“If I wanted him here, he would come here,” Cleon says breezily, flippant and arrogant as ever. And the terrible thing was, it was probably true: by dizzying payment or threat of punishment, he could have his people black-bag any collector and drag them to the palace. He’s convinced of it.
Jessica’s lowered voice, that almost-purr, is seductive; revealing her hand, perhaps, but it’s precisely what he expects from a concubine anyhow.
Until. Then. Her fingertip runs down his wrist.
She was not invited to touch him, he did not tell her it was acceptable to approach yet, he should censure her for this, there should be a punishment,
but instead his breath hitches inwards, a small gasp held in his lungs, and her Bene Gesserit-trained instincts can see how his whole body runs taut and rigid. His arm turns instinctively, exposing more of his wrist to her. There’s still the hum of the Imperial aura beneath her touch, but she’s evidently familiar with shield technology: the brush of her fingertip is slow enough to penetrate the invisible shield, until bare skin touches skin, until it feels like he’s been set on fire with that simple ghosting contact. His skin burning.
No one touches him. This is why the Gossamer Court exists. Like tapping a steam valve, venting that pent-up energy, that starvation.
“I have not,” Cleon says, answering her question, and it’s only a lifetime of training which still keeps his voice steady. His blue-green eyes (they match the Imperial colour) are fixed on her face now, and there’s an indescribable shift in the air. A tip of the scales turning the temperature up a couple degrees. “Hardly anyone is ever allowed to touch Empire, let alone cover him in material. It could be an absorbent toxin. It would be a dreadful security risk.”
His voice has sunk into an equally-teasing purr, matching hers.
no subject
Jessica’s lowered voice, that almost-purr, is seductive; revealing her hand, perhaps, but it’s precisely what he expects from a concubine anyhow.
Until. Then. Her fingertip runs down his wrist.
She was not invited to touch him, he did not tell her it was acceptable to approach yet, he should censure her for this, there should be a punishment,
but instead his breath hitches inwards, a small gasp held in his lungs, and her Bene Gesserit-trained instincts can see how his whole body runs taut and rigid. His arm turns instinctively, exposing more of his wrist to her. There’s still the hum of the Imperial aura beneath her touch, but she’s evidently familiar with shield technology: the brush of her fingertip is slow enough to penetrate the invisible shield, until bare skin touches skin, until it feels like he’s been set on fire with that simple ghosting contact. His skin burning.
No one touches him. This is why the Gossamer Court exists. Like tapping a steam valve, venting that pent-up energy, that starvation.
“I have not,” Cleon says, answering her question, and it’s only a lifetime of training which still keeps his voice steady. His blue-green eyes (they match the Imperial colour) are fixed on her face now, and there’s an indescribable shift in the air. A tip of the scales turning the temperature up a couple degrees. “Hardly anyone is ever allowed to touch Empire, let alone cover him in material. It could be an absorbent toxin. It would be a dreadful security risk.”
His voice has sunk into an equally-teasing purr, matching hers.