The man skidded on another patch of black ice beneath the still-falling snow, caught himself by leaning on the arm he had wrapped around her waist, and laughed again. "I like the sounds of that. D'you have someplace in mind, then? I'm out of options unless you want to make the trek to my place, and baaaaby, it's cold outside." He half-sang the last, a warm croon cast off-tune by the alcohol.
"Yes," she cooed into his ear, propping him up and leading him at an angle across the street and into one of the darker side-alleys cutting across the block and into the residential heart of the neighborhood, such as it was: apartment buildings, and a few flats above machine shops and markets. A couple narrow brownstones stood nestled among them. "I have a friend who has a place up this way. They're not there. They won't mind if we borrow it."
"You are a lifesaver, love. Stunningly beautiful, too. Like a fallen angel, walking out of the snow," he'd apparently hit the eloquent phase of his drunken-stoned evening. "All alabaster and ebony with lips blood-red. Snow White. I'll call you Snow White and we'll get you away from the Wicked Queen." He wasn't paying attention to where he was going, too busy nuzzling his way in under the fall of hair at her neck, and tripped over the curb on the far side of the street. He just laughed again at that and let her lead him to the friend's place.
She aimed them for the steep front steps of one of the brownstones. It was rarely-used and vacant now. She'd checked it earlier, and none of the snow dusting the stone climb was disturbed since her visit, the place dark. It was unlocked and waiting. She'd seen to that, too.
He stumbled his way up the steep snow-slicked steps with her arm supporting him all the way and his voice a nonsensical crooning string of endearments, vocal appreciation for her looks, and suggestions for how they could warm up once they were inside. It was dark in the entry-hall, dark and cold, and he freed himself from another nuzzling exploration of her neck to squint into the shadows. "Hope your friend pays the bills, love. It's bloody dark in here."
"Mmm. Do we need lights, though?" her voice slurred with her own peculiar excitement. She pressed him up against the hallway wall, and trailed her nose along his jaw, reaching over to bat at the switch that lit the hallway, casting a warm, amber light over them courtesy of an antique glass shade. A stairwell ranged upstairs, on their left. The space opened beyond them on this floor to a living room that opened into a kitchen.
His hands were eager from her waist up the slick leather of her corset, hot from the false-warmth of the alcohol still coursing through his bloodstream. "I like looking at you and the light helps with that," His fingers skimmed over the top of the leather, found the laces, and started fumbling with them. "Wall, couch, or bed?"
"Shower," she whispered, sliding the chilly backs of her fingers down the sides of his neck. She rolled her lips in to moisten them and leaned in to feather a suggestion or two of what she could do for him under the hot spray of that shower upstairs. Her fingers curled fretfully into the fabric of his sleeves. Please. Hurry.
His pupils dilated under the whispered brush of her suggestions, and he groaned before he leaned in and pressed his mouth against hers in a messy, sloppy kiss. It didn't last long. He was already swinging around her to hurry his way up the stairs. His coat hit the floor at the base of the steps, and one shoulder ricocheted against the wall as he worked on unbuttoning his shirt with fingers that felt too thick and clumsy for the task.
The racing heartbeat lured her on, and she climbed the stairs after him, one hand on the railing and the other trailing along the wall for balance, every step a sinuous ascent, hunter and prey. This was the prey that walked straight into the hunter's arms, though, the fly that came into the spider's parlor of his own free will. He left his shirt at the head of the stairs, his shoes and socks a fallen trail across carpet to the smooth cool tile of the bathroom. He had a good back, strong, more muscle than had been immediately apparent under the coat and shirt, and the short tail of his blond hair brushed at the back of his neck as he leaned over to turn on the shower.
Those heartbeats sang a symphony, a siren's call luring her after him. There was another switch at the top of the stairs and when the light came on in the windowless bathroom, she slapped it off behind her, casting the generic, soulless bedroom into darkness as well. If anyone truly lived there, there was no sign of it in the bland decor. The room was clean but sterile, devoid of anything charming or personal. She removed her boots at the chamber door, unzipped her jeans on the way to the bathroom.
He was barefoot, bare-backed, but his pants still rode his hips when he was satisfied with the temperature of the water. He turned when he heard her glide into the bathroom and his handsome drunken smile rode up again. "Sight for sore eyes, love. C'mere," the last he said while unzipping his pants, "let me get a taste of you."
She caught at the painted perfection of her lip again, worrying at it with her teeth as she eased closer to him. He'd untied the lacings of the corset already, and the top edge gapped, hinting at the riches of her flesh beneath the dark leather. A thin, pale sliver of her belly peeked at him below the hem. Her toenails were recently done in bright red lacquer. "Just a taste," she whispered, moving closer.
"But oh so sweet," he said hoarsely, when she moved into range. His hands started at that pale strip of flesh across her belly, caught her hips and pulled her the rest of the way in. He ground his hips against hers, pressing the hot pulse at his groin against her through the barrier of their clothing. His hands continued upward, tugged the corset the rest of the way open, and he filled his hands with her breasts while he panted against the side of her neck. "Warm you up, Snow White." Steam was trickling around the edges of the shower curtain, fogging up the mirror.
"Are you my Prince Charming?" She mused aloud, her whisper subtle as the steam beginning to fill the bathroom and lick at their skin. "I'm so cold...." Her chilly fingers proved it by sliding up along his back toward the twin jut of his shoulder blades. "So cold...." Her cool lips danced against the curve of his ear, stirring blonde hair.
"Huntsman, love, chasing you into the woods," he was still slurring his words. He ground his hips against hers again and finished tugging the corset off her skin. It fell to the floor behind her with a hiss and thump of leather on tile. Then his hands were hot over her cool skin again, leaving fiery trails across her ribs, back, breasts. His palms rubbed against her nipples before he went downward again, for her jeans to start tugging and pulling them down over her hips.
"I don't know that story. What happened to the Huntsman?" It was all she could do to pace herself and not burst into flames with the simple graze of his hands. She wriggled her hips, shifting from foot to foot to try and help him peel the wet denim from her legs. That shower called them, hissing sibilantly,
Her jeans finally gave up the ghost and fell the rest of the way to the ground; he followed them down, his mouth trailing where his hands had abandoned, licking damp heat over her breasts while his palms skimmed down the backs of her legs to her knees. Then he was on his feet again, shucking his own pants with his breath a hoarse rasp and his heart pounding. "Fell out of the story after he let Snow White go. Never liked that version though. Always figured he had more going on," it was babbling, as he pulled her into the shower.
She followed him in under the spray, letting him babble and fondle her as he would while she backed him up against the tile, the hot spray of water raining down over them. "Maybe she hunted him, then," she suggested. "Maybe she caught up with him, off in the trees and did something terrible."
"Whole lot of time they never talk about before she holes up with the dwarves," he said, and, "Sneaky girl." The last he emphasized with the play of his fingers on her. The tile was still cool against his back, the hot water beating down on them like a steaming river.
"I'm about to make you feel so good..." she crooned into the crook of his neck. His pulse was hypnotic, a Trance beat that belonged at a Rave somewhere across the river. She kissed the throb just beneath his jaw, feeling the tingling power of glamor threading through every nerve in her body, an electrical charge buzzing along her fingertips, crackling in her wet hair, waiting to be released. She reveled in its power and then let go.
The magic spilled down over him like the hot spray of the water. He stiffened with it, gasping as a jolt of incandescent pleasure seeped in and blossomed through his body, vibrating down along the arch of his back and flare of his hips, igniting in his loins. He threw his head back against the wall, baring the arch of his stubbled jaw and the clean line of his throat.
She helped him ride it down, pushed more and more of her will into him until the conflagration of delight and submission carried him off. She drank it all. The demand of her mouth was unrelenting, demanding everything until strength, volition, blood, breath ? everything ? drowned in it the sensations she traded him in exchange for his life. She glutted herself, sinking with him to sit on the floor of the shower and hold him until they were both done and the water washed their sins clean. It gave green eyes that would never laugh again a semblance of tears to match hers.
?That is what happened to him, the Woodsman,? she whispered tenderly as she stroked the dead man?s hair and rocked him to sleep. ?That is the end of his story.?
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When she was dressed, she made one call.
?Miho, I need your help.?
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(Written with the player of the late Ethan Rooke)
