In romance books, they often say how a person's gaze can immediately set the other ablaze.
Fun fact about Peter: There was no such satisfaction for the impatient like me. His gaze torturously slowly incinerated all one's nerve endings in a wonderfully awful type of combustion that didn't ever fully break into flame.
Oh no, he was a carefully contained fire.
And yet, the looks he was stealing at me during dinner said told me that flame might just be ready to escape.
His telltales tonight were fists clenched to the point where the knuckles were white and a jaw that tightened in that one spot: the same spot I knew drove him wild when I kissed it.
Dinner really could not have gone any slower. Toward the end, I quietly excused myself. One of the lounges in the wing close to my bedroom quarters had a grand piano in it. My little game had backfired a bit on myself, and I needed something to get my mind off of it until I could get Peter to myself.
I sat down to play one of the few songs I knew well enough to not need sheet music. There were no lyrics to this one, and that was perfect for right now: my mind had enough running through it as it was.
So consumed with the song was I that I almost didn't hear the door swing open. Peter was never gifted much with being quiet in the way he moved. You really couldn't miss him even if you were blind.
But I wasn't blind, so I let my fingers slip off the notes and let my eyes wander over him in that lingering way that you just can't do in public.
He was stiff in demeanor. He wanted the same thing I did, but he wasn't going to give in so easily now that he knew I was toying with him a bit.
The piano bench next to me creaked as he occupied the remaining space next to me. Without any outward acknowledgment of me, his hands picked up the tune where I left off.
He really shouldn't be good at playing, logically. His fingers are much too thick for the keys. And yet, here he was, playing with expertise.
A nice metaphor.
In theory, he shouldn't be as attentive and talented as he is at striking the chords in me either. His hands were made for battle. Battlefields and bedrooms rarely share members in their halls of fame. Brute strength really shouldn't be able to display itself so tender.
And yet, it did in the form of Peter Pevensie.
I felt my hands join his on the keys, playing the harmony of the song.
"Last time I checked, it's not in line with the politeness and chivalry of a king to leave the dinner table early," I said, breaking the stuffy silence.
"I would beg to differ," he replied with a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat, never stopping the song. "It's perfectly chivalrous to check on the well-being of a lady who hadn't returned to the dinner table in quite some time."
I nodded.
It wasn't a moment later that I heard Susan calling both of our names.
"Well, I'm going to go retire upstairs," I said as I stood up. I watched Peters' eyes rake over me, but his arms stayed stiff at his side, in check.
"You're more than welcome to join me," I leaned down to kiss his cheek and whispered the rest in his ear. "But please don't bring your kingly chivalry with you. I really don't care for you to be gentle tonight."
And with that, I spun on my heel and made my way upstairs.