Something small and strangled, something that might have been a whimper, escaped her throat. A shiver ran through her, her fingers digging for a moment into his back. She was off the edge of the map now; the two boyfriends she'd had before had never gotten this far. Oddly, though, that thought did not distress her in the slightest. Of course, it was difficult to be even remotely distressed with Stephen kissing her neck, with his hands doing whatever complicated thing they were doing against her back. For a moment she almost forgot to breathe, but when she remembered she managed a faint gasp of a laugh.
"I think," she said, the words half a whisper, "I can live with with that." Her fingers were trailing down his back, tracing along his spine, exploring each scar she found. Though she'd inhabited his body, she'd never realized how many scars he had, and she memorized them by feel.
"You could," Stephen said, eyes narrowing in a fashion perhaps more predatory than anything else, "but Susan, my dear, I was speaking quite literally. I can only hope that whoever sewed that thing was capable of very sturdy seams." His hands moved down her back and lower still.
Her eyes widened slightly, but she matched his look with another slightly wicked, almost-invisible smile. "Well then," she said, shifting to kiss his jaw, "perhaps it would be better if I left it off. I don't have so many nice clothes; certainly not enough that I can afford to lose any of them to your, ah, mercies." Susan was quite suddenly and intensely aware of the entire situation--Stephen against her, warm and solid and almost frighteningly alive; the cool cotton of the sheets and the heavier weight of the comforter over them. She cupped his chin and sat up enough to kiss him, a slow and lazy kiss. "You'll just have to give me a good reason to stay here."
Was that a challenge? Why, yes, he believed it was; and Stephen Maturin never backed down from a challenge. What she'd started as a slow lazy kiss he turned into something just as slow but far from lazy. Her hair fell around them, fragrant with that lavender-smoke scent that he would associate with this morning always, and he held it away from her face, stroking it back in what was not really tender enough to be a caress. He bit at her lip, not hard, not to hurt, but with a fierceness only underscored by its silence.
It almost seemed to Susan that her heart actually stopped for a moment. There was a certain intent in Stephen's actions now, in his expression and the way he moved, that had not been there before. Now that she'd passed what she could only think of as her initiation test, however, she was not at all hesitant about responding. Bracing herself with one hand on the pillow beside his head, she countered his kiss with a certain uninhibited hunger.
She broke it only a few moments later, her mouth instead finding his neck as her hands found his shoulders and did their best to hold him still. With slow and almost exquisite care she kissed his neck, her tongue darting out to lick the hollow just beneath his jaw; his skin, she found, was hot and salty-sweet, and almost wholly addictive.
The intent had been there before. What had been missing was the willingness to allow it free rein. He had checked himself early on: he had wanted to make it clear he was in full control of his actions, and that what he did with her was a choice, not an accident. Hence the soft kisses, hence the searching looks. Now he knew for certain she would not break, and now he knew she would be sure he meant what he had done, he did not need to hold back.
Her response only fueled his. He suffered her to press his shoulders down, let her taste his skin, but his hands were not still.
Susan bit and licked her way to his collarbone even as she shuddered at his touch, her grip on his shoulders tightening. Gods, he tasted so good...she suddenly found herself almost completely short of breath, and paused to rest her head against him, gasping, before returning her attention to her thorough exploration of his chest.
She ran across a scar; just a small one, a thin pale line along his breastbone. This required serious attention from both fingers and tongue, one hand gliding down to trace the old wound.
It was something all his lovers did, which he did not fully understand, this tracing of scars. It was, he supposed, a kind of mapping, and he simply had more landmarks to register than most, as it were. With what remained of his ability to think, he recalled something she had said during the last bout of bodyswitching, and then the behavior was less mysterious.
Susan continued this exploration until she came to the bullet-wound in his side. She sat up, tracing the knotted scar tissue with light fingers, fascinated both by the scar and by what had left it. Here was a man who could extract a bullet from himself, with no anesthesia or any other palliative...she had known of this injury for quite some time, but it had never until now occurred to her precisely what he must have had to do. Then again, as she was learning, he had very, very skilled hands indeed.
For just a moment she sat still, her hand over the scar, before lying against him to kiss it. This one required special attention, and she gave it quite willingly.
That was a wound of which Stephen was not proud. Canning should not have had to die; he had not intended to kill him, only to wound. Also, the removal of the bullet had been slower going than Stephen would have liked; no, it would have been strange to take any joy in remembering any aspect of that affair, save perhaps that Diana had not been in mourning for the man, and when he had learned that, it had given him the resolve he needed.
He looked at Susan curiously, as she laid her hand over the place where Canning's bullet had once been. He had told her the story, a very little of it; how much did she remember? It was dangerous to ask how much she remembered of anything. Before he could weigh whether he dared inquire, she was kissing his skin again, and he lost that line of thought entirely.
Susan no longer knew how he'd acquired the injury, nor the stories behind the others--and there were so many others; some light, some deep--but she traced and studied each and every one. Like Stephen, she had been as considerate as possible while in his body, and had not made any attempt to explore all his myriad scars. There was something about having him beneath her--it gave her a sense of control, however illusory; much like the gun had, really. It was its own kind of power, and she found she liked it. Very much.
Her kisses trailed back up his chest, as she grabbed his arm to bring his hand up to her lips. So many scars, on his hands, and she didn't know how he'd come to have so many. She kissed each fingertip, and when she reached his palm she licked again, an almost catlike movement, and then she moved on to his wrist, feeling his pulse beneath her lips. Susan didn't think she could ever tire of exploring him, not even if she'd memorized every last centimeter of skin.
She looked at Stephen, her half-reverie broken. With look that was something close to a diabolical she released his hand, laying her own flat and firm the pillow on either side of his head.
"I think," she said softly, leaning down until her nose almost touched his, holding his pale eyes with her own as her hair fell around them both like a curtain, "you're going to stay right where you are." Susan smiled, drawing a deep uneven breath. "Unless, of course, you have any objections." She kissed him before he could say a word, a kiss that was as deep as it was brief, pulling away almost at once.
He returned that kiss, brief as it was, panting when she pulled back. "As long as you stay right where you are," he said, "I have no objection at all"; and he pulled her back down to resume the kiss he considered to have been cruelly interrupted.
All the strength in her arms gave out with that kiss, leaving her lying full and close against him. She kissed him back, fierce and achingly hungry, one leg hooked around his as a bone-deep shiver ran through her. Her hair, still mercifully inactive, was swiftly tangling around both of them, and when Susan finally, finally drew back, it was only so she could rest her head beside his, gasping like a drowning woman.
"I think...I can oblige that." Her lips were close enough to his ear that her ragged breath stirred warm against his skin, mirroring the heat she felt from him. Kissing temporarily not being an option, she arched into him in one slow lithe motion--which only made her own breath catch again, in a small strangled hitch that would not have been audible if her mouth was not so close to his ear. He smelled of something deep and rich and spicy, the scent he had worn on Valentine's Day in what seemed like another lifetime, and one which had haunted these last days like a relentless ghost.
Stephen was fairly certain they would not be attending the wedding, at this point. It was doubtful they would leave Susan's room at all. This seemed to him perfectly reasonable. They had lost time to make up for. The way she arched into him, the way her breath caught in her throat -- this was its own kind of magic. It could not be dispelled nor did he wish it to be. He took advantage of her brief quiescence; now it was Stephen who explored Susan's skin, not interested in its scars half so much as the tapestry of the whole, all the fine smoothness of her.
"I think," she said, the words half a whisper, "I can live with with that." Her fingers were trailing down his back, tracing along his spine, exploring each scar she found. Though she'd inhabited his body, she'd never realized how many scars he had, and she memorized them by feel.
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She broke it only a few moments later, her mouth instead finding his neck as her hands found his shoulders and did their best to hold him still. With slow and almost exquisite care she kissed his neck, her tongue darting out to lick the hollow just beneath his jaw; his skin, she found, was hot and salty-sweet, and almost wholly addictive.
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Her response only fueled his. He suffered her to press his shoulders down, let her taste his skin, but his hands were not still.
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She ran across a scar; just a small one, a thin pale line along his breastbone. This required serious attention from both fingers and tongue, one hand gliding down to trace the old wound.
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For just a moment she sat still, her hand over the scar, before lying against him to kiss it. This one required special attention, and she gave it quite willingly.
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He looked at Susan curiously, as she laid her hand over the place where Canning's bullet had once been. He had told her the story, a very little of it; how much did she remember? It was dangerous to ask how much she remembered of anything. Before he could weigh whether he dared inquire, she was kissing his skin again, and he lost that line of thought entirely.
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Her kisses trailed back up his chest, as she grabbed his arm to bring his hand up to her lips. So many scars, on his hands, and she didn't know how he'd come to have so many. She kissed each fingertip, and when she reached his palm she licked again, an almost catlike movement, and then she moved on to his wrist, feeling his pulse beneath her lips. Susan didn't think she could ever tire of exploring him, not even if she'd memorized every last centimeter of skin.
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"Perhaps you would object were I to dress again as well," he observed.
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"I think," she said softly, leaning down until her nose almost touched his, holding his pale eyes with her own as her hair fell around them both like a curtain, "you're going to stay right where you are." Susan smiled, drawing a deep uneven breath. "Unless, of course, you have any objections." She kissed him before he could say a word, a kiss that was as deep as it was brief, pulling away almost at once.
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"I think...I can oblige that." Her lips were close enough to his ear that her ragged breath stirred warm against his skin, mirroring the heat she felt from him. Kissing temporarily not being an option, she arched into him in one slow lithe motion--which only made her own breath catch again, in a small strangled hitch that would not have been audible if her mouth was not so close to his ear. He smelled of something deep and rich and spicy, the scent he had worn on Valentine's Day in what seemed like another lifetime, and one which had haunted these last days like a relentless ghost.
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