Page 70 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
Soren said in a small voice; “John? Sorry. Thank you.”
“Once you’ve sorted everything out at Raskelf, you could go to one of these skerries. It’s probably the safest place.”
Soren looked up quickly. “Oh, but—but, Scotland’s a long way from London.”
“You’ll go back to London? Will you do what you said in the box room? Put the skin in a bank and never touch it again?”
“No! I shan’t do that. That was before I knew.” Soren got to his feet, face transforming with wonder, and began to pace back and forth. “Being at sea! It’s the best thing in the world!” He smiled suddenly, glanced meaningfully at John, and added archly, “With afewexceptions. It’s like those dreams where you can fly! My God, it’s like being in a Turner painting! And I belong there!”
He shook his head a little, like a man who can’t believe his good fortune.
“Yes. You belong there.”
“Don’t look like that. I belong on land too, surely? Father was human.”
John schooled his face. It was difficult, because he wanted Soren so much, he felt it would choke him. He wanted to say something noble and understanding that would let him walk away with his self-respect intact. Because otherwise he’d end up begging Soren not to go to sea again.
“You swam away,” he heard himself saying. And it wasn’t dignified; it was raw with pain. At least he wasn’t on his knees, pleading.
Soren crouched by his chair, holding onto the edge of the table with one hand, looking up into his face.
“John, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to desert you, but that skin had been waiting for the sea since the day I was born. Ihadto put it on. I know I shouldn’t have ridden away, and I’ll beg your pardon a hundred times for that if you like. But there was magic at work. It was telling me not to wait, not to risk it. It wasn’t reasonable, I know, but then magic isn’t always, is it? You know that. And then, when I was a seal—I wasn’t just myself in a different shape. All this—” He gestured at his body. “I forgot it. It felt like a dream.”
“All right.” John had control of himself again. He managed a smile. “Tell me some more. Did you catch any fish? Did you eat them alive?”
Soren leaned in to kiss him. He did it tenderly, almost apologetically, as if John might refuse him.
He might as well refuse to breathe.
Soren removed his tarred jacket, shirt and boots. He sat astride John in the patched canvas trousers. John ran a hand over his chest. No cuts, not a trace. He could see, too, that Soren’s once scarred foot was now a perfect graceful arch like its fellow. Wasn’t that the way with toffs like Soren? They always managed to come out of things unscathed. John’s own chest hurt like hell where the shot had hit him and Dalton had kicked him, and his face and shoulders were a mess of cuts and bruises from the slates. He touched the curve of Soren’s brow, the line of his jaw. No marks there, either, not the shadow of a bruise.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” John said.
“I went to Eton, silly. And I had a bad foot and couldn’t run away.” Soren began undoing the buttons of John’s waistcoat. “Hadn’t you better get the pins out?”
“In a minute.”
He closed his eyes and let Soren do what he liked. Let him kiss his mouth and neck. Let him untie his cravat and unbutton his shirt and fly. Let him nibble the sensitive skin around his ear. Let him grind against him, breath quickening.
The chair creaked warningly. It was right. John opened his eyes. “Get off. And get those awful trousers off too. And wait for me by the fire. I’m going to fuck you in a minute, and I don’t much care if Mr Howarth’s windows melt, so I’m going to do exactly what I want, exactly how I want it. And you are going to take it. Understand?”
All the same, he took the pins and emptied himself of power. Who knew what would happen in the morning? But if he was going to have one more night with Soren, he was damn well going to be warm and comfortable, without a sea wind blowing through the bedroom. Raskelf had been an ice box. He wanted to see Soren sweat. Wanted him flushed and trembling, slippery and pliant. If Soren was going to vanish into the sea again tomorrow, then tonight would have to warm John for a long, long time.
Soren had stoked the fire, and was now waiting on the hearthrug, naked, as he’d been told. He stood hip-shot, smiling, cock plump, hands behind his back. “Have you considered, Mr Blake, that you’re about to fuck the tenth Marquess of Dalton?” He raised an eyebrow. “What do you say to that?”
A week ago, the idea of having a marquess would have inflamed John beyond imagining. Now, he wanted only Soren. John glowered at him, deciding, and had the satisfaction of watching his smile fade, watching him swallow nervously. Soren needed wrong-footing, that was what he needed.
He stood in front of Soren a moment or two longer, just looking, and letting him look. Then he said, “Right. You undid my buttons. Now you can do them back up. And then you can tie my cravat.”
Soren’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, then down in puzzlement. “But—”
“Do it.”
“But you—”
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind. Maybe I feel like going out. Do it.”
Soren bit his lip, and began to do up the buttons of John’s shirt, then his waistcoat. John glanced down and saw his cock had softened. Did Soren really think he was going to go out? Hm. Maybe he really did.
