“Why wouldn't they be?” I ask.
He looks uncomfortable now, but plows on with: “Frankly, I'm worried he might be a plant by my brother. Because ever since you started meeting up with Paul, there's been a steady increase in mutterings about your, uh, easiness to be with men. People think you're being unfaithful to me.”
I bristle at that, though it's nothing to be angry at Desmond for. He has a point. And given what's happened, he has a right to be suspicious. It's just... I really hope he's wrong. Because I like Paul.
He won't hold a candle to Desmond, however. “If you're worried about me finding him more interesting, don't be,” I say, shuffling my position. Desmond adjusts, staring at me in a sudden, predatory alertness. “Because I find you way more interesting.” My eyes trail over his body, as I now identify the mood within me I couldn't explain.
Arousal. Desire and fascination. A curiosity to take off those clothes and expose the body beneath. My mind thirsts for it, twisted into a lightning rod of desire, and I consider seriously reaching across the distance to take him, to finally give into those base desires that burn under my skin.
He ruins the moment, however, by getting up from the sofa, frowning. “I'm sorry, but I do have to go.”
Oh, for fuck's sake, I think. What I say instead is, “How come?”
“My father's throwing a tantrum. The Tielmans are unwilling to ally with us so openly if it's clear that the union between us is tainted. They don't want to be included on the Graves' annihilation list. So I have to attend these diplomatic meetings and assure them that nothing like that will happen. I'll need to trot you out as well at some point.” He sighs. “I know you don't want to hear that, but I really do need to attend to it.”
“It's fine. I get it. But why can't I come with you?”
Desmond closes his eyes, and takes a long inhale. “Because I don't trust the men in the room to hold their tongues or treat you the way you should be treated. Which will also look bad with our Tielman guests.”
Ouch. Makes sense. I appreciate his honesty, and I thank him for it. He approaches me and quickly swoops me up in a burning kiss, just when I thought he was about to leave the room. It takes me by surprise, and even more so when he pushes me hard against the sofa, his whole body on top of mine, rocking softly. The fire burns, and I whimper for more.
He stops his movement after kissing me breathless, and whispers, “When I come back in the evening, I'm taking you. I'll fuck you so hard that you'll forget what your own name is.”
I growl as he reaches a hand down my skirt, hiking it up so that his fingers trail over the underwear. Causing an electric jolt when they briefly press against my clit. He removes his hand, grinning. “That's a promise.”
I let out a groan of frustration as he leaves me, rushing cold into the heated space between us before. When he reaches the door, he faces me with eyes twinkling. “Oh, and try not to masturbate when I'm gone. I want you ready for me.”
He leaves, and I instantly plan to ignore him. My fingers rush towards my core. I have to get out the thrill within before it teases beyond measure. But just as I begin to work on myself, guilt creeps over.
Eventually, I stop in a huff of frustration and arousal.
Fine.
I'll hold it back somehow. I'll be ready for him. Good god hearing him say that is invigorating. Taking charge of me, promising me a world of pleasure. I don't understand why I like it so much. I hate being perceived as the weaker sex, and yet I want him to dominate me.
Does that mean I'm weak?
Or is it just thrilling to lose the reins every once in a while, and turn from control freak to being controlled?
There's even something secretly arousing about the fact that it's a Claymore. What Anna back home might call it, is a hate-fuck. Where your soul burns against the other person, and yet somehow you're still drawn enough to them to take it all out in a furious session of sex. It feels like a contradiction, and yet she informs me, quite gleefully, that it can result in the best sex someone will ever have.
She hasn't done it with a Claymore, however, so maybe she's talking out of her ass. Or maybe she has, and just didn't know they were one.
Well, there's nothing left now but to wait for Desmond to finish up all his shit, so he can rush back into our rooms. So we can give into feelings before our own minds take over and ruin the experience.
After making myself presentable, I leave the rooms, and have the heavy misfortune to bump into Rayse. The shorter, angrier son takes one look at me and sneers. I have a strong suspicion he's here on purpose, since he doesn't have his rooms in this section of the estates.
“Is my brother in the room?” he asks, and although I sense it might be dangerous to say no, I tell him the truth anyway.
“He went to some meeting to cool off relations with the Tielmans,” I say, which causes Rayse's eyes to flash.
“That so? My brother's telling you all this, is he?” He prowls closer, and I subconsciously back away from him.
“I am his wife. We're bound to share things on occasion.”
“Not family secrets, I should imagine. It would be unbecoming of him to tell you everything. Because who knows what you can report when you speak to your father?”
“You listen into my conversations,” I say, irritable.
“It's easy enough to come up with coded words and sentences,” he says, now drawing closer. “I've told father that we shouldn't be allowing you that privilege at all.”
“Yeah, that won't be strange at all. I'm sure my family will just brush it aside if they never hear from me again.”
Rayse bares his lips in a snarl, fingering his Claymore sash. He wears it proudly. I don't think I've ever seen him without it. He looks like he's about to hiss something else, like a furious snake, but at the last moment, he backs off. It doesn't take much to know why, as footsteps from the other side of the corridor tells me of a few servants approaching, including Danny and Morgan, back from their short break, Jay and one of the kitchen staff. He sweeps past without another word, and I wonder just what he was planning to do.
Fill me with doubt? Spit how unworthy and false I am? His footsteps pound off into the distance, and it sounds like a bull charging.
“Hey!” Jay says, apparently oblivious to the tension. Or she noticed, and is just pretending that everything is okay. That's possible, too. “I want you to meet Freda here. She's a Kelman from the salt flats. Here because she's part of some exchange where they sent a Grantmore to their household.”
Ah. An exchange of hostages. I smile at the Kelman girl, who blushes furiously for some reason.
“Wow,” she says. “You're real pretty. Jay said you were, but it's not the same as actually seeing it, you know?”
Judging by Jay's face, infused with happiness, this is one friendship I want to encourage. Maybe things are finally up for her. I grin, shaking the Kelman's hand, happy that she doesn't flinch or treat me like some odious piece of slime. “Nice to meet you. Though it might not be great for you to be seen around me. I'm not the most popular gal in the house.”
“Oh yeah, I already know. It's real stupid,” she says. There's a slight burr in the way she speaks, like there's something stuck in her teeth. “But seeing you here is great. If a Claymore and Hartson can learn to get on, then everyone can.”