Page 58 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Yes, I feel that, thank you.”
“Mmm. So? Can you feel it?”
“I can feel the walls watching us, if that’s what you mean. And the bed and that horrible old carpet. All gawking like boys at a dog fight. Is it like this for you all the time? How do you stand it?”
“Don’t think about them. They don’t judge; it’s the magic that draws them. In every way that matters, we’re alone. I promise.”
“All right, well, give me a moment, will you? It’s not often one’s called upon to perform under such circumstances. This morning has hardly been conducive. My chest stings.”And my own father did it to me.
“I know. I’d see to it, but there’s hardly been time. I’ve got an anodyne necklace but that’d put you to sleep. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Soren let his forehead rest on John’s shoulder. He could still sense the room and everything in it, now hushed like a crowd before the opera begins. “God, I wish we were anywhere but here.”
Into his ear, John said, “Ah, Soren. My dear. I wish the same.”
Soren’s breath caught. John was physically affectionate in bed; he liked to kiss and caress and embrace. And he knew how to give a compliment, and of course how to tease in that delightful, playful, candid way. But this was the first time he had said anything so intimate. In London, men in Soren’s set had called him “my dear” all the time, but it had been nothing but a kind of flippant, friendly punctuation. From John, it was profoundly moving. One could tell that he meant it, that he did not say things like it often, or lightly. Soren was used to people wanting him. John actuallylikedhim.
John was stroking his back, hands occasionally venturing lower to his arse. Soren could feel John’s breath, warm in his hair. If one did not allow oneself to think beyond this moment, it was, actually, very nice. The fear had not gone, but it was lurking further and further away. He felt John’s lips at his jaw and turned his head.
John kissed him, slow and soft, then pulled away, looking at him, considering. He smiled—not a reassuring smile, more the private, devilish smile of someone tryingnotto smile—and reached, very slowly, for one of the inside pockets of his jacket. What was he reaching for? What did that smile mean? Thornby watched him the way a mouse watches a cat, but suddenly his heart was pounding for a different reason, and his cock was beginning to stir.
John brought out a small vial of pale gold oil. Thornby recognised it; John had used it before. Now John undid the cap with his teeth, and poured some oil onto his right hand. He let it spread, rolling his wrist to allow it to trickle around. Then he held his hand up, fingers and thumb moving, glistening in the light.
“Hmm?” John said, raising an eyebrow.
Thornby made a noise in his throat. His chest still hurt, but that seemed not to matter now. All he could think about was that golden, glistening hand. In fact, he was trembling with anticipation.
John gave him another of those secret smiles. “Stand up.”
He obeyed, breathlessly waiting for John to reach up and take his cock in that slick hand. The oil would be warm. It would feel—
But, still watching him, John reached deliberately down and began to stroke his own cock, covering it in shining oil. John groaned as he touched himself, and closed his eyes.
Thornby watched him, mouth open.
John opened one eye, smiled at the expression on his face, then closed the eye again, letting his head fall back. “Ah, God, that’s good. Sorry, did you think it was for you?Fuck—no, this would be wasted on you. It’s almond oil, but I’ve—Christ—charmed it—my God—so it remembers my touch, so it’s like having about five hands—fucking hell—down there.”
Thornby made a noise of protest. He couldn’t quite believe it was happening. Part of him was genuinely outraged that John should tease him so. Although, John was clearly putting on a show for him, and watching John pleasure himself was almost as good as having that warm, golden, oily hand on his own cock.
Almost.
John opened his eyes again and looked up, grinning, still frigging himself with long slow strokes. “Well, my lord, how about something to think about while you watch?”
He closed his mouth over Thornby’s cock.
Just before he came, Thornby realised, with a tail end of awareness, that something else was different. His gaze had happened to trail away from John’s hand and cock and mouth, and across John’s iron pins—which were not standing up on their points as usual, but lying prone and dead-looking on the floor outside the spancel.
If he’d been a little less close to the crisis, he might have said something, but John was sucking him now as if his life depended on it, cheeks hollowed. And a moment later Thornby was grabbing John’s hair, thrusting helplessly into his mouth, crying out, and John was making stifled, desperate noises too, somewhat muffled by Thornby’s cock. There was one of those pure, silent moments that comes after sex, and then—
—there was an explosion of power so strong, it knocked Thornby off his feet. He was flung sideways across the shrouded bed. John was thrown onto the floor, landing with his shoulder against the door. Thornby staggered to his feet. He’d intended to help John up, but instead stood staring, hands at his sides, mouth and breeches hanging open.
Something had smashed a tunnel through Raskelf, right through guest rooms and ante-rooms, passageways and all. It was as though a cannon-ball as big as a carriage had ripped through the west wing and out the other side. Through the settling dust and hanging planks and ruined pictures, he could see daylight at the other end. And the tunnel seemed to bemovingat the margins—long strands of what looked like seaweed were waving in the air. White crabs scuttled up broken beams. He thought he saw an octopus—could it be the same one?—clinging to a broken chandelier. And for a brief, impossible moment, a school of silver fish seemed to glint across the tunnel, only to be lost a moment later in the gloom of some ruined spare bedroom.
Not using the pins was deliberate. John had done it on purpose.
He was aware of John at his side, looking down the tunnel. Then John was kneeling, coiling the spancel, pocketing the pins and eye, sweeping the salt up with careful fingers. He got to his feet and gave Thornby one of those turned-down smiles, mouth severe, eyes alight.
“Come on,” John said.
