Selfish is the Heart (22 page)

This time, he didn’t push her away.

T
he knock on the door behind his back saved him. The sound of it pushed them apart, Annalise taking two stumbling steps back as Cassian turned to face the door, gripping the door handle to keep it from opening. She muttered an invective that should have offended him, but didn’t.

“Annalise? It’s Tansy! Are you in there?”

Desire had blurred his vision, and Cassian blinked to clear it. Annalise had backed up another few steps, almost to the table where he’d . . . where he had . . . Cassian swallowed.

He could still taste her.

She turned her back on him, her hands seeking the pile of books. He opened the door. Tansy, on the other side, let out a squeak of surprise. Her gaze hit him midchest, then rose to his face.

“Oh, Master Toquin, I was looking for Annalise!”

He stepped aside to allow Tansy to pass. His back straight, shoulders squared, his groin aching. He didn’t look toward either of the women in the room too small for three.

“Good day,” he said.

“Master Toquin,” Annalise began, but he couldn’t stand there and listen to the sweet syrup of her voice.

He couldn’t look at her face, even as his tongue swept lips still flavored with her. He left. She didn’t, thank the Arrow, follow.

The hall was crowded, novitiates, Sisters, and Mothers-in-Service all leaving the afternoon service and moving toward the dining hall for supper. He’d taken the wrong route, but kept his steps steady and swift. None stood in front of him. All moved out of the way. And if they whispered about him as he passed, Cassian made certain not to listen to what they said.

In the peace of the yard he pumped a bucket full of icy water and plunged his hands into it, wrist deep, soaking his sleeves. He splashed his face, the water so cold it shocked a gasp from him. He spluttered, then dunked his face in the bucket.

When he came up, he had an audience. One solemn young lad, eyes wide. Kellen. The boy held an armful of paper-wrapped packages, a delivery of some sort.

“Sir?”

Cassian wiped his face with his sleeve, but as it was as wet as his skin, it did little good. “Aye, lad.”

“Are you ill?”

“No.” Cassian’s breath blew out from between teeth that would have chattered had he not gritted them shut.

Kellen looked dubious. “You don’t look good.”

“Run along, lad. I’m fine.”

Kellen shifted the packages. “Want I should fetch someone?”

“I told you already, I’m well!” Would the boy not leave him alone?

Kellen smiled then. “One of these packages is for me!”

There seemed to be no way to move him along without reply. “Is it?”

“It’s candy. I sent away for it from the shop.”

“And where did you find coin enough to pay for such a treat?”

Blessings, raised in the Motherhouse, were given all they needed. Clothes, food, shelter. Affection and discipline as required. But coin?

“Sometimes, I run errands for the ladies. Or if I help out extra in the kitchen, sometimes Cook will slip me a penny or two. Leonder is saving his for a saddle, but he hasn’t a horse.” Kellen rolled his eyes to show what he thought of that. “I bought some candy with mine.”

“You’d be wise to save yours for the future, if not for a saddle. What good will candy do you?”

“It tastes sweet. That’s all. Sometimes it’s all right to have a little bit of something that does nothing but taste sweet, that’s what Serenity told me.” Kellen gave Cassian a shrewd glance. “Don’t you like candy?”

“I cannot say I am overfond of it, no.”

“That’s too bad. I’d have shared a piece with you.”

The boy looked too much like his mother to be borne. The same fair hair, the same spatter of freckles over the bridge of his nose. Yet there was something else to him in the manner of his walk. The tilt of his smile. Somewhat of his father in the low burble of his laughter.

Cassian looked away. He was ever looking away from what he could not bear to face. “You’d best deliver the rest of those packages, else you find yourself due for a scolding.”

“I suppose I should. I promised Leonder I’d share some of it with him, if he will let me ride someday on the horse he doesn’t have for his saddle.” Kellen burst into giggles. “Good even, sir!”

“Good even, Kellen.”

The heat in his belly had burned to a coal. His cock ached, his balls like two stones beneath it. Cassian put a hand on the pump, eyes closed, willing away the remnants of foolish desire and unable to fully rid himself of it.

Void take him, he’d been a fool. He’d meant only to push her from him, but the moment he’d bound her wrists with his hands all he could think about was holding them above her head while she writhed to the torment of his mouth and prick.

And tasting her . . . by the Arrow, he’d been a man possessed. Too eager to fuck, too blocked by their layers of clothes to get inside her, he’d gone to his knees like the greenest of lads. He could still feel her slick heat against his mouth, the tremble and quiver of her muscles as he sent her over the edge.

He’d made her do that.

Head bent, Cassian swallowed a groan so that any of his regular, curious spies upon him wouldn’t overhear. He splashed more water that only chilled him and brought little relief. She had opened for him. She had moved under him. She’d given herself to him without hesitation, and he’d taken her.

And then, when he tried to walk away, she’d refused to let him.

There was nothing to make this go away. He could blame Roget for forcing the idea or Serenity for her part, but in the end the only person who could take responsibility for this was himself. He’d been weak. He couldn’t take it back. The best he could hope for was to avoid her, and even that seemed unlikely, as she was not the sort to be ignored.

In the years he’d spent in service to the Order, countless young women had made themselves available to him. Some boldly, others more subtle. None had turned his head, none had forced him to lose control. He’d give her credit for that, at least.

He was by no means an expert at the Art, though he practiced every day, but he’d practice it now to keep his mind from the ache in his balls and the slowly fading flavor of female. He stripped out of his jacket—so easy when he wasn’t fumble-fingered with lust! And hung the sopping garment on the pump handle. Bare-chested, trousers still uncomfortably tight, Cassian set about losing himself in the patterns he’d learned to honor his brother.

Heron in Flight became Striking Serpent and Slinking Tiger, but even though his body moved, his mind stayed in its place. Whirling. He couldn’t stop thinking of her face.

“Sinder’s Aching Balls,” he muttered. This was useless. He gathered his jacket, slipped it still-damp and now cold over skin humped with deadman’s knots.

He’d missed the evening meal, but his stomach didn’t care. The low throb of ache from his unsatisfied cock kept hunger at bay. Chastity had never meant a lack of satisfaction—though he’d avoided lovemaking, he’d never denied himself the comfort of his fist.

He took a longer route to his chambers than normally necessary, seeking to avoid anyone in the halls. In his room he stripped out of his clothes and rang for the maid to take them away. Naked, he paced, thinking to distract himself, but there was no use for it.

And no shame, he told himself as he lay back on the bed, prick already in his hand. Better to do this than give in to desire, to break his vow. Better to grant himself this ease than lose himself again in that woman.

“Annalise.” He couldn’t say her name without her taste flooding his tongue. Cassian groaned, cock already hard, slick fluid gathered at the tip.

He painted himself with it down the shaft and cupped his sac. Then up again, palming the head while his balls tightened at a pleasure that was near pain. He hissed out a breath, eyes closed, her face in his mind. Her eyes, pale as ice, those lips the color of crushed berries. Her maiden lips had been the same dark hue, as sweet as berries, slick with her own honey. Her clit a tight knot under his tongue.

Ah, Land Above, he wanted to feel her beneath him. She would scald him when he sank inside her. His hand was a poor substitute for her heated depths, but he gave himself up to the images of her his mind provided while he used both hands to work at his cock.

Her breasts would be a bounty. Her nipples tight and begging for his tongue. The same color as her cunt and mouth, mayhap, or a paler shade against the dusky cream-lightened cacao of her skin. She would writhe when he sucked. Writhe and jut her hips up to take him all the way in to the root.

His fist was too dry, even with the help of the fluid leaking from the tip of his cock. He licked his palm and fingers, thinking of how he should have used them inside her while he lapped at her clit, and how if he had he’d be able to taste her on his skin, now.

Wet, his fist closed around his cock and he pumped into it. Feet on the floor, knees bent, eyes closed, sheets wrinkling with every stroke. If he fucked her in his bed, they would tear it apart and leave naught but tangled blankets in their wake. He would take her with the softness of the pillows beneath her buttocks to lift and tilt her tunnel so he could plunge balls-deep.

He said her name again, a low growl that embarrassed him though nobody was there to hear. His hand was her body. His mouth parted to taste a memory. He imagined her low, snagged-silk voice whispering his name, then crying it out loud.

Begging him. Begging for his mouth, hands, tongue . . . teeth. Ah, by the Arrow, he wanted to fill her with every part of himself. He wanted to ruin her. Own her.

He came at the thought of that, at last, pleasure boiling up from his balls and out his cock. Sticky heat on his fingers and his belly, the sea-smell of his desire making him gasp. And once more her name forced itself up his throat and over his tongue to hang in the air, a shameful reminder of his utter and complete loss of control.

Breathing hard, Cassian let his hand rest on the stickiness coating his belly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d brought himself off in such a fashion, hard and fast and needy. Greedy.

A thought came to him, so startling his eyes shot open and he sat so fast his head spun. He’d not thought of Bertricia once. Annalise had so filled his mind there’d not been room for memories.

With the ache in his cock and balls eased, Cassian nonetheless felt no weight had been lifted. He would still have to face her on the morrow, and now she knew how to urge a reaction from him. Or thought she knew. He had no hopes she’d not press the advantage.

At the basin, he washed himself and pulled a cotton night rail from the armoire. He didn’t know if he should wish for sleep so that he might escape into dreams, or if he should hope they eluded him. It could go either way.

At least, he thought with a glance at the bed, he might not make an adolescent of himself, spending himself in his sleep.

The knock came at the door and he strode to it, intending to send the maid who’d come for the clothes off to bring him some bread and ale from the kitchen. Of course he flung the door wide, a command already on his lips. Of course it was not the maid outside.

“Annalise.”

He sounded lost even to his own ears. There was no doubt she heard it, too. He wanted her to give him that smirking smile so that he might push her aside with anger, but all she did was tilt her head in that maddeningly charming fashion.

“Will you let me in?” Annalise asked.

And he did.

 

 

H
is room was luxurious more by its size and obvious touches of his long-term residence than by any of the furniture or decorations. It suited him, spare and functional, with hidden touches of beauty in unexpected places. A tapestry hanging on one far wall, the carved wood of the armoire. The bedding.

The rumpled bedding.

Annalise looked at it, then him, taking in the tangle of his hair and wetness around the neckline of his night rail. He would be naked beneath it. The thought dried her mouth and throat so as to fair choke her when she swallowed.

He was looking behind her, to the hall beyond.

“There’s no one,” she told him. “If you’re worried someone might see.”

He closed the door but didn’t turn right away to look at her. This was familiar to her now, the way he avoided her gaze. Even after bringing her to climax with his mouth, he couldn’t look at her face.

“It is of nobody’s concern who I entertain in my quarters,” he said.

“Even so, I’m assuring you of my discretion.”

He locked the door and put his back to it, not leaning but straight and stiff as brick. “It’s not necessary.”

Annalise frowned. “I’m fair certain it is, else you’d not be so insistent that it’s not. Tell me, Master Toquin, can you not simply accept my consideration? Must you fight at everything I offer?”

She wasn’t prodding him to anger, like the other times. She was tired of that at the moment. The game had gone too far, the prize won and she uncertain of its value.

He nodded. “Thank you. Yes. I appreciate your consideration.”

They faced each other, and though his gaze would not settle upon hers, he wasn’t turning aside his face. He went to the armoire and pulled out a handful of clothes, then disappeared into the privy chamber without a word. Annalise, never one to allow herself to not be made comfortable, spent the time he was gone to acquaint herself further with his room.

A spare few books on the shelves, not a one of them religious. No portraits, no sheaves of letters tied with ribbon. Nothing to indicate he had, or ever had, a lover. Nothing to show, in fact, he had anything but the Order.

The armoire door gaped and she peeked inside, expecting to see a row of somber dark outfits. The puddle of crimson silk draped over a hook at the back gave her pause. She ran the material through her fingers, jerking her hand back at the last moment when Toquin appeared and shut the door without waiting overlong for her to remove it.