Page 54 of Chateau Reverie

The lantern lights.

Leander stands and approaches the balcony. The lion follows at his heels. He reaches the grass beneath Claire, and then the lion stretches upwards, straining to hook its claws on the balcony’s edge. Leander takes hold of its marble mane, and he begins to climb.

He vaults over the railing, and then he is in front of her.

In the moonlight, all colour has been leached from his skin and hair. He is like an illustration in a fairy tale, dark lines on a pale page; he feels as delicate too, as if Claire might tear him like paper if she pulls him closer. He is not wearing his jacket, and she can see the lean lines of his shoulders and arms through the thin material of his shirt, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. She wants to touch him, but she remains motionless.

‘Claire,’ Leander says, in a low murmur. She can hardly hear him over the whisper of the breeze. ‘Tell me to leave.’

‘No.’

‘You should turn away from me now, take that lantern inside, and go to sleep.’

‘No,’ she says once more. ‘I do not want to sleep. I do not want to dream. In this moment, I do not want anything except you.’

Leander steps forward. Claire drops the lantern with a clatter. The light goes out. The sudden darkness blinds her; she cannot see him, only a shadow, and then suddenly there are hands gripping her thighs and lifting her up, and her legs are wrapping around his waist, and they are stumbling into the bedroom.

His fingers press into her flesh, brutal and glorious in the sharp bite of his nails, and his mouth is on hers. On his lips there is a sweetness and a tang of blood—has she bitten him? Perhaps so—and as they fall onto the mattress, his hands find her hair and pull, so that her scalp prickles and her head tips back as he draws away. He looks at her like that, on her knees on the bed with her throat exposed, and there is a wildness to his expression that seems inhuman; he is carved from the same marble as the lions below, skin smooth as stone, eyes pale and bright.

‘I can’t be gentle, Claire. Not this time. I want you too much to be gentle.’

‘I do not want you to be.’

‘Have you done this before?’ he asks her.

‘Yes,’ she says.

It feels like a lie, because with Genevieve, it had been Claire holding her down and pulling her hair; Claire had stood over her and asked her what she needed; and Claire had wanted that, because Genevieve had wanted that. But now Leander is watching her with such indecent hunger, and she can feel already the ache of desire between her legs. A flush of shame spreads from her cheeks to her breasts, embarrassment at how desperate she is.

She looks away from him. He takes her chin between his fingers and makes her look back.

‘Are you frightened?’ he asks her.

‘No,’ she says truthfully. ‘Why would I be?’

‘If I told you all the reasons why,’ he murmurs, ‘then you would be pushing me away.’

‘Don’t tell me, then,’ she replies. ‘Touch me instead.’

She never needed to ask with Genevieve, never needed to plead. Doing so now makes her feel so raw, so bare—there is something intoxicating about the vulnerability of it. Leander pushes her down onto the bed, looming over her; then his hands, his bare hands, are pushing up her chemise and pressing against her inner thighs. She whimpers and widens her legs, begging him to touch higher; he does. His fingers are clever and light enough in pressure that it feels cruel. He is withholding her pleasure from her—not entirely, but enough that Claire wants to beg him for more. She writhes, gasps her approval, but then his fingers are gone and she is half weeping with frustration, raising herself up from the bed and tugging at the fabric of his shirt. ‘Leander, please—’

‘Hush,’ he says, stroking her hair with his other hand. ‘Lie down, Claire. You’ll be patient for me, won’t you? I want to make this last. Let me take care of you.’

‘But. . .’

He pushes her back down against the mattress. Claire gives up her protest, looking up at him with wide eyes. She waits for him to speak again, to touch her. But Leander doesn’t do anything. He just hovers over her, staring.

Claire feels exposed; her hair is fanned out around her head, loose and uncurled, the fabric of her chemise rucked up to her waist, and one sleeve has fallen to reveal a breast.

‘What is it?’ she asks him.

‘Nothing,’ he says. Then, ‘You’re beautiful.’

‘Oh.’

He settles himself between her thighs, and Claire reaches eagerly for the laces of his trousers. He seizes her wrists with one hand and holds them over her head.

‘I told you to be patient,’ he says. Then, without forewarning, he returns his free hand to between her legs and presses his palm against her. Claire tries to squirm, but he is still holding her down.