.
.
.
.
In The Wake Of.
.
MaryScot.
.
.
.
Andromache felt exhilaration coiled tightly in her stomach, causing dizziness and nausea. The searing heat of his hand around her wrist possessed the hot fury of a brand burning through her sleeve. The golden material bunched around his closed hand as he gave her wrist a firm squeeze of encouragement.
Hector rushed her steps, increasing the distance away from the crowded dining hall from which they fled. Her gaze followed the flowing hem of his scarlet robe as he ran, the crimson length flapping from his quick stride. The leather soles of his black sandals landed softly against the stone, barely making a sound.
Andromache's gold sandals struck the marble floor sharply in quick intervals, sending loud echoes across the floor. The quick, glimmering outlines of their silhouettes darted along the passageway, outlined in the flickering light of dwindling torches. Heavy breathing drowned out the faint sound of their crackling flames.
Left hand clapped to her head in an effort to hold down her yellow veil, Andromache hurried after him. She gasped as his hand slipped from her sleeve onto her bare flesh; the feel of his palm against her wrist was astonishing. There was no shield against the calluses, the heat, the urgency. Goosebumps ran up her arm, disappearing under her gown.
As their shadows appeared on Hector's door, Andromache felt her excitement grow was well. Anxiousness was beginning to morph into an expanding sphere of apprehension within her belly. Even the light, unassuming touch of the fabric against her legs was enough to make her feel faint.
For the first time since they fled the wedding feast, Andromache felt their pace slow. Hector stopped to open the great oak door, graciously stepping aside to permit her entry. Her right sandal crossed the threshold of his room, it's leather sole fell with a soft tap against the marble. Andromache was aware that she would be a different woman when she left. The hollow clanging of the metal lock of his door signified no turning back.
The room was dark, but through the thinness of the veil she could see nothing beyond small spots of light. There were, at most, three or four torches lit, but the size of the chamber rendered them practically obsolete. To her, it was practical darkness. Andromache stood rigid, awaiting his next move, wondering what it might be.
"Andromache," Hector murmured, drawing closer. She could feel his proximity, and jumped at the gentle insistence of his voice. She awaited the contact of his flesh upon hers, and felt the pangs of emptiness wrench her heart. The desire for him to act was intensified by his breathing only inches away.
The lightest touch imaginable brushed the side of her face through the veil, causing her to start. The hand drew back, and Andromache exhaled shakily. Her breath sent a ripple through the silk. Waiting for the fabric to settle, the hand soon returned, and Andromache realized his intent. She stood still as fingers lightly trailed through her hair until they reached the back of her head.
"I want to see you," Hector pleaded softly, releasing the clasps that held up her veil. The tiniest sound broke forth from the barrettes as he pushed them open, allowing the yellow material to escape.
Andromache drew a ragged breath as she felt the veil slowly slip away. In a flutter of iridescent gold, the cloth descended. It landed in a shimmering heap on the ground by her feet. Cool air brushed her face. She shuddered, wanting to melt onto the floor and shiver until she broke into a thousand pieces. Anticipation, panic, and apprehension all threatened to burst from her trembling body.
Their gazes met, Hector's eyes slowly melting into hers until Andromache felt she could no longer distinguish the difference between his and her own. The crimson of his robe was vivid against his tan skin, as bright as her trembling lips less than a foot away. Her brow furrowed in confusion as he stepped back. Her head turned to follow him as he moved behind her.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. All moisture had left her throat when she had sighted the look in his eyes. The words were almost as hard to form as her thoughts.
"I want to see you," he repeated, his warm breath tickling her ear. She trembled at the tone, which held a hint of vagueness.
"I'm right here," Andromache told him unsteadily.
"But this is not you," Hector informed her firmly, his hands now in her hair. His fingertips affectionately caressed the dark locks, smoothing over the shining curls, which were gathered high atop her head.
"It is me," Andromache said, puzzled. She sucked in a breath as she felt his fingers close on her gold hairpin.
"No, it isn't," Hector replied firmly, pulling the hairpin out with a gentle tug. "You are refined beauty, yes, but you are not so far from human that I cannot appreciate you without all the elegance."
"What do you mean?" asked Andromache helplessly, feeling her hair fall down her back and tumble over her shoulders.
"You are arrayed in superficial splendor," Hector answered, throwing the gold ornament on the floor, where it landed neatly upon her veil. The fabric billowed beneath the weight of the pin before fluttering back down.
"And while you still appear lovely, the embellishments stand in my way," Hector explained further. "The finest decorations fashioned by mortal hands may rest upon your skin, but they depreciate your real value. Hephaestus himself manipulates precious metals, but he cannot craft anything nearly so meaningful as a person from a lifeless portion of gold. Nothing he could ever make could rival you."
Andromache was glad that he stood behind her, lest he notice the blush that had stained her cheeks at his comment. The excitement was almost unbearable as she felt him caress each well-dressed lock, gently easing out the golden beads that had been threaded through her hair.
Hours had been spent arranging the elaborate hairstyle; in a matter of minutes the labor was being undone. But for Andromache it was an eternity. Each movement of Hector's hands was slow and measured. As his fingertips closed on the cold surface of each bead, Andromache held her breath until it was free from her hair and landed with a soft jingle. Each tiny ornament fell onto the veil, which collected the jewelry neatly in its folds.
As skilled as Hector was at reading his opponent's movements on the battlefield, he had to know what utter havoc he was wreaking on her nerves. Andromache inhaled sharply when he dropped the last lock of hair, which fell softly against her back. He leisurely combed through the strands until they fell together naturally, no longer separated into carefully arranged tresses. Hector stepped back when he was finished, and Andromache whirled to face him.
"Hector?" she questioned, concerned at the odd look he wore. "What is it?"
"I've never seen anyone look so beautiful," he breathed, his earnest expression almost painful. He was studying her face very carefully.
"And why do you say that?" she asked, looking at him uncertainly.
"That nervous little smile of yours," Hector replied. "Only I can do that…and it's always when I step close to you."
As if to prove his point, the distance between them evaporated. The toe of his sandal barely avoiding the edge of her discarded veil, Hector's body leaned into hers, the thin fabrics of their robes fragile barriers between their heated flesh. Andromache tried unsuccessfully to slow her racing pulse to match Hector's even heartbeat, but found the contact necessary for such a feat produced the opposite affect.
Andromache's gaze fell to where the flesh of his throat disappeared under his robe. She imagined she could see his pulse as it throbbed steadily. The blood was throbbing only a hairsbreadth beneath his flesh; it matched the brilliant color he wore on the outside. The red silk contrasted sharply with the bronzed skin of his neck, which she followed up until her eyes fell upon his beard.
Smiling, Andromache bravely trailed the pads of her fingers along the line of his unshaven jaw. A muscle in his cheek twitched at the contact. Upon reaching his ears, her leisurely motions took her back towards his chin. Bravely, Andromache's fingertips moved back through the stubble until they reached his bare skin. Her tops of her fingers gently traveled the smooth planes of his face, first tracing the edges, and then sweeping over the swell of his cheekbones.
Reaching the center of his face, Andromache allowed the sides of her thumbs to run up and down the side of his nose. The cushion of her thumb delicately crossed the bridge of his nose, once, twice. Then the thumb pads moved away from his nose to brush over the sensitive skin beneath his eyes.
Hector's had to remind himself to consciously breathe as her hands moved over his face. Though he had absolute trust in her, no one had ever made him so aware of his own physical presence. Her gentle caressing were soothing but stirring. Her touch impelled action but he could not bring himself to call her exploration short.
Andromache was unaware that his gaze was trained on her face. Just as he had caught himself staring at it countless times before, her mouth transfixed him. The seam of her parted lips drew his attention first, and his gaze leisurely found its way to the delicate curve of her cupid's bow. Following the ascent, valley, and rise of the structure, his gaze eventually settled on the lush, red swell of her bottom lip.
Andromache continued her detailed study of his face, memorizing ever feature. Her fingertips eased the wrinkles on his furrowed brow, and she realized that he had been looking at her the entire time. Hector caught her hands before she could lower them self-consciously to her sides. Her gaze fell between their bodies, where he cradled her limp hands in his own. Their foreheads were almost touching.
Hector gently ran his thumbs over the back of her hands, smoothing over the unmarred flesh before proceeding to her knuckles. The pad of his thumb perched precariously on each before moving over it in small circles. After treating all of her knuckles in this manner, he ran the edge of his thumbs of the joints of her fingers until he reached the fingertips. He followed the boundary of each short, gently rounded nail with his fingertips.
Flipping her hands over, Hector delicately traced the lines of her palm. His nails pressed against the flesh as he sought to further familiarize himself with each crease. The backs of her hands rested gently on the palms of his, and his thumbs descended gently upon her wrists, feeling her pulse. His hands began to travel up her arms, moving so he traveled over the tops of her forearms and over her biceps.
Andromache marveled at the strength of the muscles she detected beneath his tanned skin. If felt as if she were running her hands over a silk-covered sculpture. Soft flesh covered hard muscles, which she felt as she ran her palms up his arms. Her hands lingered as they encountered scars, which she sought then smoothed over with her fingertips.
Zeus, her skin is soft, Hector thought to himself, gently closing his hands around her upper arms. His ends of his fingers met the flesh of his palms around them, needlessly confirming the delicacy in structure when compared to his own. His hands continued up, reaching the tops of her shoulders before his fingers closed on her warm bronzed skin.
"Hector?" she breathed, searching his eyes. Her hands continued to glide over the heated flesh of his arms. His gave her shoulders a squeeze before traveling up the sides of her neck and up her face.
"No interruptions this time," Hector shushed her, his fingers threading through her hair as he drew her face to his. Their lips met; Andromache could not have been more overwhelmed with sensation. The kiss was hot and wet and demanding. His lips coaxed hers open, she was only happy to yield this once. The gentle insistence of his tongue pressed against hers.
The warm weight of Hector's right hand was at the base of her skull, tightening his grip on her hair. His left hand rested at the small of he back, pressing her to him. She sunk into the warm, solid mass of his body as her mouth broke away from his for a ragged breath. When her lips met his again, it was a frenzy of melding heat.
Her feet shuffled as he maneuvered them both towards his bed. She willingly complied, her stomach tightening in exhilaration as his lips began trailing across her jaw. His stubble was sharp against her cheek, but the pain lost to the excitement.
The tip of his tongue traveled the shell of her ear before his teeth closed rather fervently on her earlobe. As a startled cry escaped her lips, and soon his lips returned to hers. When she felt the edge of the bed hit the back of her knees, her legs failed to straighten because his weight was bearing down against hers. Falling backwards, Andromache's hands sought the folds of Hector's robe.
Andromache gasped into Hector's mouth when she felt his arm tighten around her waist. He stepped back, and she was hoisted up until the backs of her knees now rested on his right forearm. He deposited her on the bed, placing her smoothly on the black silk covers. He sat down beside her and leaned forward, but Andromache stopped him when she realized he meant to take off his sandals.
"Here, allow me," she offered gracefully, scooting forward and leaving the bed for a moment to situate her bottom between his knees. She leaned towards his feet, presenting him with her back as the fingers of her left hand closed around the laces of his right sandal.
Andromache stiffened under the touch of his hand on her back, her hands dropping the leather cords. She paused, feeling the movements of his fingertips brushing her hair over her shoulder. As he contented himself with toying with the strands, she rediscovered her confidence to resume her task.
Andromache's right hand glided up his calf before resting firmly on his kneecap. Her touch was firm as she relished the feel of his muscles twitching beneath her touch. With her left hand, she deftly untied his right sandal and eased the straps loose. She worked her way down the laces until she reached his toes; there she gently eased the sandal from his foot.
Instead of lifting her hand from his right knee, Andromache slid it back down before turning her body to face his left leg. This time it was her left hand that traveled the muscled length of his calf before finally settling on his knee. She used the same method to similarly dispense with his footwear, and its laces remained suspended from her fingers until she dropped them daintily.
Hector found himself absorbed in her graceful movements until the soft thud of his sandal dropping snapped him out of his stupor. He allowed her hand to slide from his knee onto the bed as he drew his leg to his body before swinging it around to join the other. He slid smoothly off the bed, where he kneeled by it patiently.
Hector's hand shot out, seizing Andromache's right leg in its firm but gentle grasp. His left hand massaged her calf leisurely as his right plucked open the laces and removed the sandal. He cradled the small foot in his hand, his thumb running over the arch.
"Are you ticklish?" Hector asked when she gasped and drew her foot back.
Shaking her head firmly, Andromache said nothing as her foot scooted over the covers to the edge of the bed, where she allowed her foot to fall back beside the other. Resisting the urge to sit up further and peer over the edge of the bed, she sat back, resting her weight on her arms. All she was focused on was his profile.
Andromache was transfixed by the look of concentration on his face as he resumed his inspection of her legs. The feel of his warm hands upon her ankles caused her to clamp her shaking knees together firmly, hopefully making her appear less anxious. His fingers traveled the smooth length of her shins before grazing over her knees and settling low on her thighs.
"After a careful examination, I've determined that I like your legs much better than my own," Hector teased her, looking up at her. His stomach hit the edge of the bed, the red of his robe contrasting sharply against the black counterpane. Andromache was fully aware at how vulnerable she was, with her knees parted and arranged on either side of him.
"I happen to think your arms are much better than mine," Andromache countered, hoping her voice was steady. His right hand had left her leg, settling on her stomach. The warmth of his hand melted through her thin garment, the palm pressed firmly against her navel and fingers spanning her waist.
His hand left her belly as he stood, trailing up the side of her body. Reaching her underarm, he gently applied pressure until her arm gave, and he trailed the underside of her upper arm before reaching her forearm. There, he flattened his hand against her the inside of her wrist before their palms met, and he pressed their hands onto the bed above her head.
Supported on one elbow, Andromache collapsed. Her back hit the bed as she lay back, staring up at where Hector leaned over her, the muscles of his left arm taut as he pinned her right hand against the blankets. His right hand departed from her leg to capture her left hand, which he held prisoner beside the first.
"Holding me prisoner?" Andromache asked saucily, ignoring the voice in the back of mind that reassured her it would not be so bad. Hector released his hold on her, and she scooted back on the bed until her back hit his pillows.
"I would not dream of such a thing," Hector growled dangerously, climbing onto the bed and crawling towards her on his hands and knees. His hand pushed her knees apart and he settled between her legs, feeling the heat of her body as it pressed against his. Neither cared that they were ruining the expensive fabrics of their wedding robes.
Andromache knew that it would be her last night as a maiden, but found that desire and anticipation had completely overtaken shame and trepidation. She had given her offerings to Artemis to forgive her for leaving maidenhood, but she had also given the customary sacrifices to Aphrodite for a passionate marriage.
I could not have asked for a finer husband, then, Andromache thought as she watched Hector sit up and slip off his crimson robe. The scarlet silk slid away from his body and Andromache felt her throat become drier than the sands of Troy's beach.
The yellow material of Andromache's gown soon joined the pool of red silk on the floor beside the bed.
.
.
.
.
.
Author's Notes: This was embarrassing, and I haven't even gotten to the actual consummation part…oh well…I hope this was at least readable.
If anyone wants me to continue this (and you know what direction this is heading), email me and I will post a link in my profile or something.
This was just a diversion from my other work, and it isn't necessary to read the other to understand this…haha…anyway, check the other one out if you haven't already.
Please be kind if you decide to review.
Oh, and I don't know how I came up with the title…I guess "In the Wake of a Wedding" would have made more sense.