him the address, then hung up. There was a cafe next door to the dry-cleaners with tables outside. I ordered coffee and sat there pretending to drink it. If the waiter recognized me, he gave no hint of it. With the blonde wig on and dressed down, I really didn’t look much like the Exkella. I remembered what Sarik had said, weeks ago in the sex club: if anyone thought they recognized me there, they’d assume it was their mistake.
What if he wasn’t as loyal as Jagor thought – what if he was working with the army? No, I decided, I didn’t believe that. Jagor had trusted Sarik with his life: I could too.
Twenty minutes later, he sat down across from me. I’d been watching in what I thought was every direction, but he’d still sneaked up on me.