Note: M for a reason, folks. Take warning!

Chapter 4

Light crept underneath her eyelids. Sarah shivered, and opened her eyes, to see her bedside table, pale and washed-out in the morning sun –

– and then her alarm clock began to blare.

She looked at the time. Eight o'clock, and work started at nine – did I hit the snooze button? –

And what had been that dream?

Blinking, Sarah flopped on her back to stare at the ceiling, and stretched –

– and gasped, despite herself, as her muscles sent up stabbing protests, and her nerve endings caught on fire –

"Shit," she breathed. She stumbled out of bed, her limbs stiff. She was not going to think about why they should be so – or why she winced when she straightened – or why she went straight to the shower without her normal morning coffee –

In the shower, Sarah soaped her knees. They ached. She refused to remember why. She ran a hand up one calf. There – that was where she had backed into her garbage can, before – come, come, my dear – you're brave enough– think of the children – persuade me – she had knelt on the kitchen tile, in the darkness – and there – that was where his fingers had coiled into her hair and dug into her scalp –

Sarah pulled her wet hair to one side, and peered at her upper arm. No marks. Not one bruise. How –

Wincing, she probed at the inside of her mouth. There – her own teeth had cut her when she had bitten hard on her own lip after she had left her clothes on the floor but before he had pulled her down on top of him, his body like a bed of red-hot coals and sharp bones between her own flesh and the softness of her mattress –

Sarah shuddered, and deliberately scrubbed shampoo across her mouth and eyes. The sting brought her back to herself, the acrid taste washed away any memory –

She brushed her teeth twice. Pulled back her hair in a savage twist, and fastened it with several sharp bobby pins.

She threw on a bathrobe, and looked at the door. Jareth was gone – she had woken up alone, so he had to be gone – he wouldn't be lurking in the hallway, waiting to pounce– she had untangled herself from his arms after his breathing had evened out, after the second time – and she had slipped out of the bed trying to walk silently to get a bar of soap and scrub herself raw in the sink if she had to –

Sarah dug her fingernails into her palms, banishing the memory. He's gone. Sunset to sunrise. He has to be gone. She looked at the sunlight filtering through the bathroom window, gathered her courage, and opened the door.

Nothing waited in the hallway – the hallway – she had made it to the hallway but then a floorboard had creaked behind her and she had whirled in a panic and then a hand had closed around her ankle and pulled – she had hit the floor hard and heard a hissing laugh as he dragged her to him – and where do you think you're going? – and his mouth had slammed down on hers as if her answer had been something he could devour –

"God –" With a gasp, Sarah felt for the knot she knew must be hidden beneath her hair, on the back of her head, from her fall –

– nothing.

Nothing. There was nothing there. And he wouldn't be there – he would be gone, because those had been the terms – those were what he held her to – but he had held her to the floor, pinned beneath him, as the oak that she had once tried so hard to polish turned slippery and a splinter that she had missed worked its way into her – no – not going to remember –not going to think about that –

"Bastard –" Sarah hissed. She strode down the hall, and flung open her bedroom door.

He was gone – the sun was shining through her window, falling across the bed like a benediction. Sarah stared at the rumpled sheets, feeling sick.

She gritted her teeth, and stripped the bed as quickly as she could. She walked to and from her small laundry nook without looking at the kitchen tile, or at the floorboards, without remembering, and took new bedclothes from the closet. Making the bed again did not take long. Neither did finding a bland outfit for the day, or taking the dry-cleaning bag in which her dress for the wedding fell in graceful folds. Sarah plucked out a pair of dress shoes at random, and tossed them in with the dress. She strode to her vanity, and opened her makeup bag without looking at the mirror –

– the mirror –

The mirror was glimmering with a pale, silver light, in one corner.

Her heart in her mouth, Sarah tentatively stretched out a hand. She tugged at a scarf piled between her jewelry box and the mirror itself.

A crystal sphere rolled out across the wood with a faint, ringing sound –

"No –" Sarah yelped, and jumped backwards.

The crystal came to a halt in the center of the rosewood – a feather drifted from – where? – from nowhere and brushed against it, falling to its side …

Sarah hugged her arms to herself, and heard her own teeth chattering.

"Are you –" She stared into the mirror. "Are you there?"

Silence.

A sudden rush of anger washed away her fear. "You think you can frighten me with the same old stale tricks, Goblin King?"

There was no reply.

Sarah felt like kicking herself for being so susceptible. Of course there was nothing there. It was only that she hadn't had any sleep …

"Well." She glared into the mirror. "So sorry to disappoint you. Oh, and I have a wedding to attend tonight, so honey –" she pitched her voice to a sickeningly sweet register – "if you could please take out the trash, and pick up the rest of my groceries, and – for the love of all that's holy – please take a shower, or get a haircut –" she let disgust permeate her tones " – or both. God knows you need it – ouch –"

Sarah felt tears spring to her eyes. She stared down – and pulled up one foot.

Just a splinter. She tugged out the sliver of wood, refusing to look into the mirror, and stuffed her feet into socks and shoes. Taking her dress bag from the bed, she walked out, slamming the door.

She gathered the trash from the kitchen, and left it at the curb on her way to work.

Work was normal.

Does it show? Sarah wondered as she walked through the hospital. She felt as though she were treading on razor blades, wincing with each step. Didn't they talk about a particular glow? Perhaps a blaring light, or a billboard: Hey everyone, guess who spent the entire night wrapped around a voracious figment of her imagination – and you'll never guess what she did to it, everyone – watch for the sex tape, coming soon –

Nobody said anything out of the ordinary to her. Same greetings, and farewells. Same stale sandwiches at the cafeteria. Sarah found herself gulping at boiling hot coffee, sweeter than she normally took it, to attempt to jolt herself awake on a consult at the NICU.

Dropping off the clipboard with a clatter, she glanced up, to see Ben at the bulletin board. Ben – Sarah felt like running to him, and hugging him desperately – she settled instead for tapping his shoulder. "Hey, Father."

Ben turned to look at her. "Sarah?"

"Yes …" Why isn't he – "I said – hey, Father." She flicked at his clerical collar.

"Oh." His face was tight. "Hey, Doctor."

"What's wrong? Are you nervous about tonight?"

Ben shrugged. "Sort of." He turned his head, to look long at one of the few parents in the NICU over lunch. "I've been praying with her. Preemie's going to give up the ghost – there's no real hope left." His voice was quiet.

The woman – Rachel Duvall, Sarah saw – was hanging over the incubator, singing:

You're a sweet little baby
You're a sweet little baby
Honey and a rock and the sugar don't stock
Gonna bring a bottle to the baby.

Sarah felt bleak. "And she's not doing well either …"

Ben grimaced. "No. They'll probably be calling you in with a sedative for her, before the night's up."

"But I'm not on call." Biting her lip, Sarah looked at him. "The Wedding of the Century – remember?" Her voice sounded small, to her own ears.

"Yeah." Ben turned to look at the bulletin board. "You know, I was joking when I said that I didn't want you looking well, for the competition."

Sarah was silent.

"I mean it." He glanced at her. "Are you all right? You look awful."

"I don't know." Sarah shrugged, with an effort; her shoulders stung with the memory of – hands weighing them down – his fingers clawing at her skin – she winced to herself. "I think I might be getting sick, or something."

"Ah."

Peering at her friend, Sarah saw that he was examining a memo on the board with great intent, as though it held a secret. He spoke, and his voice was determinedly casual.

"Who was that, last night?"

She licked her lips. "Who do you mean?"

A snort. "Who do I mean." Ben shoved his hands into his pockets. "The man you were with."

"Oh. He's … well, he's just – a friend." The words almost stuck in her throat.

"A friend." Ben's voice was skeptical.

"Yes."

"He didn't look very friendly."

Sarah stared at the bulletin board in her turn.

"I thought he might be a junkie, you know – he seemed the type. I was just about ready to offer him a place in our shelter –"

"And bring him back to Jesus?"

Ben gave a half-hearted laugh. "Yeah, well, that's the job."

"Ah."

There was a pause, and then Sarah turned, only to see her friend looking at her, intently.

"But Sarah – I know I'm your friend ... and as one ... I'm telling you, that guy gave me the creeps."

"Ooh." Sarah mock-shivered. To make it a joke – it was one of the hardest things she had done – because you know it's no joke – with the memory of Jareth laying scalding kisses down her body – and whispering – let me do this to you, and this – you've always wanted me to do this – haven't you? haven't you, Sarah? tell me to do this – ask me to do this – and then his fingers were on her thighs like straws rattling in the fire as they burned –

"I'm serious." Her friend took her arm; she could not hide her flinch.

Ben paused, and gazed at her. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

Sarah gave him a level stare. "Time and place, Father Confessor."

"Sarah –"

"Fine." She smiled, tightly, and straightened her coat. "Don't wear the purple stole at the wedding. It clashes with the banner."

Ben bit his lip, as her words hung heavy in the air.

"Sorry." He tried to banter. "Purple's the color for Lent."

"Whatever." Sarah turned to leave.

"Hey –" Ben called after her. "You need anything, you tell me, O.K.?"

A stinging retort was on the tip of her tongue, but Sarah looked at his worried expression, and her heart softened. "Fine."

Then she left, without looking back. Rachel Duvall's voice followed her.

Don't you weep pretty baby
Don't you weep pretty baby
She's long gone with the red shoes on
Gonna meet another lovin' baby.

The sung prelude at the wedding was beautiful. Everything was beautiful. Sarah gazed around her, from her seat in one of the pews towards the back, taking in the polished stonework, the rich, jeweled tones of the stained glass – the modest displays of flowers and the picture-perfect bridal party … Everything was beautiful, and perfect. And she had left Mrs. Johnston raging at thin air, spit flying from her mouth – and she had left Rachel Duvall listless and wan, droning the lullaby in a dull voice – and she had left Aaron … Sarah closed her eyes. Aaron. Catatonic in his bed …

Sarah blinked back tears, and stood for the processional. There was Lyn, walking down the aisle, practically floating on her father's arm. Her face glowed - her freckles had been masked with concealer - and her hair was carefully contained in a gorgeous net and ornamented with pearls ... She looked for all the world like she had stepped straight out of The Gold Fairy Book - except Lang hadn't written a golden one ...

And they lived happily ever after. Sarah swallowed hard against the sudden lump in her throat, and carefully rearranged her limbs to sink back into the pew with minimal ache – and she would not consider why she ached, or why her muscles felt like water after a long day with no sleep – and why she hadn't gotten any sleep –

So tired ... She nodded off, and jerked herself back awake when Ben's voice rang through the cathedral. "The sister of the groom will read from the Song of Solomon."

A teenager – on the young side – trottedup to the lectern, and grabbed at the brazen eagle in order to stay balanced on her ivory heels. A ripple of amusement ran through the crowd.

Another brief murmur of laughter bubbled up when she began to read, her child's voice eager and high-pitched. "The song of songs, which is Solomon's. Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine. Because of the savor of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee. Draw me –" her voice squeaked – "we will run after thee: the king hath brought me into his chambers: we will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will remember thy love more than wine: the upright love thee –"

Sarah stared at the order of ceremonies in her hand. We will remember thy love more than wine – It had been a fluke, something so random that it had left both of them gaping at each other like fish – she had woken in Lyn's room the morning after her twenty-first birthday, and Lyn had held out a cup of coffee to her and had waggled her eyebrows, and Sarah had laughed and then groaned at her headache – and Lyn had giggled back and had bent down to her and kissed her –

The bridesmaid's voice was squeaking on. "Honey and milk are under thy tongue, and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon –"

The memory rang through her mind, like a bell. They had both gone still – Sarah's skin had felt electrified with goosebumps – and Lyn had spilled the coffee, and backed away, her hand to her mouth and her eyes wide – and had run to her room and slammed the door.

They hadn't talked about it. They had pretended that nothing had happened, until two years ago – Sarah looked down at the program, and saw it shimmer as her eyes filled. She was straight – probably – mostly – let me do this to you, Sarah – haven't you always wanted me to do this? – she shivered – definitely – but she didn't want her best friend to be unhappy, and she had said so when Lyn got engaged to Joseph – and Lyn had screamed at her, and cursed her, and thrown her out of the house –

Ben cleared his throat. "And now, the matron of honor will read from Paul's First Letter to the Corinthians."

Even she knew this passage. Sarah felt her lips twist. The love chapter – an old wedding favorite – trotted out time and time again ...

An older woman, with faded red hair, looked out from the lectern and smiled. The familiar words began. "If I speak in the tongues of men and angels but have not love, I am no more than a crashing gong or a clanging cymbal …"

Sarah looked away, at the setting sun glowing through the western rose window, at the statues of saints slipping into shadow.

The words continued; different ones. Sarah blinked. They usually didn't read that far.

"But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became an adult, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a glass, darkly; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known …"

Sarah shivered. In a glass, darkly … The orb and feather floated across her mind; she closed her eyes.

She hardly heard the rest of the service. But she stood with the others, clapped with the others, as Lyn and her new husband beamed, and walked back down the aisle, and out the door.

Sarah walked to the back with the others, and sighed at the cool night breeze wafting across her face. She looked at Lyn, embracing friends and family, and then looked out at the street –

– and felt her heart turn heavy – turn heavy and sink – as she saw Jareth pacing up the sidewalk towards the cathedral, cutting a swath through the foot traffic.

His hair shone silver-gold in the pale light of the lamps.

Wait – Sarah gulped. Last night – last night she could hardly – she hadn't been able to run her hands through his hair because it had been a matted mess – her fingers had pricked on a burr, and she had cried out and yanked them away when something had scuttled across her knuckles – Jareth had laughed, and had caught her fingers with his teeth –

"Here you are."

Sarah started in surprise, and took an instinctive step backwards.

Jareth had drifted up the stairs, and was looking at her, and smiling

"I picked up your groceries, dear." He dangled a bag from one hand.

Sarah felt her jaw sag; the words were surreal.

Jareth's grin widened. She registered the porcelain flash of his teeth – still crooked – and sharp –

Mutely, she stared at him. He looked different. Pale, and whip-thin, but his hair was shorter – parted, and combed ... and he was wearing an nondescript suit and tie. Ordinary clothing, ordinary haircut – but Sarah was reminded, horribly, of a local headline story of the year before – when a drunk had entered the lion enclosure in the zoo, and had put his baseball cap on the male's head – the newspaper had run a picture – the cap perched, absurdly small, over yellow eyes that had flashed from beneath the brim right before the big cat had ripped off the man's arm –

"So quiet, my sweet ... surely you're not that surprised?" Jareth tipped his head. "I only ever did as you asked. Although you took the garbage out by yourself – none left for me –"

"No." The words felt like splinters in her mouth. "I didn't take all the garbage out."

Jareth registered her look of raging contempt, and he ran his tongue over his lower teeth, slowly, and gazed at her with eyes half closed. She hardly had time to take a shaky breath, before he darted out a hand, and snatched one of her own, and brought it to his lips.

"I hope you don't mind that I came to meet you."

Sarah felt numb as he stepped up next to her.

"I never knew I had a say in the matter."

Jareth laughed, surveying the milling crowd of people as he did. Sarah saw his eyes narrow as he looked at the heavy wooden doors to the cathedral – but then he turned his back on it, and threaded her arm through his own. She felt the heat of him through the layers of cloth; she swallowed.

"Congratulations," she mouthed the rote words at Lyn, and gave her a one-armed hug. Jareth rolled his eyes and glanced at his watch. Lyn was saying something; Sarah nodded mechanically, smiling as her eyes stung. Aruba? How lovely. I hope you'll be very happy. No, sorry, I can't come to the reception – I'm feeling a bit under the weather …

Jareth shifted his arm, and she stumbled down the steps next to him. Sarah looked back – Lyn was busy hugging a friend, and did not look after her, but there – she gulped – there was Ben, staring at her, his eyes wide and his face grey. He opened his mouth to speak; the groom cut across her line of sight, and began to shake Ben's hand enthusiastically –

"Wait –" Her voice was tinny, in her own ears.

Jareth turned back, and pinned her with his eyes. "Yes?"

Whatever she had begun to say evaporated; she settled on: "That was horribly rude –"

"Hm." He shrugged. "It would have been, had she noticed me."

Sarah felt a chill on her exposed arms. She clutched at her coat, and began to put one arm into it. "She can't see you?"

Jareth smiled. "For now, only you can, my dear." He helped her on with her coat, and laced up the toggles for her. Then he tapped her cheek with one finger. "Last night, and this night, I choose to show myself to you, and none other."

But Ben – Sarah's thoughts rattled through her head. Ben can see you –

Jareth caught her arm again. "Shall I take you home?"

"Thanks, but I'll walk."

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "You look as though you're about to fall over. I can have us there in the blink of an eye."

"No," Sarah retorted. "You're not going to magic me anywhere, Jareth –"

She stopped as he stared at her, his eyes strangely soft in the hard planes and angles of his face. It made her nervous.

"What is it?"

Jareth quirked his mouth sideways in a half smile.

"You used my name, sweet." He traced his fingers along her jaw. "I like the way it sounds, in the air of this world." His voice turned low, and intimate. "I like the way you say it."

Sarah jerked back from his touch. "Then you're not hearing it from me again."

He brought his face close to hers; Sarah closed her eyes and fought the urge to step away. "Now, now, dear heart – that bordered on being unkind. I never thought you lacking in kindness, or compassion ... quite the opposite, in fact. So won't you have mercy on your poor benighted lover –" he savored the word – "and give me a kiss?"

"I'd rather climb to the top of that cathedral tower and jump, you bastard."

Jareth laughed. "What makes you think I wouldn't catch you?"

She flinched as he brushed his mouth across hers – a fleeting touch that hit her like a punch to the gut –

"No –" Sarah opened her eyes and stared into his own – from so close, she could see flickering gold and silver as she gabbled – "No – no, not here – not now – I'm calling a taxi –" she darted past him – "I'll see you – whenever. You know where I live."

She half-ran to the curb and hailed a taxi idling across the street. It screeched across two lanes and to a halt in front of her; she shakily caught at the door, and bit back a protest as Jareth opened it. Then he smirked, and got in after her – Sarah opened her mouth to tell him to leave, and he cut her off.

"He won't notice me, Sarah. Don't fret so."

"Hey lady," a rough voice interrupted. Sarah shook herself awake; stared ahead at the driver. "Where to, lady?"

"Rowan." She gulped. "Rowan and Wright."

"Got it." The taxi peeled away. Sarah leaned back, closed her eyes, and did her best to ignore the goosebumps prickling up and down her arms.

"Lady -"

"What?"

"You mind I should play some music?"

Sarah turned her head before she opened her eyes, and stared out the window. The reflection of the interior was blurred – but she could see Jareth watching her, his image distorted in the dirty glass –

"No."

A crackle of static, and then noise blared from the speakers.

Living easy, livin' free
Season ticket, on a one-way ride
Asking nothing, leave me be
Taking everything in my stride

The driver beat his head in time to the crashes of the guitar.

Sarah groaned under her breath, and flopped back from the window against the ratty seat cushion. "Dear God …"

Jareth flashed a look at her.

"I hate this song." She massaged her temples.

"Headache?"

"Mm-hm."

"Come here."

She stiffened, and did not move.

"Come here, Sarah." He let one arm fall around her shoulders, and reeled her in to his side. Jareth raised one hand to her forehead – his skin was hot. "My poor dear – did I keep you up too late last night? Or –" he dropped his voice to a whisper, "Did I hurt you? ..."

Sarah closed her eyes; his tone was insinuating, and low. She felt his lips brush over her eyebrows, and cringed at the quiver in her stomach.

"Ah, I did, didn't I?" His lips moved against her earlobe. "Shall I tell you what I want to do to you tonight, Sarah? I do not want to wait one minute after you close the front door – I want to pin you to the wall and fuck you until you cannot move –"

Her mouth went dry. "You have –"

"I know, I know – I have no power over you," he mocked. "So let me tell you what I want you to do to me – and perhaps you will allow me to reciprocate, hmm?"

Jareth's low, musical voice was a torrent of obscenity in her ear all the way home.

The stairwell seemed to whisper with an echo of his presence – a sibilant voice all its own –

Sarah cursed, and leaned against the banister. It was harder to walk up the stairs than it had been the previous night. She had already stopped for breath twice. The entire time, Jareth hovered solicitously at her elbow.

"Such stubbornness is completely unnecessary. Will you at least let me –"

"No." Her voice was flat.

He laughed as he watched her stumble. "Really, Sarah – you didn't even let me finish …"

Why is this so difficult? Sarah grabbed the banister, gritted her teeth, and climbed the final flight of stairs. "Different words, same meaning, Jareth. I've heard it all before."

He subsided into amused silence, and watched her unlock her door.

Sarah staggered into her apartment, dropped her purse and her coat in a heap, kicked off her shoes, and walked stiffly to her bedroom, feeling Jareth tread silently behind her. She did not turn on the light. Why bother?

In her room, the crystal orb was glowing faintly, in front of her mirror.

Sarah saw her reflection; her face strained and pale, her eyes wide. Jareth stood behind her. He smiled; his lips were thin and crooked up to one side. She felt his hands at her hips, and she closed her eyes. She could see the light of the crystal through her eyelids.

"What is it?"

His breath was hot against her ear. "It's a present."

Sarah gulped. "I thought it might be."

"Yes –" he eased open a clasp at her back, and his hands slipped under the silk garment, his long fingers coiling into her waist. She squeezed her eyes shut even more tightly. "But you never did take it, when I offered it before – and you still don't plan on doing so, I assume?"

The dress fell to the ground; she bit her lower lip as he began flicking her undergarments aside. She didn't know how he was doing it. Did not want to know how he was doing it – as easily as she would shuck an ear of corn – she could feel scraps of cloth float down against her legs like feathers – Sarah winced, and thought again of the crystal and feather by her mirror –

He began tracing patterns on her bare skin. His fingers left trails of heat, somehow, like sparks from a fire coasting through the air.

"You won't take my little present, Sarah? Such a tiny, insignificant thing?" His voice was sly.

"Not likely."

"Alas." Jareth abruptly removed his hands; her eyes flew open at the sudden drop in temperature on her skin, and she stared directly into the mirror.

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a glass, darkly; then we shall see face to face.

He wasn't looking at her; he was staring into space, meditatively, as he shrugged off his suit jacket and unknotted his tie. He began work on the shirt's buttons; then flicked his eyes to hers, in the mirror.

In a glass, darkly ...

Jareth's voice was low: "See something you like?"

Her mouth was dry. He looked different – so different – than yesterday – now he was closer to the polished-ivory idol of her dreams – with an effort, she shrugged. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

He finished with the buttons, and slipped the tie from his collar, and wrapped the length of cloth around one hand. "I seem to remember you keeping your eyes shut for most of the time."

Sarah held still as he looked her over. "So what if I did?"

Jareth sighed. "Well, it's not very flattering … not very persuasive." He gave her a reproachful look in the mirror. "I might as well just fly back to my lonely home, and let your poor little Aaron shiver his little life away in his padded little cell –"

"Shut up."

He was silent, and smiling. She caught the glitter of his sharp teeth in the orb's light.

Sarah turned to face him, gritting her own teeth in anger. "What will it take, you bastard? I want you gone from his life, and I want you gone from mine – forever."

"I've told you what it will take, Sarah …" He hissed her name. "Persuade me."

"I don't want to persuade you," she croaked. "I want you to leave."

His mouth curled in contempt. "Such a weakling, and only after one night –"

"I'm not weak!"

Jareth sneered. "Prove it."

"Prove it?" Sarah heard her voice skirl upwards. "Prove it?! Fine." Before she could think to stop herself, she held her hands out in front of her. "No taking me away permanently, nothing permanent, but tonight –" she shoved his chest – "Tonight, you do whatever the hell you want."

Jareth was still. Then he tipped his head to one side, and his eyes gleamed.

"Whatever – the hell – I want?"

He slipped the tie around her wrists, looping it between and around them both, in a complicated pattern, as he gave her a challenging smile.

Can't back out now. Sarah closed her eyes, and opened them, staring directly into his. "Yes." She tilted her chin up in defiance. "Impress me, Goblin King – or try to impress me. I know it's difficult for you, but –"

The words caught in her throat as she gasped in pain. Jareth had yanked the tie taut, and it cut into her skin –

"Dear me, Sarah – I think you may have said the wrong thing …"

She blinked back tears – don't give him that – don't you dare cry -

"Just get it over with, you son of a –"

He backed her against the side of her bed in two long strides; Sarah winced as he dug the fingers of one hand into her upper arm –

"Could you please not manhandle me?"

"Seeing as I am not a man …" Jareth smirked at her, and then swept one hand over the bed in a parody of courtesy. "Very well, my beauty – if you would be so good as to recline?"

Sarah sat – don't let him see you get upset – and lay back, avoiding his eyes, and shifted against the pillow, trying to find a comfortable spot – and her heart flew into her throat as Jareth matter-of-factly took her arms, pulled them above her head, and began knotting the tie to the headboard. She caught one glimpse of her own body, pale and stretched out across the bed in the glimmering light, before she closed her eyes.

"Get rid of that light."

"But why?" His voice mocked her. He pulled at the tie to test it – it held, and then Sarah felt his fingers trail down her arms. She kept her eyes shut.

"I don't want any light."

His laugh was quiet. "But I do, Sarah ..." She heard him kneel by the side of the bed, and his low voice flickered against her ear. "I want you to see what I do to you."

"Please –" she whispered, feeling the slow churn of fear quicken.

Jareth was silent – and then Sarah felt one arm slide under her shoulders and the other around her waist. Then his mouth brushed against hers.

"Persuade me, my dear …"

Sarah exhaled, shakily. His lips were thin – but soft – and all she would have to do was move forward an inch, maybe less –

"Persuade me …"

Just do it – get it over with – she thought to herself, and she swept aside another voice shrilling a warning in her mind. Then she tilted her head, eyes still closed, and caught his lips with hers, and kissed him.

Her first thought was that he was not being much help. Sarah darted a glance at him, from beneath her eyelashes; she saw nothing up close except the pale skin of his face, and a strand or two of his hair – but he held his lips immobile against hers, and she remembered – persuade me –

Persuade him? Sarah felt a bubble of anger work its way from her heart up her throat. Something was prickling at the base of her skull. Arrogant, entitled son of a –

She bit down on his lower lip, and heard him inhale sharply. How's that for persuasion?

Something was strange. His lips were warm, but almost too warm – she felt unease trickle down her spine –

Never mind that – just get it over with … Sarah trailed her tongue against his mouth – and the unease turned into a sudden surge of equal parts fear and desire as he parted his lips and kissed her back.

She felt his breath coast across her cheek, and tasted something strange – bitter, almost – as he in turn explored her mouth. It was a lazy kiss, and dark; erotic and repulsive, and alien – Sarah felt the hand at her waist move up, and drift across her breasts; she jerked like a fish on a line –

Jareth broke the kiss, and tipped his head back, and stared into her eyes.

Don't let him see you're afraid –

Sarah bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep her voice from shaking.

"Turn the light out."

His lips twisted in what might have been a smile, on any other face.

"As you wish."

Jareth bent his head to her throat as the light flickered and died.

Sarah blinked, and stared up into the comforting darkness. She focused on breathing. Just breathe. In and out. In and out. Stay calm.

"Did you enjoy the wedding, dear?"

She fought to keep from shivering; his tone was almost conversational – in contrast to – she twitched – in contrast to the fact that he was alternately kissing and nipping at her neck. Then he paused, and his voice was low and dulcet.

"You may not believe it, but I have been invited to weddings, in my time – although most I could not attend, due to unfortunate choices of venue." His mouth slid over her collarbone; she swallowed hard. "And you would not believe the things I have seen, Sarah! It used to be, you understand, that the bride would be purchased with livestock, or money outright –" he nipped at her shoulder – "and then there was the lovely custom of the bride kissing her new husband's feet –"

"I thought –" Sarah tried to speak; it was difficult. Her mouth was dry.

"Yes?" Jareth trailed his mouth beneath her jaw, and kissed her pulse. "What did you think, precious thing?"

"Well –" One of his hands was gliding over her breasts; she fought to keep her voice level. "I thought it was nice -"

"Nice ..." He breathed out over her neck, and lowered his mouth to where his hand had been; Sarah bit back a cry and felt a stab of pain in her wrists, where they were bound – she had jerked her arms, instinctively, but she couldn't move them, to bring them to his hair and hold him there and make himkeep going –

"Oh, I will, Sarah –" Jareth purred; she realized she had moaned those last words aloud, and felt her cheeks flush in the darkness. "But please, you must continue as well. You thought it was nice –" he brought his other hand from her back and caressed her with both – she fought to keep her body from arching into his touch –

"Shall I tell you the nicest part of older ceremonies? It involved the groom binding his bride's hands – sometimes with grass, sometimes with rope – to keep her spirit in his world," he kissed one side of her face, "or as a sign of authority," he kissed the other, "or as both …"

"Thank God –" she croaked.

Jareth stopped. "For what?"

"For the twenty-first century." Her voice sounded feeble, to her own ears.

She felt his breath coming harder against her mouth. "The twenty-first century. Some essentials have not changed, even through these many years, Sarah. Your little friends were so pathetically eager to be wed and in bed, the fools, that they bowed and scraped and did whatever they were told. And they will keep on bowing and scraping their entire lives, for fear of their mental picture of a doddering old man on a cloud."

Sarah could feel his lips curl back from his teeth in a sneer – but then he kissed her again, and she tasted the same strange bitterness; it fled from her mind, though, as he slid his tongue over hers and she groaned –

He slipped away, and trailed down over her throat, and lower, back to where his hands still caressed her body.

Sarah could hear practically nothing in the darkness – nothing except her own breathing, and the brush of his hands and the sound of his mouth on her – and then his voice again – quietly vicious –

"Were all the flowers suitable? The groom sufficiently gallant?"

"The flowers were fine," she gritted out between her teeth. "Her boyfriend – husband – I still think he's a – a –"

"Hm?" Jareth's voice vibrated through her chest.

"– jerk –" Sarah sucked in her breath. She didn't want his hands to stop; she could feel a pulsing in her stomach, settling lower, and she twisted her hips against the scratchy blanket – wanting friction, wanting something – "He's a jerk – he tries to control her –"

"And you do not care for that?"

She squeezed her eyes shut and felt herself shudder, and tried turning on one side, tried pushing her body up into his caress; her arms wrenched and she fell back on the bed –

"No –" she spat. "I don't."

"Then I must confess myself confused, dear Sarah." Jareth drawled. "You do not care for controlling men – yet here you are. Don't you find your current – posture – somewhat contradictory?"

He bit her, and she gasped. "You tricked me into this, you bastard -"

A harsh laugh. "I did nothing of the sort. You gave me this, and precious –" Jareth ran his tongue over where he had bitten her, and she felt her stomach clench. "You're the analyst, as I recall. Tell me – what does this entire situation say about your psychological makeup?"

The last words tripped mockingly over her skin. Sarah felt tears sting her eyes. It wasn't enough that he was mauling her like some animal in heat – he had to humiliate her as well? No – I won't let him win –

Persuade me – his words echoed through her mind – He wants to play? Fine.

"I have no interest in discussing psychology right now, Jareth." Try to sound bored.

He paused, obviously taking in the change of her voice. She could feel the side of his face, where it rested on her stomach; the angles of his cheekbone and jaw pressed into her flesh.

"Hmm." It sounded like there was gravel in his throat. "Well, then …"

Sarah waited, catching her lower lip in her teeth.

He lifted his head from her body; his open shirt fluttered over her. "What would interest you?"

Here goes. "I think you know."

"No – I don't think I do." His voice was malicious. One hand rested, just beneath her breasts, and he brought the other up to smooth over her hair. "Won't you tell me, Sarah dear? Tell me what you … want."

"Does it even matter?"

She could practically hear him grin. "Of course it does … You may have given me carte blanche for the night, just now, but it would be insufferably rude of me to ride rough-shod over you the entire time – wouldn't it?"

Sarah tried to control her breathing. Her lips stung, and her breasts ached – and she wouldn't put it past him to just stay there and smirk, until she begged him tofuck her – he would love that, the bastard –

Well, why not?

"Jareth …" She made her voice sound throaty, and pushed up into his hand on her body.

His fingers tensed. "… Yes?"

I can do this.

"I want you to fuck me."

A long pause.

Then anger stabbed her, as Jareth laughed. "Perhaps, dear – but your tone is not convincing."

"You bastard –" Sarah hissed, then yelped as he tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back.

"Say it again."

"What –" Her words were trapped as his mouth caught hers; then it was only hot, slick dizziness – she couldn't think –

Jareth bit her lower lip, hard, and snatched his mouth away. "You heard me. Say it again, Sarah. Convince me. Persuade me."

Sarah tasted blood, and felt his hot breath an inch from her lips.

"I want you –" Her face burned.

The air in the room stifled her – it seemed to crackle with something scalding –

Sarah tugged against his grasp in her hair, and felt her face slide along his; she felt what must be his cheekbone, so there was his ear –

Do it –

She whispered: "Fuck me, Jareth. I want you to fuck me."

Jareth was immobile – but she thought she heard his breath catch, just slightly –

Sarah bit him.

She had just enough time to blink, before he slammed her back into the bed with his arms, and then his upper body was pressed over hers, the fabric of his shirt bunching painfully where it lay open, between them – she felt a button dig into her skin – that's going to leave a mark –

Her teeth chattered, though she was not cold; she felt light-headed in the heat of his body, as though she had been tossed into a furnace.

"My dear Sarah –" he crooned, his voice laden with malice and glee – "Anything to oblige you –"

"You –" she managed, before he fell on her mouth again, like a bird of prey – ravaging with his jagged teeth – shit that hurt –

And then Sarah jerked with surprise when the heat vanished, suddenly, as Jareth sat up, and stepped away from the bed.

She strained to see, in the darkness, but could not – though she knew he was still there. She could hear him breathing.

Then she heard the clink of a belt buckle, and a rustle of fabric.

"I wonder …" His voice floated out of the dark, and Sarah felt her breath catch, as the words drifted over her body like feathers ... "I wonder if your newlywed friends have gotten this far yet, my precious thing."

She licked her lips, ignoring the blood. "I would guess –" her voice wavered, she steadied it. "I think it's pretty new to both of them."

"Ah. True to tradition – and the demands of a dead god." A hissing noise of contempt. "All that waiting, when they could have just savaged each other in private long ago, and gone their separate ways."

"Some would call it romantic, you know."

There was silence, and then Jareth laughed. The sound made her skin crawl.

"Romantic. Romantic. When the left hand knows not what the right hand is doing …"

A finger landed on her chin, out of the dark; she flinched in surprise.

Then she shuddered, as he licked her jaw – and whispered in her ear. "Can you imagine the sheer tedium for your poor friend? When her dear husband can't find her clit or her cunt, even with a map?"

The darkness vibrated with his voice.

Sarah felt ice – fear – trickle down her spine.

Then she felt his hands ghosting down over her body – on her legs – moving them – and she felt his own body settle against hers –

– wait – what was he going to –

"How long do you think it will take that romantic bridegroom, Sarah, to figure out how to do this?"

Sarah screamed –

.

Evil cliffie, I know. Also, I stole one specific line of Jareth's from a scene near the end of The Summer Tree, by Guy Gavriel Kay.

You read? Please review!