Written as a tumblr prompt for 'kiss out of lust'. It is... self-indulgent and questionable for it, but I'm glad to have gotten some writing done ahaha. Please enjoy something inspired wholly by Jeremy Stolle.
Christine had chosen chess because she had thought, with a misguided intent, that it would be a relaxing distraction from what had been a particularly exhaustive lesson. The chess table seemed appealing in the neglected corner, with its finely carved ivory pieces collecting a layer of dust. Its appeal only grew when Erik informed her with some reticence that it had been a while since he played. All the fairer for it, she had said with a smile as she dusted each piece in turn. He said nothing further, but helped her all the same. With a pair of filled wineglasses, they eased into their places opposite one another and began.
But even with her partner out of practice, Christine is losing. She thinks, in a barely audible corner of her mind, that she might do better, were they different circumstances, and were he a different partner altogether. She never had this much trouble against Mama Valerius or Raoul or even Nadir—adept as he is—and though she knows that it is in part due to Erik's natural ability to pick things up with a startling swiftness, she also knows that it is mostly due to the fact that she cannot focus for a second on the pieces in front of her.
How could she possibly? It is bad enough that her belly is warm with wine, cheeks pinkened by the mostly-drained glass, but he has the audacity to be, in one of his rare instances, without his gloves.
She doesn't remember him taking them off. They had been on during the lesson—she remembers his leather-clad thumb tipping her chin upward, fingers resting featherlight on her jaw to straighten her head. She very distinctly remembers the way they had brushed just a millimeter toward her cheek before he turned on his heel to continue his instruction. She wasn't afforded a proper view of them, nor has she ever truly been for all of his constant twitching and gesturing with them.
Now they are a chess table's length away.
The first thing she notices about them are his fingers. They seem longer than she remembered, thinner, knuckles sharp and almost bony. They pluck the pieces up with a surgical precision, not so much as brushing the ones surrounding his target. His movements are smooth, slow and contemplating as he picks up a rook, rolling it between thumb and forefinger in his contemplation before he captures another one of her pieces with a gentle nudge and a click of ivory against ivory. She swallows when he picks up the fallen knight, holding it with the utmost care as though to inspect for any sign of contention before he places it to the side.
"Your move, my dear."
She snaps from her reverie at his voice, not looking up to him for fear of his catching the prickling heat that grows on her neck and cheeks. She looks to the board properly, jaw tight, trying to assess the current situation, but her eyes keep flicking to the hand that now taps its fingers against the table in a smooth undulation. She shakes her head in an effort to do away with the feathers that seem to be blanketing her brain, turning with a renewed determination to the game.
It is a quick move that she makes, little thought put into its planning before she retreats, fist balling into her skirts at the hum that escapes him. When she hazards to look up, she sees those uneven lips pursed, his other hand cupping his jaw, thumb running along the line of it before returning to tap his bottom lip. Her grip in her skirts goes white-knuckled at the thoughtful twitch at the corner of his mouth and she tears her gaze away and back to the board.
But a barely audible click-click draws her attention from the unmoving game, off to the side where the captured pieces and near-empty wineglasses lie. Her jaw clamps tighter.
The white queen rocks back and forth at the behest of a single lithe finger, balanced and steady and rhythmic with each curling and straightening of the knuckles. The tendons on the back of his hand flex with every minute shift of that finger, starkly visible under thin skin and veins when he pauses only to tap his fingertips on the tabletop once more.
It is only when he picks up the offending piece, however, holding it with middle and ring finger to run his forefinger over the top of the crown that she feels a sharp pang of heat in her belly, her thighs clenching unbidden and her hands all but tearing the fabric at the front of her skirts as she twists them there. She bites down onto her tongue, trying to quench the flush that she is certain must have her looking positively feverish by now. The wine. It is just the wine. A proper excuse, perfectly reasonable. She will have a good laugh while he discretely takes the glass away from her, those same fingers curling under the bowl of it while—
That is quite enough of that, Christine.
Her thought is punctuated by a low 'aha' from across the table, the queen placed gingerly to its surface before he reaches over the board and in a swift motion, makes his move. No capture, not quite check, but a tricky position all the same. It isn't what she is focusing on, however. Rather, it is those hands, limber fingers twining and laying, palms down, on the tabletop. When she looks up to his masked face, his eyes are shimmering in an almost triumph behind the shadows of his mask, his lips tugged into the ghost of a smug smile. Thin, uneven, fascinating in the very same way as his hands, and a dangerous little voice in the back of her head keeps repeating the word tactile.
"Your move, my dear."
She hadn't intended to stand, nor to brace herself with hands flat against the sides of the chess table, nor to lean forward to capture his mouth with hers across that table, yet here she is, feeling the grunt of surprise against her lips and the degree of a sway before he can steady himself. Her heart is thudding painful against her ribs at her recklessness, the logical part of her mind screaming at her to pull away, pull away right now, blame the wine, stop this instant, Christine, and yet her body betrays her in the form of a drag and sweep of the lips, begging without words for him to reciprocate.
There is another second that passes, agonizing before she feels rather than hears a low, rumbling groan from the depths of his chest. And now one of those hands is on the back of her neck, tugging her mouth more firmly to his as they move in tandem, slanting their mouths to deepen the contact, and that pang of heat of before turns into sparks shooting below her navel to collect in the pit of her stomach.
Their lips part with each pass and breath, and she was right, his are so peculiarly tactile, soft and oddly cool but warming against hers. It is a heady pressure, mingling with the taste of wine between them to make the floor positively rock beneath her. She knows if it weren't for the table keeping her held up, she would fall for the reeling. Her fingers curl under her palms just as his tighten in her hair, pulling a whimper from her throat.
All at once, he stands, never losing a second of contact, and she hears chess pieces scattering as he bears forward over the table, desperation heightening, another groan vibrating into her core as calloused fingers rake against her scalp. His breath is hot against her and for just a millisecond, he pulls himself away to breathe her name before diving in again.
It is the slick, deceptively hot glide of a tongue against hers that has her eyes snapping open, has her gasping and pulling back in realization of what is happening. She all but stumbles back, nearly falling into her chair, panting for breath as she meets wide amber eyes, pupils blown. She doesn't know what it is that she sees in them—surprise, she recognizes, awe, the sleeping remnants of the wine, but there is something she can't quite trace that has her holding herself up against the arm of the chair before turning down in a rush to the wineglasses on the table.
"The glasses," she says, cursing silently the breathlessness of her words. "I can take care of them."
"Christine."
She ignores her name, the hoarseness with which it is spoken making her shudder to her toes, and hurries to the kitchen with eyes turned soundly forward and away.