"I wore this skirt for a reason, you know."
Zacharias Barnham smothered his involuntary grin beneath tightly pressed lips. He resisted the urge to look up, turning a page in his book and skimming over the contents without reading a word. He was no fool, and he certainly wasn't blind. It wasn't hard to discern just what his girlfriend was up to, flouncing around the manor in her present outfit. She was tempting him beyond the limits of his resolve. Unfortunately for her, he was resolved to resist as long as possible, simply to prolong the fun.
He'd first noticed the skirt at breakfast; having never seen it before, he could only assume that it was brand new. It was clear that she'd chosen it specifically for the effect she knew it would have on him: loose navy cloth, angled low enough to reach her knees at one end and high enough that he caught a glimpse of her inner thigh with every step. It flowed in rippling waves as she walked, drawing his eyes to the shapely curves of her bare legs, accented even more by the heel of her sandals.
This outfit was the latest ploy in a long line of—in his opinion, at least—increasingly desperate attempts to win the little game they'd began earlier in the week. Truth be told, it was less a game and more of a petty bet, with each asserting that they were the most capable of resisting their baser urges… and the siren call of their lover. Eve had insisted that he was wrapped around her finger, helpless to resist when she turned on the charm. Though it was true enough, his rebuttal was solid: as a knight of honor, it was hardly a challenge to ignore his own desires. A knight did not grab and take as he pleased; he was stoic and stalwart in all things... including romance.
Thus the bet had been placed, sealed, and shaken upon. The loser would, naturally, owe bragging rights to the winner, as well as other varied spoils. Personally, he had his sights set on a RCC gas oven, courtesy of La Cornue. Eve had been less forthcoming with her own victory demands, though the mischievous tilt of her smirk had spoken volumes.
Barnham could no longer remember who had first suggest the bet, nor the reasons why it was happening at all, beyond the suggestion of plucked pride. He only cared that he should be the victor, that she should be doomed to failure from the moment they'd shaken hands on it over the remains of their tea. His Eve, for all her finer traits, was spoiled; no matter how adamantly she denied it, they both were well aware that she had everything she wanted, almost at the exact moment of wanting it. What few things coin could not supply, she found elsewhere: through himself, her friendship with Espella, or her interactions with the townsfolk.
Eve had been sly from the start, tempting him with sidelong glances and soft words only to grow increasingly frustrated when he resisted the call. He had known from the start that it would be easy enough to resist her. After all, he had buried his desire for her for years, content to remain friends if it meant a lifetime at her side. But even though that part was simple enough, he'd still needed to find a way to force her hand. There had been doubts, even from the onset, on what it would take to make her crumble.
So, in retaliation, he devised what he hoped was a foolproof method: frustration. Not only did he resist her attempts, he outright ignored them. When they could not be ignored, he misconstrued their meaning with all the naïveté of a greenhorn squire attending a noble lady. Every kiss was a politeness, every gesture a mystery. And, in those moments when he could barely bite back his bark of laughter at the sight of her vexation, a simple smile more than sufficed.
He had watched with growing smugness as her attempts at seduction evolved into attempts to make him glance at her, even for no more than a split-second. In fairness, he had not missed a single message—he simply chose not to respond. Such encounters now led to their current position in the family library: he calmly reading a book, she fuming at his side.
"'Tis a beautiful skirt," he admitted only when he felt her attention start to wane. Turning another page, he pretended to admire an illustration of ancient sword techniques while bearing the full brunt of her glare. It was much harder for him not to break character, even once; he loved that he could get such a visceral reaction from her, even in anger. Ever aware of her position, he watched carefully from the corner of his eye as her fingers crept across the sofa cushion.
"I ordered it from Harrod's. The fabric is very high quality, even for someone with my standards." Her pinkie skated up and down the length of his hand, drawing his attention from her crossed legs. "Why don't you take a closer look?"
"What do you mean?" He marked the page with his thumb, turning to her with what he hoped was innocent, affable charm. "I can see it perfectly. Very beautiful… though perhaps 'tis not quite as beautiful as the woman who wears it so well," he could not help but add, his gaze softening at the sight of her resulting blush.
"Zack—!" Her exasperated huff was music to his ears. He ducked his head, biting his lip until the pain smothered the bubble of laughter in his throat. It was almost too easy sometimes. By the time he felt it was safe to meet her eyes once more, her frown had faded into an almost contemplative expression.
"You know…." Eve put her hand on top of his, squeezing his fingers lightly, "if you want to properly appreciate something like this, you have to use all of your senses." Before he could respond, she took his hand and placed it on her lap, half on the skirt and half on her thigh.
He clenched his teeth only a moment, praying that she somehow had not noticed the subtle tightening of his jaw. This was the boldest she'd been yet, and to his chagrin it had worked. This was a crucial moment; he needed to decide the best response, but his mind was blank. All he could think about was the warmth of the skin beneath his palm, the soft give of her thigh—
Soft! That's it!
Taking his hand away might be construed as a rejection, something he did not want at all. Not only would it hurt her feelings, but it was not in fairness to the game. However, if he could just keep a tight rein on his self-control, this would be the perfect opportunity to pay her back for a week's worth of relentless teasing.
"I see what you mean," he agreed calmly, trailing his hand further up the skirt. "The way it moves beneath my hand… I've never felt anything quite like it before, either in Labyrinthia or elsewhere." He pretended to admire the fabric, lips twitching with amusement at the way her breath hitched when his fingertips skimmed the top of her thigh.
"Mmm… Right." Her tongue swiped across her parted lips, legs uncrossing as she shifted away from him nervously.
What's the matter, Eve? He silently gloated, catching the hem of the garment between his fingers so that she could not bid a full retreat. Unable to finish what you started?
"In fact—" he murmured as he ran his thumb over the neat row of stitches, "One might call it sinfully soft. It puts me in mind of something…." His wandering fingers pushed the skirt higher, stopping short of the mark where she might accuse him of losing. Even so, their little game seems far from her mind, a familiar hunger in her eyes as she lets her legs fall farther apart.
"Of what?" Her voice has gone high and breathless, a little squeak slipping out of her as his fingers delve beneath the skirt. It's a painfully slow ascent for them both, and he can't help but hold her half-lidded gaze as he slides past soft skin into the sticky heat between her thighs. She's practically panting by the time he reaches out to trace the crease where her leg meets her hip, just high enough to realize that there's nothing underneath. No smallclothes, no barrier, no obstacle between his index finger and the thing they both wanted the most.
"Of this, right here," he finally answered, wincing at how rough his own voice sounds. In hindsight, it shouldn't be that much of a surprise. Of course it would be impossible to hide his own vested interest, with the slick evidence of her arousal mere millimeters from his questing fingers. It's enough to make any man stumble, much less loosen the grip of his ironclad restraint. He slid his finger up and down, mimicking the way she'd caressed his hand earlier.
"Just as soft," he concluded, fighting the overwhelming urge to throw his victory aside and drag her across the sofa in defeat. It doesn't help that her eyes begged him where her voice wouldn't, the stubborn tilt to her mouth belied by the visible flush on her pale skin. Alas, many a match has been lost by pushing forward too fast, too soon, and he does aim to win.
"I am glad it pleases you." He smiled, swallowing back the instant regret as he withdrew his hand from its resting place. "Perhaps you can find more clothing in a similar style?" Eve grabbed his wrist, and for a moment he thought—hoped?—that she would shove it back between her legs with a sharp command to continue. He froze, waiting patiently as her expression shifted from shock to disappointment, and disappointment to anger.
"You are such a bully," she growled, practically throwing his hand away from her before adjusting her skirt so that it fell evenly over her legs once more. "I really can't stand you sometimes, you know that?"
"You have the power to end this. We can stop anytime you want… in fact," he added, taking up his book and reopening it, "I'm more than willing to make up for lost time right now… for a price."
"Screw you." She climbed to her feet, cheeks still burning with a deep red hue. Under any other circumstance he would have loved to kiss her, to feel the warmth of her blush against his lips. He watched with absent fondness as she smoothed down her hair, damp fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the vacant cushion.
"As I said… whenever you want."
"S-Shut up!" She stormed to the door, turning around once she reached the threshold. He half expected some renewed threat on her part, but instead her eyes swept over him with an echo of their earlier hunger, lingering on the tent in his loose trousers. Was she trying to come up with some way to avenge herself, perhaps? Some new angle to their little tête-à-tête?
Smirking, he made a show of licking his finger to turn the page. She answered with a playful grin that bordered malice before vanishing into the corridor, heels clicking a sharp staccato against the polished floors. He waited until he could no longer hear her before allowing a chuckle to slip free, muffled against his palm. His Eve was far more cold and calculating than he could ever hope to be. Doubtless she would cook up some fitting response to his little diversion, something to catch him off guard and repay his every kindness in full. Perhaps he would even allow her a well-earned victory… or he would persevere, if only in anticipation of what tomorrow would bring.
After all, he did so love to play the tease.