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A River Of Stars	By : Joodiff Category: S through Z > Waking the Dead Views: 942 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own "Waking the Dead", nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-A River Of Stars
- 1
A River of Stars
by Joodiff
It is the noise, the heat and the thick, swirling clouds of tobacco smoke that drive Grace out onto the balcony. The night is warm, not even the slight breeze coming off the river quite tempering the lingering traces of August’s fierce edge. She leans on the still-warm metal of the balcony rail, faintly mesmerised by the shifting patterns of light that glisten on the water’s uneven surface. The city breathes, and Grace breathes with it, absorbing the gentle familiarity of the night’s sights and sounds. A distant siren, the low rumble of traffic, the city’s constant muted heartbeat, none of it as close and immediate as the muffled snatches of polite laughter and conversation filtering out to her from the elegant weekend party in the expensive waterside apartment to which the balcony belongs. She smiles slightly, enjoying the momentary respite from the enforced socialising.
Just a few moments later she hears the soft, smooth sound of sliding glass, hears the brief increase in the party’s volume before it becomes subdued again. Grace doesn’t look round; she doesn’t need to. She continues to gaze at the ever-changing, intricate reflections distorting on the river’s surface, and she waits. She feels him before he makes any physical contact with her. Feels his warmth, his increasing nearness. She doesn’t startle when he gently puts his hands on her waist. Close to her ear, Boyd’s voice says softly, “Penny for them?”
“Waste of money,” she tells him, leaning back slightly, her shoulders coming to rest against his broad chest. “I just needed some fresh air.”
There is immediate concern in his tone as he asks, “Are you feeling all right?”
Grace smiles into the night again, but affectionately this time, and as his arms encircle her waist completely, she rests her hands lightly on his forearms. He has evidently discarded his jacket somewhere, and his shirt is thin, allowing her to clearly feel the subtle contours of muscle and sinew beneath the light fabric. Quietly, she reassures him with, “I’m feeling absolutely fine. You?”
“I’m feeling absolutely fine, too,” Boyd says sardonically, and she doesn’t need to look at him to know his expression is totally deadpan. He smells of cologne and whiskey. An evocative, evening scent that she will forever associate with him. His lips softly graze the side of her neck, a restrained hint of something much more ardent, much more dangerous; a teasing promise only heightened by the soft prickle of his beard against her sensitive skin. Involuntarily, she briefly closes her eyes. His voice very low, he says, “We could just make our excuses…”
Grace chuckles softly. “And risk offending Sir William?”
Boyd growls deep in his throat and she feels the vibration against her shoulders quite clearly. “Leaving now could be a blessing in disguise. I’m congenitally incapable of playing nicely with politicians, Grace, you know that.”
“The DAC won’t be happy with you if he finds out we made an early exit,” she says, deliberately arching back more firmly against him. “Sir William has a lot of influence at the Home Office.”
His reply is predictable. “Screw Sir William.”
Grace rests her head back against his shoulder, enjoying the relatively newly-granted right to such intimate contact. The river flows, the reflections of the city lights and the night stars dance on the water and the sophisticated, brittle party continues unabated behind them. He is tall, solid and real. She can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, a slow, hypnotic rhythm that is quietly soothing. A reassurance she simply didn’t know she needed until it became a natural part of her life. She says, “I love watching the river at night.”
“You’re an incurable romantic,” Boyd tells her, but there is gentle amusement in his voice.
“I think I might be, deep down,” Grace admits. “It looks like a river of stars.”
“Dear God,” he says, and she suspects the note of disgust in his voice isn’t entirely feigned. “Just how much have you had to drink, Grace?”
“Don’t you think it’s beautiful?”
“I’m far too cynical,” he tells her mildly. “And I’ve seen far too many putrefying corpses dragged out of it over the years.”
Grace can’t help her pained laugh. “Well, that’s a very definite mood-killer.”
Boyd moves one hand from her waist, traces an easy path upwards until he reaches her shoulder. She feels him brushing her hair aside, feels the soft press of his lips on the nape of her neck. It’s a tender caress, one she already knows well, and one that has so far never failed to elicit a tiny, anticipatory shiver up and down her spine. He says, “I could rectify that…”
Grace doesn’t doubt it for a moment. She has discovered that there are some things he does very well indeed. Just a little regretfully, she says, “Behave yourself.”
The reply is very soft indeed, and consciously pitched deep in the lower registers. “Why?”
It’s such a simple question, but one that Grace knows necessitates a very careful answer. Peter Boyd is a man singularly unafraid to take risks, and she knows far too well how he usually reacts to anything that could conceivably be taken as a challenge. Softly, she counters, “Because I’m asking you to.”
It’s his turn to chuckle slightly. “Oh, good answer, Grace.”
“I rather thought so.”
He kisses the side of her neck again, returns his free hand to her waist. He lowers his head, rests his chin on her shoulder. “A river of stars, eh?”
For several long moments they simply stand in companionable silence, looking out over the water. It’s a gentle moment, a tiny, insignificant moment, and yet it means everything to Grace. She sighs and says reluctantly, “I suppose we should go back inside.”
Boyd raises his chin and she feels the play of muscle against her shoulders as he moves to glance round. A second or two later he says, “I don’t think they’re exactly missing us.”
“Good,” Grace says, surprising herself. She turns in his arms and looks up at him. He is shadowy, backlit by the light spilling out between the gaps in the long drapes that partly obscure the view of the room beyond and the people within it. The strong, hawkish profile is clear enough, but the deep shadows steal away all the subtle details. The impulse to stretch up on her tiptoes and kiss him is very strong. It is not a wise impulse, under the circumstances, but nor is it an impulse she thinks she can resist for very long, given the wine, the warmth of the evening and his enticing proximity. She kisses him. He kisses her back. Whiskey and wine, him and her; a gentle, sensual, easy kiss that unconsciously conveys so many things.
Grace rests her head on his chest, and for a just moment it feels as if there’s nothing else in her world but him. The private acknowledgement of the manifestly ridiculous feeling amuses her in a very wry, undeniably self-conscious sort of way. She loves him, but more importantly she is, she knows, irrevocably in love with him. Which Grace thinks is simultaneously rather wonderful and just a little bit embarrassing, given her age. Being in love is not the sole preserve of the young, of course, but the half-forgotten intensity of it has surprised her, just a little. She listens to his heart beating, a steady accompaniment to the background noise of the city night, and wonders what the future holds for them.
Boyd says, “You think too much.”
She can’t help laughing softly. He knows her far too well. Grace lifts her head, looks up at him; raises a hand and gently places it on his cheek. He turns his head immediately, kisses her palm, and the gesture is so tender and so artlessly erotic that she feels it as a physical shock against her skin. Shadowed though they are, she can see a distinct suggestion of something in his dark eyes, something that is feral and hungry. It’s a look she recognises instantly. Clearly his thoughts are not as pure and guileless as hers have been, but Grace finds that amusing, too. Amusing, exciting and indisputably flattering. She’s about to speak when Boyd kisses her, and this time he is nowhere near as gentle; this time he is far more predatory – and she likes it. It escalates, that kiss, becomes deeper and increasingly more urgent, and Grace exalts in it, caught firmly by arousal, ego and an edgy, unexpected need.
It is Grace who reluctantly pulls back, too aware of the way her heart is suddenly beating faster, too aware of the flush rising in her cheeks. Her voice is unintentionally husky as she says, “We should go back – ”
Boyd shakes his head. “No.”
Something in the pit of her stomach contracts sharply. Ignoring it, she places a hand on his chest, as if to physically hold him at bay. She says, “Boyd – “
Gazing steadily at her, he steps forward, forcing her to take a step backwards. Without a single word he continues the advance, slowly backing her up along the balcony until there’s nowhere further for her to go. As soon as she realises that they are suddenly completely out of any casual line of sight from the apartment, she understands. Doubtless their dark corner would be visible to someone standing right up against one of the drape-free gaps in the stretch of panoramic glass, but even then someone looking out into the dark from the lit room wouldn’t necessarily –
“Oh, no,” she says, perfectly understanding the look she just knows is still in his eyes, and she means it. “No. Forget it, Boyd.”
In the dark all she can really see of his grin is a brief, wicked flash of teeth. He says, “And I thought you were utterly fearless…”
“Don’t think I’m falling for that,” Grace tells him firmly. “Just how naïve do you think I am?”
Again, the flash of teeth. “I don’t think you’re at all naïve, Grace. That’s rather the point, isn’t it?”
Grace points at the wide expanse of glass with its sliding panels. “We’re supposed to be in there making a good impression.”
“I’ve never made a good impression on anyone in my life,” Boyd says insouciantly.
“That’s as maybe, but – “
She doesn’t get any further. He’s kissing her again, and somehow she’s kissing him right back with exactly the same shameless enthusiasm, and when his hands start to wander with real intent Grace does absolutely nothing to stop them. Instead, she puts her arms round his neck, buries her fingers in his soft, dense hair and ignores the outraged, chiding voice of common sense that’s echoing loudly in her head. There may come a day when she doesn’t find the touch, taste and smell of him quite so dangerously intoxicating, but it isn’t going to be this day. Or any day soon. Age be damned – raw, elemental lust isn’t the sole preserve of the young, either.
Boyd moves back to her neck, and this time it isn’t just his lips he deploys; there’s tongue and teeth, too, and when he reaches the gentle curve between her neck and shoulder he traces a line of soft kisses along her skin until he reaches the soft fabric of her elegant dress. Finding the place where she is covered, he pushes the material aside and bites with enough force to make her inhale sharply and stifle an instinctive exclamation. The pain of it is momentary and exciting, in no way unpleasant, but it is not as darkly exciting as the certain knowledge that the bite is territorial – entirely designed to leave his mark on her. Grace knows he fully expects payback for the liberty, and she doesn’t disappoint him – if he is prepared to bite, she will scratch. She catches his neck a little higher with her nails than she intends, but Boyd doesn’t seem to notice.
Still, she thinks, it’s probably time to call a halt before things get too far out of hand. Sliding her fingers back into his hair, Grace gets a good grip and pulls his head up. She kisses him once – quick and hard – and says, “We’ll finish this later.”
The answer is succinct. “Bollocks to that.”
Grace favours him with a look designed to put him firmly in his place. “We’ve been out her far too long already and – “
“Five more bloody minutes won’t matter then, will it?” Boyd says, and the clear note of irritation in his voice is perfectly underscored by the very deliberate way he rocks his hips against her.
Grace doesn’t need the emphasis. She’s well aware of the burgeoning male hardness pressing against her stomach. She resists the impulse to smirk and just raises her eyebrows at him. “Five minutes, Boyd? What do you think you can possibly achieve in five minutes?”
Stupid question, she realises. Very stupid question, in fact, Grace thinks, as his hands immediately drop to her hips and she finds herself being firmly and deftly turned back to face the river. A distinctly vivid flash of memory interrupts the automatic impulse to protest. A lazy Sunday morning, not too long ago. Bare feet on the cool tiles of his kitchen floor. Easy banter; amused laughter. Dark eyes that seem to burn. An earnest promise made – hers; an impulsive chance taken – his. Heat and strength and desire… and an entirely new understanding of just how satisfactory a few moments of recklessness can be when there is love and lust and nothing at all to prove.
Her hands are back on the balcony rail, and he is very strong, but Grace knows far too well that what is freely given cannot be stolen. There’s no point in fighting him, in trying to physically resist him – he is far, far too powerful for that – but she is well aware that she can stop him dead with a single word, and that’s more than enough control to appease her. Besides, she’s not completely sure that even he would have the nerve to –
Wrong. There is definite intent in the way Boyd shifts one foot forward and braces his knee against her, forcing her to part her legs a little. Again, she remembers that sunny, sleepy morning, remembers just how easily…
Not sure if she’s righteously outraged or not, Grace complains, “Oh, come on… with a whole roomful of people watching?”
Somehow the objection only makes Boyd edge closer, one hand still on her hip, the other moving to cup her breast, thumb easily finding and caressing through the soft material of her dress. Each gentle but deliberate caress causes a tiny, familiar and very exciting shockwave that arcs sharply between nipple and groin. Even so close to her ear his voice is almost inaudible as he counters, “No-one’s watching. No-one’s remotely interested in what we’re up to out here.”
Common sense fights a bitter and bloody battle with temptation. Despite his unquestionable talents, common sense is on the verge of certain victory when he starts to nuzzle against her ear. “Grace…”
It’s the rough edge his voice takes on when he’s fiercely, acutely aroused that’s always her downfall. It speaks of need, of something deep and honest; speaks of something a long, long way beyond his conscious control. It tells her something about what’s at the very core of the way he looks at her. Tells her that Boyd is as profoundly lost in her as she is in him, however nonchalant he sometimes appears. It tells her something; it tells her everything. It also weakens her resistance by an alarming degree, and she fails to suppress the low moan that escapes her lips as he shifts position enough to move the hand on her hip slowly down the length of her thigh.
The night is warm, but Grace is shivering. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again all the tiny lights reflected on the water once again make her think of a river of twinkling stars. The river is eternal, it is patient, constant. Maybe she is the river, and he is the stars. She tightens her fingers on the balcony rail as he edges the hem of her dress slowly and irresistibly upwards while he kisses her neck.
She has the power to stop him, but she won’t. Not now. Boyd is not the only one who wants, who needs. Grace leans forward, just a fraction, as if to study the river’s surface even more attentively, and the deliberate provocation makes him moan against her skin. No, he is not the only one who wants, nor is he the only one who has the ability to incite, to tease, to assert. Grace moves a little more, intentionally allowing him better access and he takes advantage of it immediately, impatiently dealing with the minor inconvenience of her light panties in a way that is very definitely characteristic before sliding his hand over her buttocks and down between her thighs.
Grace turns her head, stretching round as far as she can, and he meets her in an open-mouthed kiss that only seems to help intensify all the myriad sensations prickling rapidly throughout her entire nervous system. The hand on her breast is just as artful as the hand deep between her thighs, and she’s forced to break the kiss to gasp and crane her head back. She says, “Peter…”
The clever hands retreat, and she feels the urgent fumbling, hears quite distinctly the sound of his zip, and then it isn’t his fingers between her thighs, but an altogether bigger and more insistent presence. She wants to touch him, to stroke him, but it’s quite clear that Boyd isn’t going to give her the chance and she moans softly in frustration. His answer is low and gruff, undeniably cut with need and greed as he moves his hips against her. “Later…”
In a heartbeat, Grace knows exactly how this is going to go, and she’s right. Boyd puts one hand on her hip and flexes at the knee, the other hand intent on guiding himself home. There is no pretence of tenderness, of romance, of anything designed to mitigate the raw carnality of his actions, and Grace is actually grateful for the brutal honesty of it; his actions are without any artifice, and somehow that proves something very fundamental about the strength of the bond between them. It takes Boyd a moment to find the right angle, but then he is pushing against her with a very single-minded determination, forcing her body to open to him, to yield to him. She grips the balcony rail hard, her knuckles white as she bites back the guttural sound that threatens to break from her throat. Boyd is impulsive, but he is not usually so precipitant, so forceful. He enters her without compunction, but once he is there, deep inside her, he waits and nuzzles softly against the nape of her neck – and for that tiny, gentle moment alone, Grace would give him the world.
The river flows, the city breathes; Grace relaxes, her body warming and moulding to his deep, elemental presence, and without thinking she pushes back against him a tiny, indicative fraction. Boyd takes his cue, starts to rock his hips gradually, just enough to make her even more intensely aware of all the places where they touch, inside and out. His hands are on her hips, and she wonders if the morning will reveal bruises where his fingers are tightening automatically. If so, it won’t be the first time they have accidentally marked each other in stumbling, joyous passion. Nor does she think it will be the last.
He’s big, but she’s used to that, and he’s powerful, but she’s used to that, too, and her body is welcoming him now, wanting more of his strength, more of his need. Boyd starts to thrust in earnest, and Grace sighs hard, bracing herself firmly against the rail as she conjures images in her head. Dreams and memories and darkly erotic fantasies combining with the certain knowledge that at any moment they could be discovered – all of it becoming a rich, thrilling mental tapestry of sex, truth and desire.
It’s good, it’s exciting – but it isn’t enough. Grace wants to see him, wants to touch him. She wants to stare into the depths of his eyes and see nothing but herself; she wants to see the way the tendons in his neck stand out, the way he bites his bottom lip as he fights for control. Boyd starts to growl, starts to drive faster, harder, and she knows without any doubt that he’s close – very close. It should frustrate her, but it doesn’t. In fact, she revels in the chance to break him, deliberately squeezing herself around him, deliberately pushing back against him and all the time making quite sure he can hear her as she quietly moans and gasps and urges him on.
His voice is hoarse, intense. “Grace…”
“It doesn’t matter,” she tells him, just as hoarse, and it doesn’t. She will have her moment; it doesn’t remotely have to be the same moment. Feeling wickedly decadent, wildly imperious, she murmurs, “Just let go… I want to feel you coming inside me…”
“Christ…” he says, and Grace can’t remember another time when she’s heard him sound quite so raw, quite so savage. But her words certainly have the desired effect and just for a few exhilarating moments he’s thrusting into her so hard that she has to battle the urge to scream his name into the warm, oddly calm night. It doesn’t last long. It can’t last long. His fingers dig deep, his hips jerk spasmodically and his head crashes down against her shoulder as he shudders uncontrollably.
She feels all-powerful, merciful, benevolent. She is the river; he is the stars.
Boyd’s chest is heaving against her shoulder-blades, and she can feel stray muscular twitches in his arms and legs as he leans against her. He’s heavy but she relishes his weight, his closeness. Some of his sudden torpor transmits to her, smoothly taking the brittle edge off her own unsatisfied need. She is gentle, indulgent, and she lets him slip free of her, lets him turn her in his arms again. When he reaches for her, Grace catches hold of his wrist, shakes her head slightly, knowing he will find the smile on her face perplexing. He tilts his head quizzically, the question unvoiced.
She echoes his earlier sentient. “Later.”
Even in the dark she sees him raise his eyebrows in surprise, but she just smiles and pats him gently on the shoulder.
Boyd says, “Grace…?”
She kisses him gently. “Make yourself decent and then go in there and cause a distraction while I slip off to the bathroom.”
“Oh, God,” he says, and the cynical tone is heartfelt. “And you’re supposed to be the romantic one…”
Grace just smiles again.
-oOo-
Boyd barely takes his eyes off her, and Grace is acutely aware of it. Time passes, the drink continues to flow freely, the background music gets louder and it doesn’t seem to matter where she is in the room, or who she’s talking to; whenever she glances round, there he is, watching her, dark eyes deeply focused, very intent. It amuses her. Perhaps it shouldn’t, but it does. Grace thinks she understands. She thinks it has become a matter of masculine pride. His own lust temporarily satisfied, Boyd’s well-developed male ego is giving him hell; she can see it in the way he looks at her. When she finds herself talking to Sir William Mayhew and two of his political cronies, she’s well aware of the simmering, proprietorial gaze that’s unwaveringly fixed on her from the other side of the room.
Sir William, portly, wealthy and very married, is flirting gently and rather drunkenly with her, and Graces sees the exact moment when Boyd realises it. It is the moment his expression darkens and his brows draw sharply down, the moment he unconsciously stands a little straighter and reflexively squares his shoulders. The moment he abruptly becomes a wolf in a roomful of innocuous, bleating sheep. To Grace, at least, Boyd suddenly stands out as something very different amongst the politicians, the civil servants, the trophy wives and the people who are something in the City. She doubts he will cause any sort of scene, but she wisely takes the first possible chance to excuse herself from Sir William’s cheerfully flirtatious company.
Still on opposite sides of the big room, they manoeuvre archly, watching each other. No-one seems to notice their carefully orchestrated movements, and Grace finds that slightly surprising, given the tension she can feel crackling between them. Looking at Boyd, it strikes her, as it quite often does, just how attractive he is – tall, broad-shouldered and good-looking. Elegant. Perhaps it’s entirely her own insecurity, but she seriously doubts anyone in the room would look at him and mentally pair him with her – and not simply because he is younger by several years. To Grace, it is self-evident that Boyd simply doesn’t see her the way she sees herself, and that… that is almost certainly a good thing. They meet by the still well-stocked buffet table and she smirks slightly as she notices the just-discernible scratch marks above his shirt collar. She asks, “Are we enjoying ourselves?”
Boyd looks down at her. “You certainly seem to be.”
“Ah ha,” she says knowingly. “Do I detect a little jealousy, Peter?”
“I don’t know,” he counters smoothly. “Do you?”
“I think I do,” Grace tells him smugly. “So, are we about to make our excuses and leave?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
That surprises her. She can’t quite suppress a confused frown. “No? I was under the impression we had some… unfinished business.”
“Oh, we do, Grace,” he says, once again dropping his voice down into the lower registers. “We definitely do.”
“So…?”
His expression is strangely enigmatic. He says, “My place is closest and even on blues and twos I don’t think I could get there in under twenty minutes.”
“I didn’t realise we were – “ Grace starts, breaking off in surprise as he puts an arm around her waist. It’s extremely unusual for Boyd to be so tactile when they are not alone, but the sudden pressure that makes her fall into step with him as he moves away from the table explains it. She is being gently but firmly shepherded towards the big archway that leads into the apartment’s long hallway, and she doesn’t miss the fact that he is firmly located between her and the rest of the guests. Nor does Grace think for a moment the positioning is accidental. No-one seems to be paying them any attention, but if they were the message would be unmistakable – all access to her is firmly denied.
Mildly, she says, “One day we’re going to have a serious chat about this possessive streak of yours, Boyd.”
He glances at her. “What possessive streak?”
“The one that’s about a mile wide,” Grace tells him, but she can’t help smiling. Heavily biased she very well may be, but as far as she’s concerned he’s easily the most attractive man in the room, and not only does that attractive man seem to consider that she belongs firmly to him, but apparently he isn’t afraid to openly demonstrate the fact. As they reach the hallway with its highly polished parquet floor, she asks, “What are you up to?”
Boyd leads her past the bathroom door and further down the hallway, finally stopping by a door which he opens in a completely brazen manner. He grins at her. “Look what I found. The guest bedroom.”
Grace blinks and looks round quickly, praying no-one can see them. “For God’s sake, Boyd. Shut the damned door and let’s just go home!”
“Why?” Boyd asks her, somehow managing to look both incredibly innocent and irredeemably wicked. “There’s a lock on the inside of this door, and no-one’s sober enough to care if someone’s getting up to no good behind it.”
“Just when did you develop these exhibitionist tendencies?”
Patently amused, he says, “Doing it behind a locked door hardly counts as exhibitionist. Though doing it on a balcony overlooking the river may count…”
Reusing to rise to the bait, Grace says, “All right, when did you develop such a taste for inappropriate sex?”
“’Inappropriate sex’, Grace? I must remember to quote you on that at some point. C’mon.”
Grace shakes her head firmly. “Oh, no. No, Boyd.”
“Oh, yes, Grace.”
-oOo-
Peter Boyd is dangerous. She’s always known it. In many ways he is very steady, very conformist, reliable and conventional, and yet even Grace, a very experienced psychologist not given to specious judgements about such things, suspects that there is a touch of madness in him. At its best, it shows itself in his more eccentric foibles and idiosyncrasies, in a sense of humour that is often dark and occasionally more than a little odd, and in bursts of manic, unrelenting energy. At its worst, it manifests itself in unpredictability, in lightning changes of mood, in long stretches of sullen depression and in the inexcusably violent temper he can’t – or won’t – control. It is that touch of madness, the tiny kiss of whatever it is that sets him slightly apart from his peers that makes him dangerous.
It is whatever it is that makes him drag her into a guest bedroom at a party that makes him dangerous. It’s more than recklessness, more than poor impulse control, and one day, Grace knows, it will get them both into a lot of trouble. But it fascinates her. It always has. And that’s why she says nothing as he locks the door behind them. She can hear the music, the laughter and the loud conversation, and she knows he’s right – no-one from the party will miss them, and no-one will care where they are or what they’re doing. The thought is unexpectedly liberating.
She laughs suddenly and says, “I haven’t done this sort of thing since I was an undergraduate.”
He looks at her, and his grin is sly. “So this isn’t exactly a new experience, then?”
Grace raises her eyebrows at him. “I was at university in the ‘sixties, Boyd. What do you think?”
He puts his arms around her, looks down at her, amusement clear in his expression. “I think you were obviously having a lot more fun than I was. I spent most of the ‘sixties trying for a quick fumble behind the bike sheds and wondering if I’d ever actually get laid.”
“Most of the latter half of the ‘sixties, I sincerely hope.”
“What can I say? I was a precocious adolescent.”
“That I can believe,” Grace says. She kisses his throat, just beneath his Adam’s apple, letting her lips linger softly. “Some of the stories I could tell… you’d be horrified.”
She wonders if he would. She wonders about the young man she never knew, who he was, what he got up to. Quite deliberately she starts to unfasten his shirt buttons, darting the very tip of her tongue against his skin. There is musk there now, the heavy, lingering proof of their earlier encounter; musk tightly mixed with the cologne and the whiskey, an arousing, heady scent that only makes Grace want him more. Suddenly assertive, she pushes him back towards the neatly-made bed, fingers splayed on his chest. Boyd’s expression registers both surprise and curiosity, and that makes her smile. There are still things left for both of them to learn about each other. She pushes him again, and he lets her, dark eyes speculative.
“Wasn’t this supposed to be quid pro quo?” Boyd asks.
“That’s exactly what it is,” Grace tells him, still advancing as he instinctively backs up. She wonders if he’s aware that she’s forcing him back using exactly the same tactics as he used against her out on the balcony.
Perhaps he is, because he says, “Why do I think you’re about to take advantage of me?”
“Complaining?”
“God, no,” he says, and there’s a rawness edging his voice that thrills her.
For no readily explicable reason, something profound is happening between them. Boundaries are shifting subtly; unconscious decisions are being made that will define far more than one evening’s rash behaviour. She sees it in the way he lets her push him a final time, in the way he falls back spread-eagled on the bed; in the way he simply watches and waits. His sudden compliance is as uncharacteristic as it is exciting, and Grace full intends to capitalise on it.
It may be an illusion, it may be the wine, but she suddenly feels younger and less inhibited than she has for years. Perhaps it’s just him, and the way he looks at her, the way he touches her. Perhaps it is his fire that’s blazing through her veins. Whatever it is, it makes her tear into him, biting, kissing and scratching. Boyd swears and twists and tries to fend her off, but Grace gives no quarter, and she’s already got his shirt off and is working in his belt when it ceases to be a game and becomes something far, far more dangerous. She sees the muscles in his shoulders bunch as he grabs her, and for the very first time she knows he’s not tempering the amount of strength he brings to bear. She bites his wrist, and he curses and involuntarily releases his grip, giving her the chance to swoop on him again.
“Christ,” Boyd growls at her, and he’s breathing as hard as she is. “Hellcat…”
She is.
He fights, she bites. They wrestle and roll and gouge, shedding clothes across the bed as they kiss and grab and grasp, and all of it is wild, licentious and spontaneous. It’s nothing like anything they’ve had between them before, and maybe that’s the whole point. Her heart is pounding, and Grace doesn’t think she can get any wetter, doesn’t think Boyd can get any harder, but when he seizes hold of her and tries to roll above her, she resists with real force, tears into him again, snatching handfuls of his hair and kissing him harder than she thinks she’s ever kissed anyone in her life. The sharp bristle of evening stubble is harsher than the soft prickle of his beard and Grace glories in it, not caring whether morning brings the tell-tale burn of stubble rash or not.
This is not how they are. This is not how they have ever been together. This is new, this is brutal; brutal, bruising and sensual – completely elemental. This is everything that there is between them stripped to its most basic form, and it is good. It is very good.
The music is still playing beyond this room where they are trespassing. The music is playing, the conversation and the drink are flowing, and none of it matters to either of them.
Grace straddles him, gripping his wrists hard, and he arches up at her, the sweat gleaming on his skin, the shadows picking out the lines of muscle and bone along the length of his torso. Boyd growls again, trying to drive up into her, but Grace is the one with the power this time, and she makes him work hard for what he wants, deliberately tormenting him until she chooses to mount him on her own terms. She isn’t sure which of them cries out first as they become one creature again. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s her. It doesn’t matter. There is heat, there is hunger and there is him, deep inside her, absolutely part of her. She rides him hard, nails biting into his slick wrists, and he thrusts up hard in rhythmic counterpoint, teeth bared at her as he grins and curses and groans.
This is not how they have ever been together… but it is how they are in this wild moment.
He is brutal. She is savage. He urges, she curses. He slaps, she scratches.
The world breaks. For Grace, the world breaks. It astonishes her, the speed and force of it, the way her body rips into shuddering, desperate release, the way Boyd roars beneath her, slams up into her over and over again as she shakes and spasms and eventually collapses forwards onto him, her heart hammering hard.
The music is still playing. Bizarrely, it’s one of the first things that filters through to her. The music is still playing, and the man supine beneath her is absolutely motionless. Grace raises her head slowly. His eyes are shut, but he’s not as motionless as she briefly feared – his chest is rising and falling rapidly.
Reality starts to assert itself in a not altogether pleasant way. Bits of her are aching, other bits of her are stinging. Still other bits of her are most definitely suspiciously tender. Grace lets her head drop again, and the heavy impact on his flank causes a stray mumble of protest. Not moving, she says, “Boyd…?”
The answer is incoherent, but it sounds like a considered response. Enough to prove that there is no immediate need for CPR. After a moment, she manages, “You know… I think we may be a just little too old for such… over-exuberance.”
The answer is significantly delayed, but when it finally comes, it’s exactly as anticipated. “Speak for your bloody self…”
-oOo-
The first thing that confronts Grace the next morning is the blinding headache that at least partly eclipses the nausea roiling in her stomach. It’s a phenomenon she hasn’t experienced for many years – a truly epic hangover. Much of it probably prompted by the copious amount of alcohol consumed after their eventual and rather hurried departure from Sir William’s party.
Several minutes pass. Nothing changes. Her head still throbs, her stomach still churns uneasily, and the man occupying the space next to her in the wide bed remains stubbornly unmoving. Eventually, Grace gives in. She opens her eyes and sits up carefully. The room threatens to spin, but thankfully settles almost immediately. Her movement, however, causes her companion to stir, and she can’t stop a faint, grim smile at the deep, heartfelt groan from beside her. Clearly, she is not the only one suffering.
Grace clears her throat, but before she can say a word Boyd buries his head further into the pillow and briefly holds up a hand, palm towards her. Muffled, his voice says, “Shhh… Head hurts…”
“You’re not the only one…” Grace tells him unsympathetically. Her voice is almost as hoarse as his.
“Water,” he says, still buried. “Painkillers…”
“No chance,” she retorts, gingerly settling herself back into a horizontal position and closing her eyes. “I can’t even see straight, Boyd, let alone walk.”
“I’m bloody dying here…”
“Just… do it quietly,” she manages, not quite ready to risk opening her eyes again.
It isn’t just the hangover. Everything seems to ache. And when she does risk half-opening one eye, she can see the crimson scratch marks on Boyd’s shoulders. Not a particularly erotic dream, then.
“Oh, God,” she says involuntarily.
“What?” Boyd asks into the pillow.
“Last night… do you think anyone noticed?”
He rolls over slowly, forearm clamped firmly over his eyes. “I think it’s fairly safe to assume everyone noticed.”
“Oh, God.”
“It wasn’t me screaming my head off.”
Grace glares. “Actually…”
There’s a long pause. Finally, Boyd says, “Look at it this way, at least we won’t be invited back.”
“True.”
Silence. She starts to doze.
“Grace…?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re very bad for me.”
“No,” she says, pulling the covers up around her shoulders and settling more comfortably. “I’m very good for you.”
She is the river, patient and constant, and he is the stars that blaze so fiercely upon it.
- the end -
- 1
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A River Of Stars