Page 29 of Margins of Love
“And it never went further.” Arnold concluded from Fave’s state, inviting him to elaborate.
“We had contact. Intimate contact,” Fave explained.
“You what?” Arnold stared, wide-eyed.
“No, not that kind of contact. It was with our eyes… but our souls touched.” Fave tried to remember some verbiage from a poem he had read, but he could only think of his painful erection—again.
“Oh pardon me, Cous. I had no idea you had crossed the line ofeye contact.” Arnold chuckled.
Fave shot him a pained look.
And that was when Arnold understood. “Oufff… lucky you.” Arnold nodded in appreciation.
He swung his arm around Fave and they walked together as he, the more experienced cousin, took on the role of the elder brother. With unchaste detail, he explained the art of seduction to Fave, every last trick in his arsenal. Fave’s head spun incredulously. He was not sure how some of this was physically possible. But he was intrigued nonetheless.
When they were almost back at the door, Fave raked his hands through his hair. “You know I cannot seduce her. I would lose my privileges. I owe it to my ancestors—”
Arnold drew swirls in the air, “Blah, blah, blah, excuses, excuses… use your imagination!”
Another frustrated puff emerged from Fave, coming from his most primitive instincts.
“There is a whole spectrum between a kiss and the… shall we say, forbidden act.” Arnold gave Fave his most exemplary rakish look, from man to man.
“You are telling me…” Fave fumbled with his fingers, and then looked at them as if they were not his.
“Exactly.” Arnold smiled.
There seemed to be some wiggle room between a kiss and the act. A world of possibilities for him to explore without risking his Cohanim status. Well, technically. Or so he told himself as his breeches rubbed his member sore. This, Fave decided, he had to ponder some more.
CHAPTER22
Rachel was reading in her room when she saw a shadow under her closed door. It stopped, changed its shape, and a folded piece of paper was slid into her room. Then the shadow disappeared.
Her heart raced and she felt giddy with anticipation. A secret message. She clutched her hands to her cheeks as she hopped off the bed and retrieved the folded paper.
Meet me at the willow.
Rachel looked through the window. It was late afternoon and the sun shone a golden light through the narrow windows at Brockton House. She touched her lips with two fingers but nothing measured up to his gentle caress. Just yesterday, the spring sun had danced on Fave’s amber hair. Rachel could not stop imagining how it must feel to put her hands on his head and pull him in for another kiss. Of course, she would never be this daring in real life. And she had no right to expect anything more than he had already given her. If news spread that she was to be married in less than two months, Fave would probably run faster than his legs could carry him. Her mother did mention he had a certain reputation. So maybe that was all, and the moments under the willow had been just that, an experience.
No, she could not lie to herself. It had been more than a moment. She was changed and she knew it. Her heart was wrapped in chains of shoulds, musts and ought-tos.
Her eyes fell to her book, opened to a depiction of a Greek vase. She had never given the scenes much attention but she did not feel like reading about adventures that were not hers, so she squinted to decipher the… oh dear! The scenes were love scenes. Profile views of naked men and women with tight curls were shown in a series of… Rachel tilted her head. “Hm, interesting!” One of the men held the woman and suckled her… there was the trepidation in Rachel’s stomach again. It could have been lovely, and surely would be, if the feeling were not so terribly new, overpowering, and futile. She had to read. Yes, she nodded to the empty room. Words could surely cool the twitching in her middle. It did not feel good and scared her.
She wrote a note.
I cannot imagine who is asking.
Rachel tucked the note deeply into her book, then she called Sammy from his adjacent room.
“Do you know who Mr. Pearler is?”
Sammy nodded.
“Can you take this book to him?”
“What’s in it for me?” Sammy had grown cheeky.
“Ask him. Tell him, postage paid by the recipient.”
