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impertinences) wrote2011-10-01 01:27 am
impertinences) wrote2011-10-01 01:27 am
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More writing! Because this came to me kind of on a whim and I had to. Thanks to my Muffin for the support and encouragement.
Cassius meets Grisha. Ooh la la.
She wears green, a shade so rich that it takes the radiance away from the emerald on her finger. A large one, cut exquisitely, shining with newness – a gift. Cassius finds that it makes her fingers look even longer, and he smiles with his mouth pressed to her knuckles. A warm day again, and she’s gathered her dress up around her calves, stretching languidly on a daybed in the parlor. He wants to tell her that she is better than the jewel, finer than the dress, that her unadorned nakedness is the truest he has ever seen her. And this? It seems a masquerade. He has a distaste for it.
He thought there was no struggle between them. That their languor was a shared one, how he could sit on the floor like a peasant while her hand dangled down to him, his back pressed to where her dress slipped from the furniture. Her hand dances, stained from earlier ink, luring his belief, playfully tucking errant strands of hair behind his ear, stroking his cheekbone and laughing when he captures her thumb in his mouth. He bites at her fluttering wrist, growling a demand. “Come here.”
Turning on his knees, he slips his hands to her waist, pulling. She is an easy weight, a challenge he prefers to wrestle. She laughs at him again, raising her chin high, shoving a palm to his cheek. “Nonsense. You come to me. I do not meet the demands of a charlatan.” He is a persistent warmth though, and the fight is only play, two animals pawing at each other. Katerina follows the length of her dress, drawn off the daybed till the floor becomes her hearth and he looms above her.
She smirks, the accent of her winter lands like syrup on her words. “So like a wolf to conquer.”
Cassius trails his hand to her throat, stroking the white skin. “And you would be the lamb?”
She tsks twice, circling her fingers on his shoulder blades. “I cannot be a wolf because I am on my back?”
“No, but because I am above you.” He speaks into her mouth, pulling her up when his hand moves behind her neck, and she is open to him again. Tasting of black cherries and strong tea, a subtle hint of heart.
He makes love to her in the parlor, undressing the bindings of her gown, stroking her thighs until need makes her whimper, biting her bottom lip. With his face pressed to the damp inside of her neck, Cassius has her feel him – all of him, the pressure of his devotion a force that settles across her. That makes her bite his shoulder and murmur his name – a pleading rush followed by her nails down his back, marking him.
Three days later, she tries to sketch the moment. Her hands are charcoal dusted, her heavily lidded eyes concentering on the shadowing detail of Cassius’ disheveled hair. She tastes him still, a lingering sweetness on her tongue, and there’s a mark on her wrist from where he held her dominantly. When the servant appears with the calling card, she waves the girl away dismissively. She is a lone woman – her company limited to fellow artists, a patron, and the few city women she could call pleasant acquaintances. So she does not expect him, his solid presence, or the utter weight of his shadow across the floorboards. It’s the smell that distracts her, the distantly familiar breath of horseflesh and forest.
Then his voice, still a rumbling bearish tone – deeper than she remembered. “I am trying to understand … that thing you used to do with your hips.” His large body casually leaning against the doorframe, and a smile of mischievousness.
They speak in Russian, quicker than how they move their bodies, how Katerina softly finishes a line before lowering the graphite and paper. “When riding a horse?” She stands, cautious, but the hammering of her chest makes her smile – the brazen tone of her voice like the scent of fresh prey.
He crosses the room in solid, swift strides. A horse trainer with hands that still collide into her, capturing her waist and lifting her from her feet. She laughs, out of surprise, out of panic, rolling up on her feet to touch her forehead with his once he places her on the ground. An absolute grizzly of a man, still bearing resemblance to the ice and fur covered paramour of her youth. It is strange to watch, to see the glint of freshness in her eyes, a swift lowering of her instinctive defenses. Her laugh is loud too, louder than Cassius thinks he’s ever heard, standing like an intruder at the edge of the hall.
He cannot understand their words but the sweltering heat of them make his stomach turn. His hands sweat. A pang like a blade thrust into his ribs.
Katerina kisses the corner of his mouth, and he pushes aside the heavy length of her hair roughly. Accustomed to being tangled by it, by her. “How often do you think of me?”
“Never.” She quips, arching an eyebrow at the steady straying of his fingers from her hair to her neckline.
“Oh, I doubt that.”
A sound like a scratch; Cassius clears his throat. He watches her, not the stranger who is agonizingly obviously not a stranger, the shimmer of her skirts as she steps away. The graceful curve of her smile, the tightening of her eyes beneath such dark eyelashes. “Cassius.” Katerina says his name heavily, tongue full of emotion, and opens her hands in a welcoming gesture. But she steps to him coyly, and he realizes how she notices the stiffness of his shoulders once she places her long fingers there. Katerina, he knows, is not a woman to touch without meaning.
“My sweet.” He presses a kiss to her cheek hard, like his rigid stance, and the sarcasm slithers from his voice. “Who is your friend?” Indifferently, he hands her the box he arrived with, the delicate paintbrushes wrapped in satin.
“Grisha.” He answers from across the room, a taller and broader man. With a raised eyebrow, he smirks at Katerina and does not offer his hand in welcome. Instead, he places them inside the pockets of his coat – a ridiculous piece of clothing to be wearing in this heat, but the man is the calm of shadows, comfortable. “And I must leave.”
“So soon?” Cassius deadpans, finding a seat near the oak table, kicking his boots up and plucking at the bowl of grapes. The fruit falls from the stem easily. He feels a bristling jealousy rise under his collar. “A shame, Katerina so loves an audience.”
“Because I taught her to.”
Katerina scoffs, murmurs something in her frosted language and steps aside when Grisha takes his exit. He touches the inside of her wrist in passing, and she shakes him off like it scalds her. He leaves a simmering cold in his wake, and she places the brushes down gingerly before taking the seat near Cassius. He keeps picking at the grapes, staring at the polished table surface.
“What were you talking about, your friend and you? I should tell you - his manners need improving. I thought you would hold better company.”
“Horse breeds. He is a trainer.”
“Do you lie this well in Russian? Or better?”
“Please, do stop boring me with your bitterness.” She fixes her hair about her shoulders before, lunging like a viper, she knocks his feet from the table. It unsettles him, startles him. He grabs her arm too hard, can tell by the slightest wince around her eyes, and feels a pang of guilt. They stay like that, her breathing bound by the taffeta of her dress, the gaze of predators between them. Katerina rises and stalks closer, touching his iron shackle of a hand with her free fingers, prying them loose slowly. “Thank you … for the brushes.”
“Stop, Katerina.”
“But I appreciate them, my Lord.”
He scoffs, and she moves, draping her arms around his neck from behind, her hair falling like a curtain to the side of her face. She kisses his temple, his stern jaw, nips at his ear affectionately. “Stay, zaichik. Stay with me.” Katerina wraps her words like silk, presenting them like a pardoning present, whispering in his ear until he turns his face and kisses the soft flesh of her arms. Leans back to capture her mouth and hold her neck firm – tries to remember what he wanted her to feel.
Cassius meets Grisha. Ooh la la.
She wears green, a shade so rich that it takes the radiance away from the emerald on her finger. A large one, cut exquisitely, shining with newness – a gift. Cassius finds that it makes her fingers look even longer, and he smiles with his mouth pressed to her knuckles. A warm day again, and she’s gathered her dress up around her calves, stretching languidly on a daybed in the parlor. He wants to tell her that she is better than the jewel, finer than the dress, that her unadorned nakedness is the truest he has ever seen her. And this? It seems a masquerade. He has a distaste for it.
He thought there was no struggle between them. That their languor was a shared one, how he could sit on the floor like a peasant while her hand dangled down to him, his back pressed to where her dress slipped from the furniture. Her hand dances, stained from earlier ink, luring his belief, playfully tucking errant strands of hair behind his ear, stroking his cheekbone and laughing when he captures her thumb in his mouth. He bites at her fluttering wrist, growling a demand. “Come here.”
Turning on his knees, he slips his hands to her waist, pulling. She is an easy weight, a challenge he prefers to wrestle. She laughs at him again, raising her chin high, shoving a palm to his cheek. “Nonsense. You come to me. I do not meet the demands of a charlatan.” He is a persistent warmth though, and the fight is only play, two animals pawing at each other. Katerina follows the length of her dress, drawn off the daybed till the floor becomes her hearth and he looms above her.
She smirks, the accent of her winter lands like syrup on her words. “So like a wolf to conquer.”
Cassius trails his hand to her throat, stroking the white skin. “And you would be the lamb?”
She tsks twice, circling her fingers on his shoulder blades. “I cannot be a wolf because I am on my back?”
“No, but because I am above you.” He speaks into her mouth, pulling her up when his hand moves behind her neck, and she is open to him again. Tasting of black cherries and strong tea, a subtle hint of heart.
He makes love to her in the parlor, undressing the bindings of her gown, stroking her thighs until need makes her whimper, biting her bottom lip. With his face pressed to the damp inside of her neck, Cassius has her feel him – all of him, the pressure of his devotion a force that settles across her. That makes her bite his shoulder and murmur his name – a pleading rush followed by her nails down his back, marking him.
Three days later, she tries to sketch the moment. Her hands are charcoal dusted, her heavily lidded eyes concentering on the shadowing detail of Cassius’ disheveled hair. She tastes him still, a lingering sweetness on her tongue, and there’s a mark on her wrist from where he held her dominantly. When the servant appears with the calling card, she waves the girl away dismissively. She is a lone woman – her company limited to fellow artists, a patron, and the few city women she could call pleasant acquaintances. So she does not expect him, his solid presence, or the utter weight of his shadow across the floorboards. It’s the smell that distracts her, the distantly familiar breath of horseflesh and forest.
Then his voice, still a rumbling bearish tone – deeper than she remembered. “I am trying to understand … that thing you used to do with your hips.” His large body casually leaning against the doorframe, and a smile of mischievousness.
They speak in Russian, quicker than how they move their bodies, how Katerina softly finishes a line before lowering the graphite and paper. “When riding a horse?” She stands, cautious, but the hammering of her chest makes her smile – the brazen tone of her voice like the scent of fresh prey.
He crosses the room in solid, swift strides. A horse trainer with hands that still collide into her, capturing her waist and lifting her from her feet. She laughs, out of surprise, out of panic, rolling up on her feet to touch her forehead with his once he places her on the ground. An absolute grizzly of a man, still bearing resemblance to the ice and fur covered paramour of her youth. It is strange to watch, to see the glint of freshness in her eyes, a swift lowering of her instinctive defenses. Her laugh is loud too, louder than Cassius thinks he’s ever heard, standing like an intruder at the edge of the hall.
He cannot understand their words but the sweltering heat of them make his stomach turn. His hands sweat. A pang like a blade thrust into his ribs.
Katerina kisses the corner of his mouth, and he pushes aside the heavy length of her hair roughly. Accustomed to being tangled by it, by her. “How often do you think of me?”
“Never.” She quips, arching an eyebrow at the steady straying of his fingers from her hair to her neckline.
“Oh, I doubt that.”
A sound like a scratch; Cassius clears his throat. He watches her, not the stranger who is agonizingly obviously not a stranger, the shimmer of her skirts as she steps away. The graceful curve of her smile, the tightening of her eyes beneath such dark eyelashes. “Cassius.” Katerina says his name heavily, tongue full of emotion, and opens her hands in a welcoming gesture. But she steps to him coyly, and he realizes how she notices the stiffness of his shoulders once she places her long fingers there. Katerina, he knows, is not a woman to touch without meaning.
“My sweet.” He presses a kiss to her cheek hard, like his rigid stance, and the sarcasm slithers from his voice. “Who is your friend?” Indifferently, he hands her the box he arrived with, the delicate paintbrushes wrapped in satin.
“Grisha.” He answers from across the room, a taller and broader man. With a raised eyebrow, he smirks at Katerina and does not offer his hand in welcome. Instead, he places them inside the pockets of his coat – a ridiculous piece of clothing to be wearing in this heat, but the man is the calm of shadows, comfortable. “And I must leave.”
“So soon?” Cassius deadpans, finding a seat near the oak table, kicking his boots up and plucking at the bowl of grapes. The fruit falls from the stem easily. He feels a bristling jealousy rise under his collar. “A shame, Katerina so loves an audience.”
“Because I taught her to.”
Katerina scoffs, murmurs something in her frosted language and steps aside when Grisha takes his exit. He touches the inside of her wrist in passing, and she shakes him off like it scalds her. He leaves a simmering cold in his wake, and she places the brushes down gingerly before taking the seat near Cassius. He keeps picking at the grapes, staring at the polished table surface.
“What were you talking about, your friend and you? I should tell you - his manners need improving. I thought you would hold better company.”
“Horse breeds. He is a trainer.”
“Do you lie this well in Russian? Or better?”
“Please, do stop boring me with your bitterness.” She fixes her hair about her shoulders before, lunging like a viper, she knocks his feet from the table. It unsettles him, startles him. He grabs her arm too hard, can tell by the slightest wince around her eyes, and feels a pang of guilt. They stay like that, her breathing bound by the taffeta of her dress, the gaze of predators between them. Katerina rises and stalks closer, touching his iron shackle of a hand with her free fingers, prying them loose slowly. “Thank you … for the brushes.”
“Stop, Katerina.”
“But I appreciate them, my Lord.”
He scoffs, and she moves, draping her arms around his neck from behind, her hair falling like a curtain to the side of her face. She kisses his temple, his stern jaw, nips at his ear affectionately. “Stay, zaichik. Stay with me.” Katerina wraps her words like silk, presenting them like a pardoning present, whispering in his ear until he turns his face and kisses the soft flesh of her arms. Leans back to capture her mouth and hold her neck firm – tries to remember what he wanted her to feel.