Zoya lay, staring at the ceiling and wondering what to do. How could she convince him that her love was still strong when he nervously avoided even a casual touch? Did he even still want her? Or was he afraid... She sighed, her thoughts having once again come full circle, and no closer to an answer.
Unbidden, the memory unfolded before her, Anano's face looming above hers. "He is to be stalked, d'va? You to be coming in, quiet like cat. No speak! Letting him to be watching, thinking - and then you pounce! Men like this to be needing bold women, desiring them, d'va?" Anano's face split into a cheerful grin. "He is to be a good tipper, d'va?"
She started awake suddenly, plan fully-formed in her mind.
Marten brought the hammer back down to his blade, trying to repair the damage done to it. The anvil sang as the hammer collided with it, the heat from the blade forcing more sweat out of his pores. It ran down his face, his chest, and dripped on the floor.
His muscles ached. Sleeping for a week, if you could call that sleep, left you tired and weak. But, there were things he needed to do, and repairing the damage he had caused was one of them.
He could not help but take responsibility for what happened. He knew that wasn't entirely true - Masato had been stronger willed than he could have imagined - but he was able to exert his will over Masato at times. Kidnapping Glossaria, instead of killing her. Leaving a trail for Jaret, so he could find Gloss and put the pieces together.
Not killing Zoya.
He brought the hammer down again, rhythmically, against his blade. Not satisfied, he put it back into the smolter, to let it heat again. The searing heat from the forge dried the sweat on his chest as he came close to it, and Marten felt it burn away some of his guilt.
He pulled the blade out of the fire, and laid it on the anvil again. He lifted the hammer above his head, and brought it down. He turned the blade over, and hit that side of the blade, trying to work out the notches and nicks. Turn over. Hammer. Turn over. Hammer.
Zoya watched him from her hiding place. If he had been more aware of his surroundings, she knew, he would have spotted her. Even this far from the forge, the heat was searing; she could already feel a sheen of sweat rising. She carefully pulled off her robes and set them aside, leaving only a thin chemise. She peeked cautiously around the corner of her hiding place, and watched him.
In the heat of the forge, he had taken off his shirt. The muscles rippled under his skin like living things, strong without being massive. She'd felt the strength of those arms, ached to feel it again. With appreciation, she let her gaze linger on his legs and thighs, and waited for him to finish his work. He lost himself in the syncopation of it all, hammer, anvil, blade and forge. He worked for another thirty minutes more, until he felt like his arms were going to fall off at the sockets. Not satisfied, but willing to accept the work, he dropped the blade in the water to cool it. Steam erupted from the small pool of water, and filled his face and eyes.
When it cleared, she was standing just outside of the forge.
ÒZoya, IÕm sorry. I didnÕt know you were there.Ó She studied him for a few moments, then came toward him. She wore a slight smile, but he could not place why. His arms ached too much to allow him to see much past the pain.
As she came closer, he watched her walk. She moved so gracefully, confidently. Her hair fell over her shoulders, and fluttered with the light spring breeze. Marten felt the breeze across his bare chest, helping to dry some of the sweat that the heat of the steam and the forge still brought.
ÒI would have come back to the Tower sooner, but I needed to do something here, first.Ó He could not explain to her the sense of personal duty he felt, yet. He could not explain much to her yet. He was more afraid of losing her now than he had ever been during their ordeal.
She continued coming toward him, not speaking. Her breath was shallow, her chest rising and falling quickly. Her cheeks had grown red in the heat, and sweat had started to break out under her dress. It ran down her bare arms, and forced the dress to cling tightly to her breasts. Marten watched them rise and fall with her breath for a few moments, until he looked back in her eyes.
ÒHonestly, as soon as this cools, I will return. You donÕt need to watch my every move.Ó Ever since he had awakened, Zoya seemed to watch him closely. Marten didnÕt know why, yet. He didnÕt know if she was still rebuilding her trust in the man that had shared a body with Masato, or if she was scared heÕd leave. Either way, he knew she watched him.
He thought to the amulet sitting over his shirt, draped across the peg on the forgeÕs wall. ÒI have a key to the Tower, if it gets too late. I know my way back.Ó Still silent, she continued forward, around the rack where the smith kept his tools. She turned sideways as she passed, the room between the rack and the wall barely wide enough to fit through. As she turned, he watched her.
The sweat on her chest had grown in the increasing heat, and her dress clung tightly now to her breasts, nearly exposing them underneath. Marten felt his pulse quicken, and looked down to avoid them. He did so just in time to watch as she tightened the muscles of her thighs and hips, lifting her leg over one of the rackÕs empty slots.
She moved slowly, letting him see what he wanted to see - what she needed him to see. She watched him, watching her. It wasn't fair, she thought suddenly, that she should have this advantage over him, this training that let her read every furtive slip of his eyes, every quickening of breath. But then, it wasn't fair either that she should have to rely on this silence to speak for her.
Everything about her excited him. Her mouth, her breasts, her legs and thighs. She kept walking toward him, and he was unable to find the words to form a complete sentence.
His mind started racing, thinking of things to say to hide his feelings. He did not know how to approach her now, since he returned. She had kept him cautiously at bay, not knowing herself how to proceed. But, he would not let her see how much he still wanted her.
Every ounce of his body tensed up as she came closer. He wanted to touch her, caress her, smell her and taste her. He wanted to walk to her now, and put his arm around her waist, pulling her close to him. To kiss her deeply, on the mouth, on her neck, down between her breasts. Lower, even. To pull her dress above her head, and take her here. Gently make love to her. Savagely take her, make her his, until she screamed in desire.
She could see the need in every line of his body. Why was he still holding back? Could he still believe she didn't want him?
He picked up the tongs to the forge, and looked down at his feet. ÒLet me put these things away, and by then, my sword should be ready for the sheath.Ó Before the words had even fully escaped from his lips, he felt himself blushing. Nearly every waking moment was spent thinking of her now.
He walked over to the empty places in the smithÕs rack of tools, past Zoya. He caught her smell as he passed, and his heart stopped for a moment. He closed his eyes, forcing back tears of desire, and starting placing the tools back where they belonged.
Senses heightened by desire, she caught the quickly suppressed gasp as he passed her, the fraction of a pause that lingered close to her. She turned as he passed her, resolutely looking away. Two quick steps brought her to him, and she put her arm around his waist, and her other on his shoulder. She kissed his neck lightly, her tongue grazing his skin. He dropped the tools he was holding, shocked and suddenly unable to move.
Zoya slowly turned him around, and he looked up into her face. ÒZoya, I donÕt think...Ó She silenced his protests with a kiss. Deep, long and wanting, Zoya kissed him, her tongue finding his and caressing his mouth. The arm around his waist pulled him closer, and slid down, pulling his hips toward hers, clenching him tightly.
Zoya moaned slightly, but still did not speak.
Still he resisted! She was nearly frantic with fear and resolve. She wanted him so badly - and he wanted her, as she could feel, pulling his pelvis against hers. Why did he still resist? She couldn't guess, but knew abruptly that even if it meant the end of his love, she had to have him, and now.
Her hand moved to the back of his head, holding his mouth to hers, deepening their kiss. Zoya moved slightly against him, and he felt her body rub against his. He fought his desire, but a low growl escaped from his throat.
Encouraged, Zoya pulled away slightly, kissing his neck and face. He felt her hands slide around his shoulders, down his chest, down... She began to work at the knot of his pants, urgently, desperately, fumbling. Marten felt his face blush deep red, felt the blood surging through his body.
He couldnÕt restrain himself any longer.
Marten put an arm around ZoyaÕs waist, pulling her close to him again. His hands went to her back, rubbing and sliding over her back. He kissed her hard, deeply, barely able to contain himself. His hands slid down, both hands grasping, squeezing, pulling her hips close to his.
He moved slightly against her, letting her feel his excitement. His hands dropped to the back of her thighs, pulling them apart slightly, half-certain that at any moment she would stop him, pull away... She did not stop him.
He pulled her dress up now, in handfuls from the back of her legs. He pulled it above her waist, and moved them both against the counter along the fat wall of the forge. He lifted her slightly, so she could rest against the counter, so her dress would not fall down again.
She let escape another moan as his caresses suddenly seemed everywhere. She let her own fingers explore the territory of his chest and arms and back - whatever she could reach - with a desperation and urgency quickly growing.
MartenÕs hands went to her thighs, running his fingers lightly down them. They went to her breasts, caressing them, kissing them through the thin fabric of her dress. They went back down to her dress, pulling it over her head, leaving her naked and exposed.
Gasping with passion and need, Zoya looked at him, drinking in hungrily the desire on his face, as naked as she was. The quiet sadness that had haunted his eyes of late was gone, replaced with lust and a burning, achingly fervent love.
Marten stopped, and looked at her. More beautiful than he could have ever imagined, he felt his hunger for her grow. He looked for only a moment more before lifting her against his hips again.
He moved them to the wall beside the counter, kissing her neck, sucking on her small, almost perfect breasts. He listened to Zoya moan deeper, and answered her moans with some of his own. Her hands found their way to the waist of his pants again, this time deft and sure. His kicked them off behind him, and slid his hands behind her, to squeeze her firm buttocks.
He lifted her onto him, and then moved against the wall. She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist, and he kissed her breasts as he thrust into her, repeating the rhythm of the hammer and anvil. He loved her, how she felt around him, on him, and how he felt beside her, inside her.
Zoya almost whimpered, her need had grown so great. She had wanted to savor this moment, but could only lose herself in the rhythm he chose and allow the fire within to consume her. Her moans turned to near-screams of passion, MartenÕs moans soon following to primal grunts of desire and arousal.
She cried afterward, holding him tightly. When he begged her to tell him why, she only kissed him desperately, beginning the cycle of love and passion all over again, determined that if he would only believe her love in silence, then in silence she would tell him of her love. They made love several times that day. Each time, she held him close and cried quietly when it was over, and several times Marten found himself weeping in the midst of making love. They were gentle. They were rough and wanting. Passionate and primal and longing. Loving and caring. In the exhaustion that followed, the sun slowly setting in the window in Zoya's bedchamber, Marten found his home again, ZoyaÕs arms wrapped around him.
Finally, bonelessly and blissfully sated; finally certain that he understood that she loved him, desired him; finally, she spoke, quietly, her voice slightly hoarse from crying out. "Marten...?" He stirred in her embrace, pulling back just enough to look sleepily into her face.
"I will always love you." They were the first words she had spoken to him that day, and he fell asleep with them echoing in his ears.
Copyright 2000 by Elizabeth L. Brooks and Braswell D. Brandt. Not to be reprinted without written permission of the authors.
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