Star's Crossing

21: No Decadent Vice

Have I ever been kissed?

Lord above. Mare could hardly think the answer—a loud, echoing, resounding no—let alone speak it. Geoffrey's eyes were amber, topaz, chips of gold untempered in the light. He did not descend but hovered, waiting.

Mare realized she'd lifted one hand to his chest, an extraordinary trespass upon propriety, and her fingers rested against his sternum. She could feel his heartbeat through the pads of her fingers. It was quick.

"No," she whispered, and his face surrendered nothing at all. "Mr. Bridge..."

"Geoffrey," he said softly, and now he did lean nearer, and Mare parted her lips in surprise, unable to form that name herself, upon her own tongue. "Geoffrey, Mare. It is me."

Yes, she thought desperately, fingers toying against the velvet of his jacket collar, the first button of his shirt. The warmth of his skin seethed against the cotton and she imagined—ludicrous, utter madness—the silk of his bare skin beneath. It is you. It is you.

Geoffrey lowered. He was maddeningly close. Mare had never kissed a boy before, only read of such an experience, and dreamt of it too, she was free to admit in this moment of raw, utter solitude. What was it, she wondered, to feel the press of another's tender skin? To taste? To indulge? To desire?

To be free?
"Ahem."

Mare sat bolt upright, Geoffrey dodging her shift in bare time. He stood, offering a hand as quick.

"There you are, Ms. Atwood."

Humiliation coursed through Mare's blood, and she stumbled to her feet, clutching Geoffrey's hand. There stood Theodore Bridge, of course, as always! He was but a faint shadow in the mild and shifting light, an apparition once more between the boughs and branches and leaves.

"Teddy!" Damn, Mare bit her lip, hard, withdrawing her hand from the crook of Geoffrey's elbow. "Mr. Bridge. I..."

"Geoffrey," said Teddy, voice riddled with thorns though his pleasant expression betrayed no such thing. "I thought mother had recruited you for the day. Has she resorted to asking the help to prune the roses?"

Geoffrey's smile was cool, nonplussed. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and shrugged. "She can't have expected much from me. Slipped off for a break, is all. Lovely day, hm?"

Teddy's smile tautened. "Indeed. I admit I am surprised to spot you steeped in shadows when the sun is all about. Ms. Atwood, I do believe this concludes our game? Unless," his voice lowered, "you do not wish to be found."

"Does anyone?" She held his eyes in challenge, though warmth flooded her blood and cheeks, and crept up her neck like a shadow. "Alas. Rules are rules. Mr. Bridge." Mare forced her stiff legs to move, inclining her head in an approximation of a bow. "I shall see you again, surely."

"Do promise," said Geoffrey, not shifting his amber gaze from hers. "Won't you, Mare?"

"Ms. Atwood." Teddy spoke sharply enough to draw Mare's attention, though when she looked to him, his contented expression had not faltered even marginally. She frowned, turning back to Geoffrey.

"I make no promises," she said, allowing him to take her hand and lift it, slowly, to his lips. "But I can hope, can't I?"

"Can't we all, Atwood?" Geoffrey pressed his lips to her knuckles, long enough to beckon a blush to her face. "Good day."