The Needle and the Thread
When Jude comes to him with the order that he should seduce Nicasia to discover the Undersea's secrets, he knows he ought to be livid.
A part of him is livid. Livid at the suggestion, livid that she can bark it at him, livid that she doesn't seem to care what she's asking.
That she doesn't seem to care at all.
He knows she kissed him before to gain power, to taunt him—and it worked—but he flattered himself into believing she enjoyed it, that it had stirred something inside her.
But perhaps he had been wrong.
"Give her what she wants, and get the information we need to avoid a war."
He stalks towards her, close as he dares, his breath stirring her hair. Her pupils widen.
Perhaps he wasn't wrong.
"Are you commanding me?" he asks.
"No," she says, avoiding his gaze, "of course not."
He swallows a smile, because he doesn't want to be happy that she isn't insisting, doesn't want to jump at the sliver of trust she's bestowing upon him. He wants to be angry.
But she is close, too close, and all he can think about is kissing her again.
He brushes his fingers under her chin and tilts her face towards his. "You just think I ought to. That I can. That I'd be good at it. Very well, Jude. Tell me how it's done. Do you think she'd like it if I came to her like this, if I looked deeply into her eyes?
Do you like it?
Her body seems to tense and quiver, and he wonders if she's angry, if he's misjudged this. But when she speaks, her voice hitches, and she sounds uncertain—a word he's very associated with her before.
It's better than anger. It gives him a thing like hope.
"Probably," she says. "Whatever it is you usually do."
"Oh, come now," he says, his own voice straining, "if you wish me to play the bawd, at least give me the benefit of your advice."
Tell me what you want. Show me what you want!
He traces his fingers over her cheek, her lips, and down her throat. He waits for her to pull away, to shove him off, to yell at him. He half wants it, half wants her to hate him entirely so he can go back to hating her.
But she does nothing, and yet he's the one coming undone.
"Should I touch her like this?"
"I don't know," she says, voice wavering again.
He presses his mouth to her ear, his hands skimming her shoulders, still waiting for her to tell him to stop, hardly daring to touch her, wanting to more than anything.
"And then like this? Is this how I ought to seduce her?" He pauses against her neck. Her pulse trembles beneath his lips. "Do you think that would work?"
Jude trembles. "Yes."
Then her mouth is against his, her fingers tangling in his black hair, and it is everything he dreaded and more.
Her kiss is like lightning in the dark. It has all the terrifying power of being drawn to something that can destroy you, of knowing the danger of a thing you cannot help but admire. Her breath liquefies him. He was completely unaware that another person's touch could unravel you. She is the needle, and I am the thread.
He remembers when she first kissed him, of the feeling of the knife pressed against his throat dissolving each second her lips pressed against his. It is worse than that now, better. He still feels like he is kissing a blade, like one wrong move could scar him for life, but he finds it does not care, that the moments when he breaks for air are far more painful than the ones he's joined with her.
They stumble back to the couch. He leans her against the cushions, and she pulls him with her, her touch yearning. Her mouth is agape, her expression surely a mirror of his own; surprise and a little horror.
"Tell me again what you said at the revel," he demands, climbing over her.
"What?"
"That you hate me," he says, his voice hoarse. "Tell me that you hate me."
"I hate you," she says, but her voice is devoid of fury. It's soft, like a prayer, a touch. She could be saying the exact opposite. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."
He kisses her harder, imagining other words.
"I hate you," she breathes into his mouth. "I hate you so much sometimes I can't think of anything else."
He does not know what is a lie and what is true, but he revels in the latter thought and makes a low, harsh sound. He cannot control it.
He slides his hand over her stomach, still shocked she's letting him touch her, and kisses her as he unbuttons her doublet, all the while waiting for her to change her mind, to say no, to slam him back to a reality he desperately doesn't want to belong to.
He tears off his own jacket, and stares at her wild, brilliant eyes, wondering if he looks as dazed as he feels.
"This is an absolutely terrible idea," he says.
"Yes," she agrees, kicking off her boots.
He shucks off his shirt, and her eyes widen. Her hands shake, but he captures them in his and softly kisses the knuckles, like one might touch the statue of a god.
"I want to tell you so many lies," he whispers.
He barely knows where he would begin, if he wants to lie to her so that he can declare he hates her, too, or if he wants to make absurd promises he knows he cannot keep. Bold declarations of endless affection.
But would that be a lie?
His hands skim over her skin, sliding between her thighs, and his heart thumps against his throat.
Stop me, stop me.
Tell me what you want.
Instead, she fumbles with the buttons of his breeches, which gives him all the encouragement he requires, the confirmation that she wants him—at least in this way—as much as he wants her.
And he'd be lying if he said he didn't want her in other ways, too. And he cannot lie.
He helps her free him of his trousers, and his tail springs free, coiling against her leg, softer than the breath burning between them. She slides a hand over his stomach and he goes slick with desire, moaning into her mouth as his fingers go to other, sacred places.
He cannot stop looking at her, cannot stop from admiring the flushness of her cheeks, cannot stop himself from claiming the sounds she's making, or revelling in the way she's clinging to him. She falls to pieces in his hands, but he cannot help but think that he is the one unravelling, being touched for the first time, and that Jude has claimed a part of him he'll never quite reclaim.
A/N: If you enjoyed, please R&R... or send a request for more Cardan POV key scenes! ^_^