Opportunities

Epilogue: Not Quite Retired

It hadn’t been too long after all: he was able to scale the wall and reach the ledge outside Millona’s window without any great difficulty.

In fact, now that he stopped to think about it, it had been rather too easy, even with all those guards he’d managed to surreptitiously hire. All that time he’d been gone, any fool with a little ambition could have – well. Never mind that. He was back now. He took a moment to adjust the gray scarf into the half-mask he’d worn far back in his misspent youth, before the ingenious but unfortunate acquisition of the cowl. Never mind that, too: it was long gone, handed down to his successor. Good riddance to it.

But here he was anyway, in his old mask, out on the ledge. He’d promised. Hopefully it would be worth the trouble. He stepped into the window and sat there in the windowsill, obscured by his distance from the lights in the far corners. She was in the next room, fussing with something or other on the desk. He watched her from the shadows as she left that fidget and came toward the bedroom to start some new one. So lovely: even this short distance was painful –

Patience, now. You waited for ten years. Wait ten more minutes.

“Good evening, Countess.”

She gasped, genuinely startled, and spun to face him. Then her face brightened, remembering. She brought her delicate hands up to her mouth. “Oh! Who are you?”

“You’ve no idea? Really?”

“Oh. You’re…you’re the Gray Fox.” Her hands were still at her mouth, and she was giggling.

Well, the point of the thing had been to break the awkwardness between them, and giggling was a start. Actually it was a delightful sound, and it was an effort for him not to respond in kind. “Now, Countess,” he admonished her. “You should not be laughing.”

She could barely help herself. She struggled to regain her composure. “No…no….”

He unsheathed his sword and raised it casually toward her. “No,” he echoed quietly.

The giggling stopped. “Oh!” Her cheeks flushed a little, and her sweet eyes danced as she watched him. “You won’t get away with this. The guards will come.”

He snorted. “I think they won’t. They’re not really very good. You should probably fire most of them.”

She spoke more softly now, her eyes shifting gently up and down between meeting his gaze and watching the tip of the sword. “What do you want?” They let silence hang between them for a moment. “Money, I suppose.”

He smiled. “No. This isn’t a robbery. Although,” he added, as casually as he could, “since you mention it, you might as well take off that necklace and leave it on the dresser for me. The earrings too.” He watched her unclasp the string of jewels around her neck, leaving her white throat bare.

“And take down your hair,” he said. She raised her eyebrows at him. “Tsk. The barrettes, the hairpins. I know you have expensive ones.”

“Ah,” she breathed, and reached up to loosen her braids. Down they came in the waves he remembered, brown streaked with gold. (Perhaps one or two of the gold strands were gray now, but what difference did that make?) She shook them out to full glory, in a gesture quite unnecessary to the story but beautifully considerate.

He looked her over, falsely cool, regarding the blue satin and white lace that still divided them. “That’s a lovely dress. I’ll take that too.”

She made a dramatic gasp and threw her arms across her chest in modesty. “You will not! You will not dishonor your Countess!”

He stood up from the windowsill and raised the tip of the sword higher, toward the base of her throat, stepping forward to join her in the light. “My Lady,” he whispered, “you will really be happier if you follow my instructions.”

The corners of her pouty lips quirked upward for just a second, and then she forced them back down. Her hands slowly traced up her center line to the ties of the gown, trembling just slightly as she started to untie them.

His heart should not be in his throat. He was supposed to be the criminal.

She peeled the fabric away and stood in pale glory for him to compare to years of forlorn memory: hips a little more slender than he’d recalled above soft white thighs, but breasts even more wondrously full, rose-nippled.

She was so preposterously beautiful, and he had taken as much punishment as he could bear. Losing the will to even pretend to threaten her, he lowered the sword. “By the Nine,” he sighed, “Millona.” He crossed the space between them in two long strides and grabbed her head with his left hand to draw her mouth to his.

She whimpered, folded gently into his kiss, her arms still bent between them. The sword clattered to the ground as he brought his other hand up behind her, caressing her round ass and pulling her closer. He ran both hands up and down her sides, drinking in the wonderful smoothness of her skin, relearning every curve of her shape. Her fingers moved delicately beneath his collar to trace his chest, making every nerve dance. Then her fingers curled, and she raked him ever so gently with her nails. He threw the shirt off like the hateful impediment it was and clutched her tight.

But she faltered, pulled her face back from his, gasped for air. “No,” she whispered. “No, you mustn’t.”

Ah yes, this was the problem he had worried about. Was this still part of the game or not? A token protest or a real change of heart? He’d feared that she might reconsider – actually, at first, he’d feared that she only suggested the game at all to tease him. His breath was uneven from the collision of desire and anxiety. “Mustn’t I?”

Her head was against his chest where he could not read her face. Her voice was barely audible. “No. I am the Countess.”

That was no help: it could be taken either way. He swallowed his fear, decided to press just a little further, to see if the resistance grew or melted away. “Ssh,” he breathed into her ear, stroking the side of her face with the tips of his fingers. “I won’t tell anyone you let me touch you. I have no one to tell.” Because all of that, too, was true either way.

She trembled but did not back away from his touch. He pressed his lips lightly to the side of her neck as his hand descended, found the curls of her pubic hair – found her lips already parted and quite wet. She was still playing the game, and she was enjoying it very much.

He concealed his relieved grin with a nip at the base of her throat. You minx. And downstairs you have been so adamant in your disapproval. It gave him the courage to voice the last of his fears, still half in the context of the play.

“You pretend to be so proper,” he whispered. “You pretend to hate me and everything that I stand for. But you don’t really hate me at all, do you, Countess?”

She was shaking. She lifted her eyes only partway, as far as his mouth, her lids heavy. “No,” she said at last, in a whimper. “I don’t. I can’t. I never hated you, Corv – ”

He silenced her tongue with his. There it was, the end of pretense between them. There was every joy he had lost given back to him. All but the one, and that was only waiting for him to claim it. As quickly as he could he kicked away boots and trousers and then swept her up in his arms, carried her to the bed (ignoring the twinge in his back that pleaded with him not to do this very often), threw her down. She let out a joyous laugh as he descended on her; as he teased one of her pink nipples with his tongue she embraced him to hold him there.

“Mr. Fox?” she said.

He stopped to look up at her, grinned at her silliness and her mischievous smile. “Yes, Countess?”

“You should probably hold me down. In case I struggle to get away.”

He laughed helplessly and took hold of her wrists. “Like that?”

“Mmm, yes.” She pushed up playfully against him. “Just like that. And kiss me.”

“You’re awfully demanding for a captive,” he teased her, but kissed her anyway as he parted her legs with one knee, as she writhed eagerly beneath him. He entered her slowly, deliberately, and she growled in protest, biting at his lips. He didn’t care. He was lost in sensation, and a few bites only added interest. Inside she was silk and starlight and – and no, this speed wasn’t going to be enough for him, either. He thrust harder, at a pace she liked better. She wriggled, making her breasts shake wonderfully, and struggled against his restraint in a way that was hardly convincing, given that she had wrapped her legs around him.

This wasn’t enough either. There was no such thing as enough. He released her wrists so that he could take hold of her hips and drive himself deeper: she shook and moaned and threw her arms up around his neck. She pulled him in tight, soft breasts and belly pressed against him, every ounce of flesh made his. He came with a rush of pent-up emotion that threatened to bring tears to his eyes, and this he concealed with more gentle kisses to the side of her neck.

She sighed for him and traced her fingers up and down his back for a moment; and then suddenly, she brought them up to his face, tugged, and brandished the gray mask above his head, giggling.

He’d quite forgotten about the mask. “Oh my,” he said, with quiet menace. “Countess. You’ve seen my face. I’m afraid that complicates things. I won’t be able to leave you.”

“Then stay,” she beamed. “I shall make you the Count of Anvil.”

She was really too delightful. “Are you sure you want to make someone like me the Count of Anvil?”

“Yes.” She gave him another kiss, still laughing. All the tension and doubt there had been between them was gone, and it was almost as though he had never lost her.

“Well, then.” He gazed into her shining eyes. “Then I’ll stay, Millona.” He kissed her long and slow before he looked up again to where she was still dangling the mask above them. “So can I get rid of the thing now?”

“Oh, certainly not! Next time, I’m going to wear it.”