Born of Ashes

She looked back at him, her smile teasing. His breath caught in his throat at such an expression. He did not think he would get used to her beauty and how it made him feel, especially wearing a smile that reached her eyes.



“Many things, huh?”



He smiled as well, not dwelling too much on her meaning, for his fingers were now smoothing the silk of her blouse in a line up to her neck, beneath the wavy fall of chestnut hair until he found skin. He stroked the nape of her neck slowly.



“Oui. Many things. I will not lie to you. I am a man.”



Her smile dimmed just a little. “And did you bring many of those activities here?”



He shook his head. “Here? No, Fiona. Jamais. Never. I swear it. I could not have brought you into my house if I had.”



All the teasing left her lovely face, and he leaned close. He drifted a kiss over the line of her cheek. “I never wanted anyone here, not until I saw you in Toulouse.”



She blinked and looked down, a most certain sign that the old horrible memories had surfaced.



He cursed himself for bringing up Toulouse. Had he lost all his skill? All his finesse? Merde. Toulouse was where that monster, Rith, had taken her and the other blood slaves when the Warriors of the Blood had rescued Parisa from the Burma facility.



He decided to simply shove the conversation in a different direction entirely.



“Come,” he said. He stepped away from her but took her hand at the same time. He drew her toward the door behind him, to the right of the front door. “I wish to show you something.”



She followed and did not protest.



He opened the door for her. “Be careful. The steps are a little steep.” Much of the house was built on a slope and there were many short flights of stairs throughout the progression of the house, some up, some down.



The smell of wood and her scent flowed over him. The room below was cool and dark. He touched one of the switches to his right as he descended the stairs.



Inset ceiling lights just around the perimeter lit the room in a warm glow.



“Oh … my.” She put her hands to her face. “You keep … surprising me.”



He looked around at his woodworking shop and could not quite understand what she meant.



She turned back to him. “Don’t you see, Warrior? You are not a simple man.”



“And you thought I was?”



She shook her head slowly back and forth. “I have not seen past the battling you do. But this—” She turned in a circle. “Every tool is hung on the wall in a specific place. And there must be hundreds of them. It’s all so … organized.”



“It keeps the process very simple, to know where one’s tools are kept.”



She walked to the table in the center of the room and ran her hands over the top. She touched the place he worked and he was moved. He could feel his heart pounding. She was telling him something. She spoke with her actions more than her words, perhaps more than any woman he had ever known before.



She stood next to the table now and turned to him. “I want you here,” she said. She rested her palm on the table and tilted her head just so.



Surrender is only a beginning.



—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth



Chapter 6



Jean-Pierre’s chest expanded at the sight of Fiona with her hand on his worktable, the place he had laid each timber of the house: measured, sawed, planed, sanded. It swelled again, as though with her words and the things she did, she kept breathing life into his heart, almost more than he could bear.



He did not refuse this invitation. He did not remark that the table, though not dirty, was not clean, either. He did not suggest his bed or even the soft couch in his living room.



No, he went to her thinking that this was good and right in a way his soul could understand even if his mind would have suggested other places to take this step on their journey.



He had built his house with his hands and now he would put his hands on her, and build something new.



He drew close, standing in front of her. He touched her face, her skin soft beneath his callused warrior hands. She turned her face into his hand and kissed the toughened ridges, shaped by the leather-wrapped grip of his sword for two centuries.



“You honor me,” he whispered.



Her lips were swollen now and her scent filled the room, buttery pastries. He knew what would happen as he leaned toward her. Little puffs of air left her mouth. Her scent thickened the space between. A light groan met his lips as he kissed her.



Jean-Pierre, she sent. You will make me come.



Come. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue between her lips. She cried out and he bored deeply. She clutched his arms as he brought her. She cried out again and again until she could barely stand. He slid his arm around her waist and drew back just enough so that he could look at her flushed cheeks and liquid eyes.



“How do you do that?”



“You ask me that every time. I think the better question must be, how do you do that, chérie? Was it this way between you and your husband, between you and Terence?”



She looked down, and he wished the words unsaid. Some memories took her back to unhappy times; this was one of those memories.



He put the side of his finger beneath her chin and lifted, forcing her to look at him. “I value your love for your husband.”



“Oh, Jean-Pierre, how you please my heart.” Tears swam in her eyes, a little ocean of pain. Then she laughed and wiped at her cheeks. “Terence used to tease me. I was always so ready for him. I seemed to be a little pile of kindling just waiting for the strike of a match. But doesn’t it bother you to hear that?”



He shook his head. “Of course not.” He smiled. “Well, perhaps a little but that is just the breh-hedden being absurd.”



She searched his eyes. “I don’t want you to take this moment too seriously.”



He shook his head. “I believe we feel the same way, desire but restraint, non?”



She nodded.



He put his hands around her small waist. He smiled because his fingers touched.



He unbuttoned her slacks and since he dipped his chin to work the front zipper, she leaned close and sniffed his skin all along his temple until chills chased one another down his neck and his chest.



His muscles flexed and released.



He pushed her pants to the floor, and she stepped out of them then kicked her heels off as well. He looked down, not at the floor but at the expanse of lovely pale skin, thigh to ankle. He ran a finger across first one warm thigh, then the other. She hissed softly and put her hands on his shoulders.



She leaned forward and nuzzled his neck again. “Take your hair from the cadroen,” she whispered. “I want to see your hair, to feel it between my fingers. I have wanted to do that for so long. For so long I’ve wanted to do so many things with you.”



She kissed his neck and licked and kissed. These small kitten-like ministrations built a fire in his body and weakened parts of him while strengthening others. For that reason, he had difficulty lifting his arms in order to obey her command. But he succeeded at last and freed his hair. He folded the cadroen to his bedroom.



Using both hands, she drew his hair forward. It was long now, in somewhat wild waves with a few errant curls here and there. The Warriors of the Blood all had long hair, an ancient ritual, the keeping of long hair to reflect strength and dedication. Her fingers sank into his hair on both sides and she dragged her hands lower and lower, the tips of her fingers poking through and connecting with his jacket.



But her fingers became knotted, of course, so he took her hands and untangled them. He held her gaze as he lifted both hands to his lips and kissed each finger, one after the other. Her breaths were light again and very quick.



Her lips parted. Her breath flowed toward him, a sweet scent of the patisserie. Shivers chased over his body. What she could do to him!



She was killing him so sweetly. Did she know how she affected him? That her gaze never strayed told him she did. She must have pleased her husband very much, and all, no doubt, without the smallest awareness of the effect. This he knew to be so very true about her—she had no guile and he loved her for that.



He released her hands and untied the small bow at her waist. He unbuttoned her blouse until he could push it apart. Her bra was cut low and made of a very fine cream lace. She had full breasts, and his breathing changed at the sight of them. He dipped low and a soft sound swirled from her throat as his lips kissed each mound in turn. His hands became restless as he continued to kiss.



He thumbed her nipples through the fabric and made them into hard beads. His touch, of lips and hands, drove new sounds from her throat, new cries and whimpers.



Her fingers worked through his hair again. “Jean-Pierre,” she murmured. He felt her lips then kisses on his head.



He pushed the bra over her left breast and took the nipple in his mouth. She gasped and cried out. “You will bring me again,” she said, panting.



Good, he sent.



He suckled, hard and fast.



Her body writhed. He vowed he had never known a woman to come so quickly but he suspected that these were but faint shadows, very small petits morts, and but a prelude to what he could accomplish with her body.



Would she let him? Could he sweep over her as he wanted to, a heavy wave across her body, of great pleasure, perhaps like nothing she had ever known?



* * *



Fiona was draped over Jean-Pierre, her arms wrapped around his bent shoulders as he slowed the suckling of her nipple. Her breath came in shallow pants, and her body had that sweet drift of lethargy that always accompanied such a swift climax.



She stroked his hair then unloosened her arms to drift her fingers once more through his long half-curling, half-wavy locks. He released her breast and rose so that her fingers could travel all the way to the tips.



Jean-Pierre had magnificent hair. It wasn’t blond or brown, but someplace in between. All the outer layers and long tendrils were gold, especially in sunlight; what lay beneath was darker, heavier, as though he were these two qualities blended, a soft more playful layer over the toughness that characterized all the warriors.



He was infinitely gentle with her as well. Did he know how much she needed his gentleness? Her pursuit of Rith had toughened her and brought her courage. But in this quiet intimate moment, her fears returned. She was reminded of all that she had lost when she’d been taken from the streets of Boston so long ago.