This piece was written for the PTB Back to School Fundraiser Yearbook. Thank you to darcysmom for betaing and dreaminginnorweigen for pre-reading. Thank you as well to the other awesome ladies of the DTCPS (BelieveItOrNot, Dragonfly336, IReen H, and thimbles), who are my inspirations! You ladies rock the hardest!
This story is a continuation of Strangers on a Train, a O/S written for PTB's SmutU 2012. It's not necessary to understanding the events in this story, but if you'd like to read it, you can find it under the S-University story in my profile.
Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight.
Lost In Translation
"So. That was different."
Riley takes a sip of coffee and taps his fingers against the side of the mug. Nervous gesture. It's only been a few days, but I can already distinguish an embarrassed fidget from a frustrated one. The way he avoids my gaze—tracking flocks of tourists descending on Old Town Square, or Staromestske Namesti in Czech—tells me everything I need to know.
"Well, I for one found it highly informative."
He smiles and peeks my way. "Liked the whips and chains, did you?"
I like how his American accent eats up every word—masticates each syllable, like it can't stand to miss out on the flavor of even a single letter. His eyes are on a small girl chasing birds through the square, and his profile is backed by golden afternoon sun, giving him an angelic look. Sandy blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and the soft features of a boy-not-quite-turned-man. He's so handsome, sometimes I forget not to stare.
"I said informative, not erotic." I pour some cream in my mug and watch the divergent colors swirl and marry. "You should visit the red light district in Amsterdam if you want a bit o' the thrill."
He chokes on his coffee then looks away. I love the blush that colors his cheeks, tan skin turning rose. Riley is fun to tease.
In all honesty, I found the Museum of Medieval Torture as grim as you would imagine, but I liked having him by my side. He's the first real friend I've found in my travels, and walking through rooms full of spiky, rust-covered thrones and horrifying metal phalluses was much easier with a hand to hold and a shoulder to cringe into.
Of course, I'd be lying if I said I didn't take advantage of any excuse to press my face against that broad shoulder of his. Warm and strong. Musky and inviting. All lad. I'm not sure I'm ready to take it further, but I like being close to him. My body craves the proximity even if my mind is conflicted.
When we first met on the train from Paris to Frankfurt, the draw was immediate and intense. Obviously there was something, or I wouldn't have abandoned my plans and hopped onto his connecting train to Prague. I wouldn't have followed him to his hostel or wandered this city with him for the past three days. Over that time, the connection has only grown. So much that I'm feeling a mounting sense of doom over our inevitable parting. He has to be back at school in London in less than a week, and I'm stretching Da's patience at home in Cork. He'll want me back minding bar well before I'm ready to return.
But all of that's neither here nor there—right now, I'm with this beautiful lad exploring this beautiful city, and I'm not complaining.
"Hey, Maggie?"
My focus returns to him. I'm addicted to the way he says my name—like he's cradling the word in his mouth. So unlike the sharp, chastising tone I'm used to from Mum and Da.
"Yeah?"
"I kind of need a palate-cleanser after that—you know what I mean?"
"Need to get the taste of medieval impalement devices out of your mouth, like?"
"Exactly."
We laugh at the horrible double-entendre, and I nod.
"What did ye have in mind?"
He smiles and drops a few bob on the table, taking care of our tab.
"Come with me."
His hand is warm in mine as he tugs me up and out of my seat. He doesn't let go as we wander the cobbled alleyways adjacent to the bustling square. Things are quieter here, dark and damp beyond the reach of the warm spring sun. Our feet tippa-tap-tap loudly—mimicking the strange lilting melody of the Czech language.
I try to pronounce the shop names painted in curling scarlet letters on wooden signs hanging over their doors. Riley teases me—tells me Czech with an Irish accent sounds like Humpty Dumpty on Novocain.
What the feck does that even mean?
I smack him playfully on the shoulder, and he pulls me close to pin my arms. Our laughter bounces off the stone walls, bubbling up and up and up. I feel my resolve crumbling against his warm chest.
Feck it. He can hold me like this all day.
"This is it," he says when we reluctantly part and turn into a cramped shop piled floor to ceiling with puppets on strings. In the back, an old man is bent over an ancient wooden table, whittling away. He nods as we enter, though he doesn't look up from his work. I like his big eyes—magnified by coke bottle glasses—and the way his shaggy white hair hangs over his ears. Two wild brows and a hooked nose complete the look, and I can't help but see a giant, untamed owl perched over his prey.
"We passed by here on our first day. I can't believe I managed to find it again."
As I look around, I can see why this place would appeal to Riley—especially with the shadow of the grisly Torture Museum clinging to us. It's all child-like wonder, enchanting and surreal with marionettes sitting on shelves like bright little Pinocchios just waiting for their Blue Fairy to come along. There's such a crazy array of dolls, I feel like I could spend a week in this tiny closet of a shop and still not take them all in. Kings, queens, peasants, and pirates. Monsters and mice and merry pranksters. Anything you can imagine has a home here on these shelves. It's wonderful. Beautiful. Magical.
We're silent as we examine the little masterpieces, pointing out our favorites, or just staring in awe. When I've made my way to the back of the shop at last, I turn to the old man and offer the only bit of Czech I know.
"Dobrý den. Hello." He looks up from his work for half a second, then carries on. "These puppets are brilliant, so they are. Did you make them all yourself?"
His eyes stay firmly locked on the miniature arm he's carving, and I wonder if he understood me.
"Well, they're grand. Thanks for sharing your work."
"Ja," He grunts in response, and I turn away with a smile. Riley's watching me as I head for the way out, and my skin prickles where his eyes travel over me.
"What?"
He holds my gaze and a secret smile teases his mouth, but he doesn't say anything. I feel myself grow warm about the cheeks, and I'm sure my blood is pooling hot and pink for all the world to see. Sometimes he looks at me like he'd like to eat me alive. Sometimes I want him to.
I move to edge past him out the door, but he halts me with a hand on my wrist, and my breath stops in my throat.
"Did you see these two?"
He motions to the shelf next to me where a little milkmaid in a red gingham dress is lolling next to a matching drummer boy. They're class, but nothing spectacular. Nothing compared to the dragon on the shelf above or the Elizabethan monarch across the way.
"Nice."
"I think the drummer boy has a crush on the milkmaid."
A smile creeps under my skin, working its way from where Riley's hand still holds my wrist all the way up to my face. I hold it behind my teeth, trying not to look too ridiculous to this sweet, sweet lad.
"Oh, yeah? How can you tell?"
"See the way he's leaning toward her? His head's down, like he's too shy to tell her how he feels, but his body says it all."
I feel my heart pitter-pat—as though little marionette people are doing a jig on it.
"And what about the milkmaid?" I touch her dress, smoothing wrinkles. "How do you think she feels?"
"She's tricky. Her shoulders are slumped away, but her face is turned toward him. Mixed signals. Then she has this look in her eyes like—"
"Like she wants him to cut his strings and scoot on over?"
Riley's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he grins.
"You think so? You don't think she's just being polite?"
"Oh no, I think she has a real thing for the drummer boy. But she's just waiting for him to realize it, like."
My skin goes cold. I feel so exposed—raw. But excited too.
"Yeah?"
He's rubbing small circles on my wrist now. I don't even know if he realizes he's doing it. But I don't want him to stop. I want him to touch more than my wrist.
"Sure. But like maybe she's trying to protect herself." I can't bring myself to meet his eyes. "Maybe she's worried he's got a thing going on with the lass on the shelf above."
He laughs and shakes his head. The little puppet above the pair in red is wearing a short pleated navy skirt—definitely not Catholic school regulation length.
"I don't think so. She's damaged goods."
"Been around the shelf, huh?"
"Definitely."
I don't know where this is going, but I like it. We've been circling each other for days—testing with touches and not-so-subtle flirtation. For sure we get on, but he's fresh from a bad breakup, and we have so little time. I haven't wanted to risk my heart just to have it shredded when we part. But in this moment—when he's so clearly reaching out to me—caution feels like such a waste. I don't want to fight this pull. I don't want to worry about the what-ifs. I just want to feel his mouth on mine . . . and damn the consequences.
I draw a deep breath and prepare to leap.
"So, should we help them along a bit?"
"What do you mean?"
I take the milkmaid in all her innocence and inch her toward the drummer boy until they're leaning into one another and her head is resting on his shoulder.
"Like this. I think they'll be happier this way, don't you?"
He nods but says nothing. Suddenly the already-cramped room feels so much smaller, and my palms are slick with sweat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Owl-Man shift, and when I turn to him, he's watching us with a sly little grin.
"Maybe we should leave him peace?" I suggest, nervous that Riley still hasn't said anything.
He leads me out of the shop without a word, and I'm baffled. I thought we were on the same page, but now I'm not so sure. The poker face he's wearing is throwing me off. Usually, I can read him so well.
Did I say something off? Did I push too hard? Am I bang wrong about this whole thing?
The alley is deserted as we make our way out of the shop. Riley's silence feels heavier than the creeping dark, sliding over and around me like a scratchy wool coat. I wish he'd say something. But the only sounds are my ragged breath and the clap of our feet against ancient cobblestones. I have the ridiculous urge to laugh or do a funny dance just to break the tension. Instead, I clamp my jaw shut and focus on the feel of his hand around my wrist.
Down the way, the sounds of revelry trip and spill out of an open door—familiar sounds. Pub sounds. Riley pivots abruptly, turning away from the crowd and leading us down an even more deserted lane. Before I have a chance to ask where we're going or what he's doing, my back is pressed against a damp stone wall and his mouth is on mine.
Oh!
I'm trapped in my surprise, locked in place while my mind tries to catch up with the moment. It feels like I'm imprisoned behind a glass wall—looking out at the scene I want to be a part of, yet unable to breach the divide. Seconds tick on while Riley presses his lips to mine, coaxing, seeking. When I don't respond, he hesitates, retreats the slightest bit. That does the trick. I find my body again and rush to make up for lost time, pulling him back to me.
My hands grasp his shirt. His fingers fist my hair. Our teeth clash painfully as we struggle to learn each other's kiss, but I don't care. It's awkward and funny and wonderful. Inside I'm laughing, but outside I'm take, take, take, and more, more, more. When we find our rhythm, I'm no longer laughing inside.
I'm burning.
It starts as a flicker in my belly and slinks up and out and all around—a rushing flame that scorches my skin, leaving me tender and buzzing from every cell. His touch becomes bolder. Urgent. Demanding. His mouth follows suit, trailing over my jaw and down my neck, attacking tender flesh with lips and teeth and tongue. I tip my head back to give him better access, and my hair catches on the coarse stone wall behind me. It hurts like the sharp ache of desire. A good pain.
"Riley," I gasp, when I find my breath again. "Shouldn't we . . ."
But his mouth is exploring the crook of my neck, and his thumbs are mapping my ribs—inching closer and closer to the soft swell just above—and the sensation is shooting straight between my legs. I've forgotten what I wanted to say. It seems I've forgotten everything but how he feels pressed against me. The scratch of his stubbled jaw. The friction of his rough denim against my bare thighs.
I squirm and writhe. I grasp and claw. I'm consumed by this flame.
His hands move south, palming my ass and pulling us closer. He's hard and eager against my hipbone. I smile and rub myself against his thigh, seeking friction to relieve this growing ache.
For a moment, the world tries to creep in, consciousness laying siege to the fortress of my lust and urging me to stop. I know I should listen. I know I should be sensible and slow down before things get out of hand—here, where anyone and their mother could see us. But I'm so fecking tired of being sensible. I'm tired of bearing the weight of other people's responsibility. I'm tired of being a woman before I've even had a chance to be a girl.
I want to do something fun and stupid. I want to do something dangerous. And I want to do it with Riley.
I feel free as I let my worry go and my hand finds the swell of Riley's excitement. His inhalation is sharp and stuttered, drawing a smile from me. He groans as his mouth returns to mine, his hips urging me on with short, insistent thrusts.
This is good. This is what I want.
We move together like that for a while, my hand on bulging denim, his hands roaming. His heart is hammering nearly out of his chest—a thrumming beat I feel all the way down to my toes. At last, he draws his hand over mine and stills my efforts.
"Maggie," he groans. "You have to stop or I'll . . . God!"
But instead of breaking our connection, like I anticipate, he kisses me hard and presses his growing need to my pelvis.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
All doubt and judgement disappear as I take in the brilliant feeling. Blood rushing and pooling under my skin. Aching desire building and building. The promise of something spectacular creeping through my veins and blossoming on my flesh like vibrant wildflowers.
Just when I think I might explode from the want of him, he reaches a hand between my legs and palms me just where I need him. My skirt is hitched up, my knickers are damp, and I can't bother to be embarrassed about any of it. When his fingers dip under the thin barrier, I gasp and arch into him.
"Holy fuck."
His voice is sandpaper-rough. It echoes in my brain as he explores, first tentative, then enthusiastically. I feel his ragged breath against my shoulder, and it shudders to a stop as he bites. His teeth press down—just shy of breaking skin—and it jolts through me with a delicious savagery.
"Please."
I don't recognize my own voice as he fills me. Stroking. Teasing. Defiling. I am restless expectation. Wild need. Pure, focused energy, burning hot and bright for him.
And then I'm wrecked, crying into the dark, empty night like an untamed thing. Howling my pleasure and scrambling to hold onto this feeling—this perfect, glorious feeling. For a moment I'm free. Blissfully unburdened. Hollowed out.
I want to feel this always.
But reality must encroach, and so it does, falling over me like dribbling rain. Riley pulls me close as I collapse against him, my legs rubbery and limp. He peppers kisses over my nose and cheeks as I claw my way back to the waking world.
"You are so beautiful."
I offer a lazy, embarrassed smile.
He helps me adjust my clothes when my fumbling fingers shake with unspent adrenaline. Then his arm is around me and he's leading me away from the alley. He's walking with a stuttering gait, and I realize how uncomfortable he must be.
"What d'ye say we go back to the hostel?" I sound drugged. Soft and slurry. "We could move out o' the dorms and into a private room."
He smiles, supernova-bright.
"Okay, but I need to make a stop first."
I eye him silently.
"There are a couple of marionettes that need to be rescued from a certain shop. I'd hate for the set to be broken up."
My laughter floats into the night, echoing through quiet medieval lanes like a harbinger of hope.
While I'm still dipping my toes into the occasional Twilight fic, I've been focusing my efforts of late on an exciting project outside the fandom, specifically original works written for a new, FREE, online magazine geared toward brainy women. Visit the site, piquezine dot com for a peek at the upcoming inaugural issue (out Nov 1). If you like sexy, smart smut, you'll really love this magazine.