And still the brush of his lips on that tender spot takes me by delicious surprise.
My hands reach out for something to steady them and meet only the warm chest in front of me. I’m drowning in the bone-melting pleasure of the moment and trying not to consider what will happen tomorrow. When he pulls back to look at me, my own shock mirrored in his eyes, it’s the tremble of his thumb against my bottom lip that convinces me this isn’t an act.
As though there were no other choice, his palm slides along my cheek, and no force in the world could have prevented the tiny lift of my chin to meet the feather-soft question that is his kiss. When he begins to pull away again, my hands rise to his face and bring him back. This is my answer.
But I’m not the only force pulling us together this time as he grasps at the back of my gown, snugging me hard against him, pushing my neck up, his mouth moving firmly against mine. I try to twine my arms around his neck, but I can’t raise them much higher than his shoulders, trapped as they are by my tight silk sleeves.
Desperation crashes over me like a surge of claustrophobia and I command, “M.A.R.I.E., my dress,” against his lips without breaking contact. I pull him backward several steps until my feet find my new dressing stool. Two bots whir forward, and as they unhook and unlace my gown, I’m pushing the embroidered jacket off Saber’s shoulders, understanding for the first time the appeal of the loose, thin cotton shirts the tourists wear.
Saber’s hands join mine in their task the instant they’re freed from the sleeves of his jacket, peeling my bodice down and off my shoulders even as the bots loosen me from my confines, bit by bit. I’ve never thought of my gown as a cage until this moment; Saber has to give up his task when the bodice gets stuck on the cage of my panniers, but as the bots take over, he steals a moment to shed his waistcoat, then returns to me, his lips exploring the skin from my bare shoulder, where the strap of my chemise hangs uselessly, to that delicate spot behind my ears, kissing away my hurts, his lips ever so gently touching the reddened areas left by the Royal Asshole’s hands.
As my dress falls to the ground with the clatter of at least a dozen pots of Glitter, I feel little mechanical fingers start to untie the satin ribbons of my stays. “Just loosen them. Four centimeters,” I order breathlessly before delving into Saber’s lips again. I can’t take them all the way off. Between tonight’s tight lacing and the feel of Saber’s skin against me, I’m certain I’d only end up passed out on the floor.
Even standing there in my long chemise and corset—technically my underclothing—I’m still basically clothed, but the removal of my gown and underskirts allows me to feel. Without the thick cloth I can press myself against him, feel the warmth of his skin, raise my arms to tuck my face against his neck and cling there, feeling safe for the first time in days.
Months.
Weeks and weeks I’ve known Saber, and even from the first moment I saw him, this is what I wanted. The backs of my knees hit the bed, and I break our kiss long enough to sit down and scoot back, making room. My eyes invite him to join me, and for a moment I see a flicker of indecision, and something else—something deeper I don’t want to analyze. For several long seconds, I think he won’t.
Then he lets out a groan that sounds more like disappointment than desire, and he lifts a knee to hoist himself onto the bed, where he poises his body over mine. He doesn’t hesitate to give me his mouth again.
—
THE RAIN ON the windowpanes isn’t real; it’s my favorite effect, and M.A.R.I.E. turns it on automatically now. But genuine or not, the harmony of rainfall and Saber’s measured breathing is tremendously soothing. I don’t know how long it’s been since I left His Majesty’s office, but long enough for our initial savage need to have slowly drained away, until we’re content to lie in each other’s arms, bodies flush, Saber’s hand gently stroking my arm.
“I was certain you hated me,” I finally say, breaking the silence. He says nothing for a long while as my heart pounds, as I wait for him to confirm that this was nothing but a moment of stupidity, pity maybe, toward the girl who just got roughly handled by her affianced.
“I don’t hate you. I hate him.”
“The King?”
Saber snorts. “Him, too. No, I meant Reginald. I hate him so much. And I hate that you work for him, and that you…that you do what you do,” he says, a quick glance at the ceiling telling me he’s remembering M.A.R.I.E.
Probably wise. Wiser than what we just did potentially in front of the cameras.
“Then why do you work for him? Why not walk away?”