11. In Which Luke Names the Constellations

The moon was nearly full, pouring soft, milky light over the solarium. It traced the edges of trees beyond the glass. Their only witnesses. Luke walked past the settee, to an empty spot on the rug. He sat on the floor, and patted the space beside him.

Grace hesitated, then sat. Not too close.

He arranged his jacket to form a pillow, placed it where she might use it, and lowered himself to lie on his back. “Do you ever find that you think better with a change in view?”

She felt a bit as though he’d reached into her mind. But she said nothing.

He was peering up to the ceiling—since it was glass, through it. A private smile, now.

She tipped her head up, and saw: the sky was perfectly clear tonight, and thick with stars.

“Do you know the constellations?” he asked. “Lovely night to spot them.”

Curiosity won, and Grace lay on the ground. She rested her head on his jacket. “This is what you wanted to show me?”

“Yes. Just a few moments. Trust me.” He pointed. “Orion, there. And that cluster, do you see how it looks a like a rose?”

She followed his finger. “It’s the center of Persephone’s crown.” He traced it. “Follow ... there,” he moved his arm in an arc, to another line of stars. “The River Styx. Her beloved Hades, of course, waits on the other side.”

“I didn’t know there was a river up there. And Hades was her kidnapper.”

“Oh, he thoroughly won her over, in the end. Took effort, given the seriousness of his crimes against her. But sincerity of purpose can be a potent aphrodisiac.”

She gave a snort.

And then they were quiet. Staring up at it all.

The lo nger Grace looked, the smaller she felt. A bit like a mote of dust, in a not-unpleasant way. Funny, then, how important things felt to her. Their work this week. Their quarrel, t wo years ago. Her embarrassment and anger. Her pride.

“Uncommonly bright, tonight,” she murmured.

“I made arrangements to add a few extra stars. Needed it spectacular enough to distract from your vexations.”

She giggled in spite of herself. “Costly, I imagine.”

“Oh, the universe and I are old friends. She doesn’t mind putting up a show for me as a favor.”

Grace glanced at him. A soft curve to his lips as he looked up. Who was this Luke, who could lie on the floor, so contented? Was it the drink, or was this who he was, outside of work and war? “The universe is a she?”

“Too beautiful to be anything else. Now,” he said, without looking at her. “Tell me why you hate me, Chetwood. Is it that you cannot forgive me for the things I’ve said? That’s within your rights.”

“Wounding with words is hardly a hanging offense.”

“Then perhaps, at bedrock, it is you who have never liked me . Go on,” he encouraged. “Tell me precisely how you view me. Decapitate me.”

“You knew very well when you took me here that I’d be so awed by it, I’d lose interest in bathing in your blood.”

“Not at all. I fully expect you to come round to doing me in. I merely wanted to share my passion for astronomy before I died.”

She gave a laugh. He said nothing. Waiting for her to speak.

So, finally, she did. “Fine. You do vex me. Because the first time I laid eyes upon you, I thought you ... it doesn’t matter.”

“No,” he agreed, watching the sky. “It doesn’t matter.” Then, he added, “Still, you could tell me.”

She found that if she did not look at him, she could keep talking. “I was taken with you. I believed you were taken with me. So, first, that.”

He didn’t say anything. But she felt a shift in the way he was listening.

“It was not a shocking epiphany—that I was not your sort. For all that men turn foolish around me, I am not to most tastes.”

“You believe that?”

“The night sky is black. Your hair is curly. I am too much.” He made a noise like he disagreed, but she ignored it. “But I have never so severely misread someone as I did you. I hadn’t the slightest grasp of your true opinion of me. I thought ... well. Suffice to say I did not understand how deeply you disdained me.”

He took a breath, like he wanted to speak, so she waited. “No,” he said softly. “Finish.”

She’d never imagined saying any of this to him, much less all of it. “Well. And so when we did come to blows, I was mortified. Because I should have known better. A woman does not reach one and twenty, in this sort of physical form, without a basic sense of how to sidestep men whose regard for her is dangerously low. But with you, I walked directly into the jaws of the trap. And I keep walking into them.”

A pause. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“I see something in you. That draws me. And then it all happens again. That’s the irony, Ashburton. I deserve it when you hurt me. One’s opponent can only land the strike if one drops one’s guard.”

She heard him turn his head. Knew he was looking at her now. “Chetwood.” His voice was gruff. “No one here wants to hurt you. Not really.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, though she didn’t—she simply couldn’t stand the vulnerability of talking about it anymore. “Don’t trouble yourself. You made it up to me when you hung all these stars.”

He chuckled, and she felt him turn his head away. “Dubious of that. But would it help to know you trouble me in much the same way I trouble you?” Now she had the sense he couldn’t look at her either. “I don’t mind sparring—it’s dancing of sorts, when one’s partner is as sharp as you are. You challenge me. I like it.” His voice had dropped low, and she felt this last in her belly. I like it. “ But I don’t want a war with you. I want— always wanted ... ” He gave a frustrated laugh. “It is absurd, it’s commedia bloody dell’arte, to imagine I was not hopelessly fascinated the second I first saw you.”

It made everything go still, hearing that.

“Then what happened?” she whispered.

“I bungled it,” he said, simply. “And now it’s too late.”

He exhaled. She said nothing. A burr inside her chest.

“So,” he said, forcing his tone lighter as he changed the subject. “Shall I quiz you? King of the Underworld, so forth?”

“No,” she murmured. She didn’t want the conversation to move toward an end. She wanted to lie here as though time had entirely forgotten this solarium. She wanted to listen to his voice. “I’d prefer you show me a few more.”

He moved closer, to point to a constellation above her head. “That’s Diana, and her hound there, wearing a diamond necklace. And that, five stars and the arc of three, Puer Virgo Tristis. If you tilt your head, it becomes quite clear that’s his poor neglected little member in hand, see?”

“The Sad ... Virgin Boy?”

“You remember your Latin. Easy to spot the Puer because he’s near Venus, which is of course the center of the Illuminated Arse.”

She coughed a laugh. “Did you make all of them up?”

He threw her a dry glance. “Insulting of you to doubt me. The constellations are an area of special interest for me.”

“Clearly.”

“I’ll prove it,” he said. And reached for her arm, letting his hand hover, not yet touching it. Goosebumps rose on her skin. “May I? For demonstration purposes only.”

She nodded, feeling herself flush.

He lifted her arm by the wrist, held it so that they could regard the pale, moonlit flesh of her inner arm.

“These,” he said, and drew the tip of his finger across her skin, tracing her freckles. “These constellations fascinate me. I want to connect all of them, and read their mythology in one sweeping epic.”

“That would take you quite a while,” she said, the husky sound of her own voice surprising her.

“I want it to take me quite a while.” He brushed the finger across her skin, slowly. “I want it to take all night.”

“We haven’t got that sort of time, Ashburton,” she breathed.

“Luke,” he said, and brought her arm down to his mouth, to kiss her wrist.

Her breath caught, as he dragged his lips up her forearm.

It felt like he’d tapped some tiny root, some channel that webbed out over her entire body. The feather sensation of his lips darted all through her, to her farthest reaches.

What had they been saying?

“Luke,” she said. “When you do that, I am in danger of getting quite ... carried away.”

He gently lifted her arm away from his mouth, and brought it down to rest on his chest. Exhaled, as though it had been a feat of discipline. Then threw her a glance. “I’ve paused. To allow you to collect yourself, and consider how you’d like me to proceed.”

She rolled onto her side, up on an elbow, withdrawing her arm from him. And took a head-clearing breath.

He was regarding her with eyes that were serious, curious, a bit warm from the wine.

It occurred to her then that, strange as it was, she’d never touched him.

They’d never danced at a ball. They’d never held hands. Last night in the library, she’d gripped the chair as he’d worked magic under her skirts with one hand—even then, the ways their bodies met were strictly limited. They’d never kissed.

She reached out, and as he had, let her fingers hover.

His eyes widened. He nodded.

She touched his cheek, where it went hollow, below the bone. Warm. Scratchy where his beard was coming in.

She traced his lower lip with her thumb, that firm, aloof line. Surprisingly plush.

Then, one fingertip over his nose, following the slightly wrong angle of it, feeling the bump in the bridge, the break that healed imperfectly. Then to the raised white C bisecting his eyebrow, tracing the cursive, as if to say this scar goes with that break, does it not? A taxonomy of the life collected on his face.

“Fell out of a tree,” he said. “I was seven. Chasing a butterfly.”

Of course he was. “Did you catch it?”

“I only wanted to look more closely.” So much soft mirth in his gaze as he held hers. “Got smashed to bits. Arm, too.”

“And you learned precisely nothing from it, evidently.”

“Nothing,” he agreed.

She’d never seen his eyes like that—sparkling, open, like some blockade had lifted and she could see straight into the depths.

Suddenly, the singularity of him overwhelmed her. Yes, yes, he was handsome, in his lean, reserved, irregular way. But this was more. This was the whole night sky.

He swallowed hard. And then, abruptly, turned his face away.

She understood. She felt an urge to shake out her fingers, to lessen the intensity of what had built there in the contact between them.

She saw him take a deep, steadying breath before turning back to face her.

She wanted to move away, fast, while she still had any measure of control. And she wanted to abdicate it all to him.

He seemed to read it in her face. “Do you wish me to go?” he asked. “I will go.” His voice was gentle. No game in it, no tease.

It would be best if he went.

“Yes,” she said. “Go.”

And then, before she lost her nerve, “in ... ten minutes.”

His brow raised.

“You’ve caused severe tension,” she said. It happened to be true, for all that she was bold, mad, wicked to be saying it. “I must insist you see to it before you go.”

His smile turned positively wolfish. He was sitting up in a blink.

“Sincerest apologies,” he said. “I shall do my best to correct it at once.” His hands were on the hem of her skirts, pushing them up, up over her legs.

His eyes moved over her body, and he drew a hand down the white length of her stocking to her slipper. He eased the shoe off, then held her foot in both hands, his thumbs finding her arch, pressing in.

Remarkable. A breathy oh slipped from her at the sensation.

“You see?” he murmured. “If I had sufficient time, there’s not an inch of you I wouldn’t investigate until I knew how to pull pleasure from it. I’d find every lock, and then its key.”

He planted a kiss on the top of her foot, then let it go, and moved to sit between her legs. “But I can try to be efficient, princess.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Not provocateur?”

He shrugged. “As it happens, I had it backward.” He moved his hand to her thigh, let it rest there. “And so.” His eyes, their gray almost silver in the moonlight, dared her. “Tell me what you want.” He smiled—rakishly, she thought. “As I plan to give it to you exactly, I’d recommend you be specific.”

She blushed to think of saying the words—but it also thrilled her to think of saying the words. “All right ... then ... I want you to make me come.”

He looked sharply pleased. He slid his hand up, under her skirt, to cup her cunt. “Let us see what I can manage,” he said softly.

He moved over her, till their faces were close. She thought he would kiss her, but he moved to murmur in her ear. “I confess, there is something I want too.” He smelled faintly of wine, and woody spice, linen, skin. “Pairs well with your request, I think. Should not be too much of a trial.” He was moving his hand now, letting his palm press deliberately over her clitoris, causing a burst of concentrated sensation. “Let me taste you,” he said, voice hoarse, and pushed one finger into her. God. Her back arched. “Tell me to put my mouth on you. So I can stop bloody thinking about it every second of the day.”

Oh.

“Luke?” she breathed.

“Yes .. . ”

“Your tongue. Make a bit of haste.”

He chuckled. And wasted no time, sliding down her body, shoving her skirts out of the way, pressing his hands to her bare thighs, pushing them apart.

He was staring at her cunt, studying it, and the feeling was uneasy and thrilling at once. An unruly lock of hair had fallen over his brow. He looked hungry, devilish. He inhaled, and his lids fell closed, taking in the scent of her.

He looked to her, up her body. She was impatient now, but before she could speak, he did. “Oh, I know,” he said silkily. “ ‘Luke. Make haste. ’”

He slid his fingers over her, to part her, expose her clitoris, her entrance, clenching over emptiness now. Her hips began to squirm, and he pressed his other hand firmly down on her lower belly, holding her in place. And then he licked her, one slow taste from her opening to her clitoris. He groaned with something like relief. And then groaned again, emphatic.

Pleasure curled through her as his tongue charted her. She let her head tip back, her eyes fall closed. He licked her again, unhurried, savoring. Dipped inside, making her gasp. And then, a spiral over her pearl, where he stayed, drawing his tongue over her.

He was as focused with his mouth as he’d been with his fingers. But less measured. Greedier. He was not only giving—he was taking for himself, too. He moved one hand to her hip, clutched her hard as he worked over her with his tongue, fingers digging into her flesh, telling her how she affected him, how he wanted more. He used the fingers of his other hand to hold her open for his mouth. She realized she was saying his name, over and over. Luke. Luke. Yes. God, yes, like that.

He lifted his mouth from her. “Grace,” he whispered. “Look up.”

She opened her eyes and the entire sky met her through the glass, endless black punctured by stars, as he returned his mouth to her sex, took her clitoris between his lips and lightly, experimentally sucked.

Bright lightning cleaved through her, tore a shocked noise from her throat, and he made a sound of revelation, of victory . He slid his hands under her hips. Sucking harder as he lashed her with his tongue. Her cries grew desperate. She pushed her fingers into his hair, soft, springy, and grabbed it in her fists, pulling his head harder to her, and the rough demand of it made him moan into her cunt.

It was coming for her like a comet, hot, blinding, pinning her flat to the floor, Luke’s head buried between her legs, feasting on her as, above her, the whole universe watched.

And then, all at once, she broke, shattered, and she came on his tongue with a cry, her hands clutching his hair, her heartbeat roaring in her ears.

Until, finally, the climax released her, panting, limbs loose, every part of her warm and heavy. She let her eyes slip closed over the great black peace of it.

He pressed his hand over her wet, swollen cunt, feeling the last of the tremors. She felt his body shift, and when she opened her eyes, saw that he was sitting up. Watching her.

He shook his head ruefully. “In the spirit of complete honesty,” he said, drawing the back of his hand over his glistening mouth, “I could do that again right now. Say the word.”

“I’m still in pieces,” she murmured. “I’m more liquid than flesh.”

He was stroking her thighs. A satisfied smile playing over his lips. “Still, I’ve found my calling. You go, do your calculus. And I shall remain under the table, servicing you at regular intervals.”

With effort, she rose up on her elbows. Surveyed him. His hair was a disaster. There was a restless sharpness to his eyes, at odds with his light tone. Tension in his face, the set of his shoulders.

She sat up, to see him better, and he seemed to sway a little away from her, as though she might burn him. And she realized—of course—he remained very, very aroused. She hadn’t touched him, and he hadn’t touched himself.

She realized she had several curiosities she badly wished to satisfy. What he looked like under those clothes—his chest, his navel, his thighs, his cock. How did he like to be touched? What would it take to make him cede that calm, controlled demeanor entirely?

She leaned closer. “I think first, you must let me do something for you.”

He smiled, wistful. Smoothed an errant strand of hair away from her face, and she realized she must look as disheveled as he. “Sweet of you, princess. But I require nothing from you.”

“I have difficulty believing that. And I want to give it to you.”

He was looking at her with such fondness, she almost did not notice that the barricades were back. That she couldn’t see into him at all anymore.

“Luke.” On impulse, she moved a hand up his leg, to find him, and yes, he was straining hard through his trousers.

He put his hand over hers, and gently pulled it from him.

“No,” he said.

She wanted to protest. Damn the pleasure still addling her—her capacity to be properly indignant had been compromised. “Why not?” she managed, and her voice sounded plaintive.

He rose to his feet now, calm. Could he really mean to go, now, with her body still half-melted on the floor and his vibrating with need?

“That . . . was bliss,” he said. And walked out of the solarium, leaving her there.