|Mireille/Amaya (502 Words)
||[Mar. 3rd, 2009|12:37 pm]
|||||Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies - Tchaikovski (Performed by Bond - In my head)||]|
My eyelids are heavy with sleep. I am drowsing still from the wine and the languor in my limbs which belies the couple who have long since left our impromptu bed under the stairs. I can hear the revels, yet, laughter spilling from the ballroom down the hall, but here all is still and there are stars above me.
Here is where Amaya finds me, her feet near-silent on the marble floor.
“May I join you?” she asks, formally.
I smile, still reclining on the broad couch, pillows strewn about me.
“Always,” I answer, feeling generous.
Her mouth, lips painted as dark and red as blood, turns up in an almost-smirk, but we both know she is too sweet for sarcasm.
She joins me on the couch, propping a velvet pillow behind her. The black silk of her long, long hair falls over my arm.
“You’re watching the stars tonight,” she comments, following my gaze to the glass-domed roof, the constellations visible beyond the burnished spiral of filigree stairs.
I nod, but I am not watching the stars anymore.
Amaya’s gown is cut very low, a valley of ivory skin between two dark peaks of ruched and gathered silk. I can see the inside curve of her small breast, and a single dark spot just below it.
“What’s that?” I ask, too late to bite my tongue and guard my foolish question.
Her liquid eyes slide towards me.
“What?” she asks, curious or cautious, I can’t tell.
“Forgive me,” answer, retreating to formality.
“No, I want to know,” she turns towards me slightly, and her eyes search my face.
“This,” I whisper, hesitantly, and my finger brushes the dark spot – a beauty mark, my fingertips tell me – on her skin.
“I have a lot of them,” she says, sounding rueful. “All over.”
I can’t help thinking of the witch trials, then, the way the priests would prick a woman’s body to see if she bled. But Amaya is a witch’s daughter, I remember, with the skills to hear the whisper of hidden truths, no matter how hard one strives to hide them.
Would she bleed for me if I pricked her skin?
The thought makes my mouth water, my pulse quicken.
Amaya draws the fabric aside, bares her pale breast to the moonlight and my hungry eyes.
There are four of them, dark beauty marks under her breast.
“Casiopia,” I murmur, tracing the lines between them with fingers grown suddenly too bold.
“Yes,” she whispers, and I can’t tell if she is agreeing with my pronouncement or asking for more, but her breath is quickening under my touch.
“Amaya,” I breathe her name without thinking.
Her hand trails up my arm, from wrist to shoulder, and she claims my gaze with her own.
Her river-dark eyes hold me in thrall.
“Yes,” she answers.
There is no uncertainty this time, only her fingers tangling in my hair, her supple body rising to meet me, her blood red lips, full and ardent on mine.