Stephen’s gaze drifts inexorably downward at that shift of skirts, and snags on the sight of the knife, the garter. He’s seen them before, but in the middle of a muddy blood-stained battlefield with a Starkhaven soldier slowly dying beneath their hands, he hadn’t had much luxury to notice (or let himself notice) the way it accentuates the line of her thigh, the way it implies something deadly and viperous.
If there’s some tedious buzzkill part of his brain which wonders Gwenaëlle, why are you disrobing in my room, well, he suffocates it.
There’s enough plausible reason, anyhow. Halamshiral is further south; a little colder, and its rooftops covered in snow this time of year; she’s already swept some of it in with her and there are melting bootprints leading from the window to his bed. The part of him which embodies a tidy, finicky cat doesn’t want any more of it tracked in. So, obediently enough, Stephen closes the rest of the distance between them, remarking, “It helps to have friends in low places. Do you think they’ll come in handy? I mean, I’m assuming they’re your friends now, since you are, after all, so irresistibly charming—”
He lets Gwenaëlle brace against his shoulder as he leans down: fingers slipping between the leather of the boot and her stockings; pulling the snug boot down, dragging it off her leg.
Odd, to remember that he already knows the shape of the long ugly scarring and bite mark on her bare thigh. It had seemed like such a non-issue at the time, under crisp white impersonal showroom lights and with attendants hovering nearby to refill their drinks. He had thought it would be the same here, plus Gwenaëlle’s even more covered-up now, with layers upon layers of petticoats and thick winter dress. But this time he can feel the shape of her calf beneath his hands, the turn of an ankle and heel as he tugs the boot loose and then sets it down on the carpet. (This time, he remembers what it felt like to kiss her.)
He instinctively half-reaches for the laces of the other one, but then stops, remembering his clumsiness with eyelets and knots. He’ll wait, instead, and be a little too aware of how close he has to stand for this operation.
no subject
If there’s some tedious buzzkill part of his brain which wonders Gwenaëlle, why are you disrobing in my room, well, he suffocates it.
There’s enough plausible reason, anyhow. Halamshiral is further south; a little colder, and its rooftops covered in snow this time of year; she’s already swept some of it in with her and there are melting bootprints leading from the window to his bed. The part of him which embodies a tidy, finicky cat doesn’t want any more of it tracked in. So, obediently enough, Stephen closes the rest of the distance between them, remarking, “It helps to have friends in low places. Do you think they’ll come in handy? I mean, I’m assuming they’re your friends now, since you are, after all, so irresistibly charming—”
He lets Gwenaëlle brace against his shoulder as he leans down: fingers slipping between the leather of the boot and her stockings; pulling the snug boot down, dragging it off her leg.
Odd, to remember that he already knows the shape of the long ugly scarring and bite mark on her bare thigh. It had seemed like such a non-issue at the time, under crisp white impersonal showroom lights and with attendants hovering nearby to refill their drinks. He had thought it would be the same here, plus Gwenaëlle’s even more covered-up now, with layers upon layers of petticoats and thick winter dress. But this time he can feel the shape of her calf beneath his hands, the turn of an ankle and heel as he tugs the boot loose and then sets it down on the carpet. (This time, he remembers what it felt like to kiss her.)
He instinctively half-reaches for the laces of the other one, but then stops, remembering his clumsiness with eyelets and knots. He’ll wait, instead, and be a little too aware of how close he has to stand for this operation.