Page 93 of Antiletum
Breathy and soft. Filled with utmost tenderness.
With my palms on her hips, my face falls, forehead landing on her stomach while the weight of the world releases from my shoulders in a single slow exhale. I land a gentle, loving kiss on the soft flesh at the juncture of her thigh, my eyes drifting closed. I take a moment to gain composure (if such a possibility has ever existed), to try to slow my heart and convince my hands to not begin shaking now.
And then I collect myself, thieving the warmth of Delaney’s skin from my own.
Task resumed, I shift my shoulders, taking my place right at the most intimate parts of my wife who is now tensed and ready for what’s about to come. Not fighting it at all, but not in the show of defeat she displayed last night. No, this is acceptance in all its glory.
I take a deep breath, pinch my fingers tighter against the needle, aiming its pointed tip. “One, two—” I warn and then punch it right through her clit, following through entirely before I ever say, “Three.”
The final count is lost to the sound of Delaney’s scream, both a sound of agony and pure, complete rapture. A gush of fluid soaks my hands as she comes. Incredibly hard.
“Yes,” I say quietly, watching her clit pulse over and over and over with a needle shoved through it. I wonder if I could ever make her come this hard again while I’m inside her.
This whole fucked up situation is entirely too good. Her legs shake and she moans and cries, breath erratic, wriggling around with her arms still tied tight above her head.
Silently, carefully I thread the ring through, securing another place for myself on her body to never, ever leave.
Gently, I clean the mess she made coming from her thighs. Wipe off my own hands.
“Are you alright?” I can barely speak.
All she does is nod, back to her silence. A sensation of dread sinks through me at the act.
When I’m finished, both of our adrenaline waning, I climb back up her body, careful to not hit any of the still fresh piercings. Leaning over her chest, I reach to untie the spidersilk from the bed, the room disturbingly quiet.
Glancing down, Delaney is refusing to look at me now as well as not speaking. Eyes shut and head turned to the side. If it wasn’t for the erratic flutter of her pulse in her neck, the slight pinch to her brows, she could pass for sleeping. Hiding behind her empty, quiet mask once again.
And my heart falls far, far below my chest.
Perhaps I was wrong, the way I perceived her acceptance. Maybe she didn’t see me at all. Or maybe it simply didn’t matter.
Quickly, I finish untying Delaney, beginning to worry that I may have a panic attack here and now, and I desperately need to escape the oppression of this horrible room that keeps my wife’s company from me. From our bed. Hoards away my ability to hold her and keep her warm and loved and safe at night.
I grab the glass jar of salve from Nelda that will make Delaney’s healing quick and thorough—the exact same one that we used to rub on each other’s lips to heal the slits made over our mouths at our wedding. Holding it up while she rubs the numbness out of her wrists, Delaney’s lovely face is still tilted away from me. Not bothering to grab her chin and make her look, as my whole being is screaming to do, I drop the jar back to the bedside table with a clatter.
“There’s a salve here that will make you heal immediately,” I whisper. “Use it. I’m begging you, just—just use it. Now.”
I can’t stop thinking about her bout of unbound magic in thespirlinary. The flesh peeling away from her hand in magical necrosis as payment. Wondering how long she would have suffered in silence, reveling in the physical pain.
Delaney’s empty stare is drawn to the jar. She nods again, glancing down at her bare breasts, now sparkling silver in the gas lamp light.
I suppose I could put it on myself, ensure that she’s taken care of, but unfortunately, I fear I may have finally succeeded in pushing us both too far tonight.
And without the desired outcome.
The trembling I denied within my hands is no longer willing to be ignored.
Still sitting across her hips, keeping us close, I know that I should move. I should set her free. But before I do, with one last fool’s sliver of hope, I ask, “Do you want to stay with me tonight? In a dry bed.”
Desperate.
Delaney doesn’t answer immediately. But she finally brings her wide eyes to my face. Taking me in. I sit absolutely stoic, nearly unnatural as I channel my inner instincts. Giving her a chance to inspect me. Study me. Absorb what she sees.
She shakes her head. A rapid, jerky movement. Completely lost for words.
I exhale a ragged breath. Unable to let go. Accept my defeat. “Do you want me to stay here—with you?”
Again, that wordless shake, not deigning to give me her voice.
