Petra of the Shazastar is a thief on the run from an unforgettable past. But, like all thieves, her luck cannot last forever. When she is caught, she's given a choice: either face execution or become the fortune teller to the Mad Queen.
Not surpri...
"Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow."
-Romeo and Juliet Act 2, Scene 2
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HE DOES NOT MOVE, FROZEN in place as if I had struck him with a blade. The look upon his face tells me that he almost wishes I would have. I know that I have crossed a line, that whatever happens tonight will alter things for the worse, but I am past discretion. I need this. I need him. With my hands through his hair I push him, so his back is to the headboard. He moves with me, eyes half-lidded with desire and confusion.
I want to rid him of any reluctance -- to lose control and let it be for me. I trace his lips with the tip of my tongue and glide my lips over his. I am gifted with a throaty chuckle. My eyes flutter shut as I melt at the feel of his mouth; his lips are warm and firm but soften at the feel of mine. I deepen the embrace, wanting more, more of his warmth, more of him. His hands clasp my nightdress tortuously, but that is not enough. I need his touch. I thread my fingers through his, unweaving his self-control and move his hands up my hips, moaning into his mouth as his touch ignites torches of fire upon my skin. I want him to set me ablaze, to set me afire, like a common witch in a cage. Slowly, agonizingly, his hands trail their way to my ribs, pulling me onto him. I am lost in this kiss, lost ... so blissfully lost. And then he pulls away, slowly as if he is pained to do so. His breath comes out in warm bursts upon my mouth.
"Dios mio, you are as cold as death, Petra."
My eyes flutter open and I smile liking the way my name sounds coming from his mouth, the way his Florentian accent makes it sing.
"I don't think -"
I put a finger to his lips, quieting his reason.
"Don't think, signore. For once."
But he is persistent.
"Petra, stop." He moves me off his lap and turns away from me, his hair covering his face. "We shouldn't. This ... this isn't right."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean this isn't what you want. Not really."
I crawl to him and snake my arms under his, holding his back to me. "But this is what I want."
He stiffens under my touch, not at all pliable to my seductions. Rigidly, he moves out my hold and walks away from the bed. I watch him in awkward confusion. Then, I understand. He is ashamed ... ashamed to have been in my embrace. I cannot move, or say anything, but allow the tears to well up in my eyes. "Am I so repulsive?"
He does not respond, only clenches his hands into fists. My tears fall, for his silence is my answer.
"I am a fool." I cannot even recognize my own voice sharpened with hate and rejection. "I cannot satisfy the captain of the Florentian guard? Must I be of nobility in order to enjoy your royal embrace!"
