Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(63)
For now, at least, M.A.R.I.E. has obeyed my commands and the bedroom is empty, the main doors shut tight. I slump into the chair at my dressing table and say quietly, “Hair, please.” A bot whizzes up and starts pulling pins from my high coiffure. My whole skull aches, and even though I think my hairstyle softened the blow against the wood paneling, the spot on the back of my head still feels bruised and tender.
Closing my eyes, I allow myself to slump over, the boning in my corset digging hard against my belly, leftover tears leaking from my eyes. After a few minutes, I hear a soft whir as the bots finish their task and back away, waiting to be summoned again. But I’ve no energy to stir.
I knew my encounters with the King were growing steadily more violent, but now I see it’s much worse than that; he’s getting comfortable. Comfortable with me as a person, yes, but also comfortable with our situation. To hear him talk, you’d almost think he wanted to marry me.
Three weeks. Just a little less than three weeks. I try to tell myself that if my funds and clientèle continue to grow, I can possibly pull it off. But it seems hopeless.
“Are you okay?”
At the sound of Saber’s voice, I sit up ramrod straight. “What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to gather up what might remain of my dignity, meeting his gaze in the mirror instead of straight-on.
“You didn’t send me away,” he says. “And you seemed…in distress.”
I shake my head at his words, wishing they meant anything. That he didn’t despise me and merely tolerate my presence because I’m an assignment from his employer. I take up a linen cloth from the table and set to work repairing my streaked face as best I can, trying not to look like I’m merely covering up the evidence of tears.
“Did he hurt you?”
“His existence hurts me,” I say dryly.
“Let me—” Saber takes a few steps forward, and I stiffen. He pauses, but when I don’t rise he takes a few more steps, then drops to one knee beside me.
I don’t look at him. But I can’t ignore the gentle touch of his hand on the very tip of my chin.
“I can see his fingers on your neck.”
The observation enrages me, and though I know it’s irrational even as I do it, I push him away and rise, my skirts swinging about in a circle at my feet as I put distance between us. “I’m not your concern.”
“Any person with finger marks around their neck concerns me.”
“You despise me.”
“I wish I did; maybe this whole thing would be easier.”
I stand there, my breath too short, hair tumbling down my back, with nothing to say. Thoughts whiz through my head, but I can’t slow them down enough to pluck a single coherent one out. He steps closer.
One step.
Two.
His fingers rest on my chin again, lifting it, and though my impulse is to turn away, step back, the tingling in my stomach tells me he’s not simply looking for bruises along my neck this time.
And still the brush of his lips on that tender spot takes me by delicious surprise.
My hands reach out for something to steady them and meet only the warm chest in front of me. I’m drowning in the bone-melting pleasure of the moment and trying not to consider what will happen tomorrow. When he pulls back to look at me, my own shock mirrored in his eyes, it’s the tremble of his thumb against my bottom lip that convinces me this isn’t an act.
As though there were no other choice, his palm slides along my cheek, and no force in the world could have prevented the tiny lift of my chin to meet the feather-soft question that is his kiss. When he begins to pull away again, my hands rise to his face and bring him back. This is my answer.
But I’m not the only force pulling us together this time as he grasps at the back of my gown, snugging me hard against him, pushing my neck up, his mouth moving firmly against mine. I try to twine my arms around his neck, but I can’t raise them much higher than his shoulders, trapped as they are by my tight silk sleeves.
Desperation crashes over me like a surge of claustrophobia and I command, “M.A.R.I.E., my dress,” against his lips without breaking contact. I pull him backward several steps until my feet find my new dressing stool. Two bots whir forward, and as they unhook and unlace my gown, I’m pushing the embroidered jacket off Saber’s shoulders, understanding for the first time the appeal of the loose, thin cotton shirts the tourists wear.
Saber’s hands join mine in their task the instant they’re freed from the sleeves of his jacket, peeling my bodice down and off my shoulders even as the bots loosen me from my confines, bit by bit. I’ve never thought of my gown as a cage until this moment; Saber has to give up his task when the bodice gets stuck on the cage of my panniers, but as the bots take over, he steals a moment to shed his waistcoat, then returns to me, his lips exploring the skin from my bare shoulder, where the strap of my chemise hangs uselessly, to that delicate spot behind my ears, kissing away my hurts, his lips ever so gently touching the reddened areas left by the Royal Asshole’s hands.
As my dress falls to the ground with the clatter of at least a dozen pots of Glitter, I feel little mechanical fingers start to untie the satin ribbons of my stays. “Just loosen them. Four centimeters,” I order breathlessly before delving into Saber’s lips again. I can’t take them all the way off. Between tonight’s tight lacing and the feel of Saber’s skin against me, I’m certain I’d only end up passed out on the floor.