Two: Fall

A/N: My thanks to both fhestia and snapekat for being so encouraging and helping to weed out the errors. This one's not as footsie as the last chapter, but don't worry, new-born foot fetishists, it'll return!

Soft. So soft. Not what he had expected at all.

Skin so smooth it felt almost liquid, like warm cream. Something inside him coiled and entwined as he noticed the carefully trimmed nails at the ends of her toes, pale pink crowned with a line of perfect white, a rose bitten by frost.

His fingertips continued to track curled patterns over the foot still clasped between his thighs, still trapped up against him, held as securely by his teasing caress as if locked in the grip of a dragon's jaws.

The tiny tremors that shuddered along her legs hadn't faded, and her pulse raced in its startled rhythm, pushing her warmth to her very edges and into him.

He supposed it had something to do with what had just happened, with what he had just done to her. With her. The sound of his own breathing mingled with hers as he nuzzled her other foot, still cradled in his right hand, the tip of his tongue flicking out occasionally to wash away the deepening scarlet trail that wound its way down her instep towards her heel...her blood seeking escape. He'd only been careless enough to allow two or three drops to fall to the carpet where they bloomed like tiny flowers, brightening the flattened fibres with a pale aura.

She tasted of steel. Of steel and strength and the colour of the clear sky at dawn. But if he held his mouth still, lapping her flesh with a swirl of his tongue, he could taste the brightness of what lay underneath: so sweet, like a wash of honey. He nearly bit her again in his hunger, pining to consume everything she hid inside. Reluctantly releasing her from the suckling grip of his mouth, he blew lightly on the tiny puncture marks his teeth had left behind, making her toes curl slightly and her breath hitch.

She still hadn't opened her eyes, her hands still desperately gripping the arms of the chair. He'd never seen her like this, so anxious and uncertain, frozen.

She could have kicked him in the face, he realised. Worse, she could have driven her heel straight into his groin and left him groaning on the floor in agony. She was capable of such things, never one to suffer anything she didn't like; quick to anger, slow to appease.

But she hadn't kicked him. She'd sat there and let him worship her feet with his body, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, letting him tear away the façade and show her how he felt. How he wanted. How he lusted.

Lowering his arm so he could gaze at her foot in his hand, his eyes travelled over the faint scars set evenly between the bones, the flesh even paler than her normal colouring, lines of terrible memory and painful experience. He frowned as he noticed a fine, hairline slash of white different from the others. His left hand withdrew from the foot between his thighs and traced a finger along the line gently.

She stirred, and her eyes opened a fraction, watching him in his careful study of this faded memory. He lifted his head to look at her in silent query.

She pressed her lips together before answering. "My sister."

He blinked.

"She stabbed me in the foot when I was eight."

His brows drew down. "Why?"

She shrugged. "Because I held her down and spat in her ear."

There was a pause, a blend of surprise and disbelief, before he laughed, making her stiffen in indignation and pull both feet away from him, but he couldn't help himself. So like her.

She glared at him over the tops of her knees, her legs drawn in tight to her body, closing herself off from him. He regretted his laughter now and feared this would be where she would push him away in frustration and hurt. Like a cat, huddled into itself, shamed. This wasn't what he wanted to have happen.

She had been right. He had been to blame for her twisted ankle. It hadn't been deliberate, but nevertheless, she'd tripped over his foot as he had shifted towards her, the two of them moving simultaneously, each surprising the other. One moment she had been still at his side, and then she had stumbled over his foot, dropping to the floor in a graceless heap, swearing at him like a fishwife. Now, he couldn't even remember why he had moved at that moment. It had seemed as if his body had decided on some course of action without telling his brain.

Naturally, she blamed him. Naturally, it had nothing to do with the rather curious lack of reflex on her part. This woman who could move faster than a mongoose had fallen flat on her face right at his feet like a clumsy teenager. He'd been too surprised to even help her up; not that she would have accepted such assistance.

She'd been off-balance since the previous evening. Ever since he'd caught her staring at him so intently that she hadn't noticed he'd seen her looking at him, glass raised to her slightly open mouth, eyes glittering from behind the strands of her hair, thinking that perhaps it shielded her from his detection.

He knew she'd been staring at him. It didn't take the glass paused before her mouth for at least half a minute to give her away. It had been like a gentle pressure in his mind, like a butterfly's wing turning through the spring air. He'd felt it before, but had never been able to catch her looking directly at him when it happened. Her eyes were always sliding away when he glanced, affixing on some other point in the surrounds, her face neutral. But lately, he'd been almost able to catch her watching him with those shrewd, challenging windows into her thoughts.

He'd expected her eyes to flit away when he flicked a glance at her, but they didn't. His eyebrows had risen slightly in astonishment until he realised why she hadn't known he was looking back at her...she was staring at his nose so intensely she hadn't seen his eyes move.

So he'd waited for her to notice, remaining as still as possible. Seconds passed, measured out by his heartbeat that gave a curious kick at the end of each pulse, pushing his blood in a tingling flow, a flow that began to pool steadily and insistently in his groin in reaction to her attentions.

He'd been forced to clear his throat in the end. Her eyes raised to meet his and then darted away in shock, her hand bringing her glass that final inch to her mouth so clumsily that the liquid inside sloshed down her front. Their table companions had laughed, one making a joke about it that they all took as the reason for her rapidly reddening cheeks. But he knew it was because he'd finally caught her, and it turned him on so emphatically, so completely that he was certain it was written all over his face for everyone to see.

Except her. She kept her eyes fastened on the table in front of her, cheeks still burning until she muttered some incoherent excuse and left the room, stumbling slightly at the doorway in her haste.

He'd had to wait until the others had left before he could even think about moving from where he was, keeping the evidence of his arousal hidden through sheer willpower against its siren call, the way it wrapped itself lovingly around his spine and how it made him pant.

He had only just been able to make it to the room in which he slept before falling to his knees, gasping, one hand pressed hard to his erection in both acknowledgement and rejection, bending forward until his hair brushed the floor, supporting himself with his other hand as he rocked back and forth, whispering a denial under his breath while admitting his need with long-practised touch and motion until he fractured in a series of draining surges as her name hissed through his clenched teeth.

It was there, on the floor, that he realised he couldn't go on this way any longer. It was there, with his forehead resting on the carpet, that he knew he had to do something, to take a risk, even if it ended in rejection. It was there, swallowed in the brutal ache of need, that he knew he had to do it soon.

Nothing had shown on her face the following morning. He'd looked for any sign, any crack that would let him know if he had a chance, but she was too wily, too careful to slip a second time. So, he had begun to doubt himself. Perhaps she had just been staring at his nose because it was so large. She wouldn't have been the first and certainly not the last. Perhaps she was just another in a long line of those who mocked him for the incongruity of his features; just another to treat him like an ugly oddity to be reviled.

And so he'd said nothing. And berated himself for his arrogant assumption.

She'd noticed his silence and prodded at him like a child poking a stick into a spider's hiding place, trying to draw him out of his black sullenness. He'd ignored it even as the core of him whined like a stupid dog in its attempt to make him beg for her. It had driven him to near-madness to do so, but he'd stood firm, condemning himself to the sting of it as his rightful punishment.

But when he'd heard the anxiety in her voice at his continued silence, something collapsed, and his blood flowed again. He threw caution to the floor and accepted that whatever she did, whatever she said he would endure, even if it hurt, even if it shamed him, even if it made him shrivel and die inside.

And so, if he was going to go down willingly, he had nothing to lose that he hadn't already surrendered. His hand had paused as it had reached for the laces of the boot that rested on his knee, a secret and forbidden thought surfacing from the depths of his most lewd fantasies, lip curling in both scorn at himself and lust for the final realisation of something he'd played over and over in his mind in the darkness until he convulsed at its apex, again and again.

And she'd let him do it. She'd let him grind against her like an animal in rut, laving her foot with the kind of abandon he'd only dared to attempt in his mind, until he'd heard her moan in pleasure and he'd lost control and dragged her with him into that most primal release, the name he had never spoken to her face falling repeatedly from his mouth in hopeless gratitude and searing delight.

She'd let him do it. And like a greedy and wilful child, he wanted her to let him do it again.

Slowly, he slipped off the rickety chair and sank to his knees before her. Her eyes glinted with reflected firelight, her arms tightening around her shins, drawing back ever so slightly. His fingers wrapped around her forearms, pulling them firmly apart and away from her legs. She fought him, just enough to let him know that it was only with her permission he could do so, but her arms still moved to where he placed them on the chair beside her. Her body still shook; still so uncertain, making him want her in a furious swell that went from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head.

He edged her legs apart gently until there was enough room for him to shift forward and between them, his thighs stopped by the chair, preventing him from moulding his body against hers. He leant forward, his nose sliding gently along the side of hers, hair falling to brush against her face, one hand sneaking behind her head to help guide her back, his other hand placed on the cushion seat to help him balance. Dragging his bottom lip over the bridge of her nose, he proceeded to caress the other side, his breath light against her cheek, trailing down to her mouth where he teased her with his closeness, a hair's breadth from tasting her, from drinking her. He felt her shift toward him and quickly wrapped his fingers in her hair to turn her head slightly, exposing the side of her neck, opening it to him. The thick flat of his tongue pressed against her, tracking over her carotid as it thudded underneath the wetness, making her whimper.

He whispered to her, the fingers in her hair stroking her, calming her as he told her how much he wanted her, his mouth against her ear, using his voice to coax her back to that delicious peak. His soft, velvet tirade paused only long enough for him to bite her earlobe, claiming it as his as she shuddered, her breathing becoming faster and deeper.

His hand dropped from the back of her head, sliding down her spine to hook her behind and pull her into him, against him. That same hand sneaking up her front to unbutton her coat, pushing it aside so he could feel the thud of her heart more clearly, so he could manoeuvre her until they aligned; hunger, need and appetite pressed so tight, his hips taking that same slow rhythm as before to let her know that he wasn't finished with her, wasn't even close to satiation.

He whispered to her, his body moving gently, purposefully, his hardness sliding against the liquid he had spilled earlier in his feverish wantonness, the friction both delicious and painful. She breathed words of her own, words that sounded like both entreaty and demand, spurring him on.

Her legs slipped around him, binding him to her, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his overcoat, still damp from the morning's rain, the scent of him strengthened by its moisture, his hair brushing over her mouth as they swayed in their embrace, her eyes squeezed shut as she let him fill her with his voice and drive her crazy with his lazy thrusts.

He whispered to her, desperate to tell her everything as slowly as he could, as completely as he could, winding a vocal halter around her...to control her, to bewitch her, to master her once more. He gasped as her legs crushed him into her, groaning as she matched him in that sweeping motion he had set the pace of, inhaling that quivering sweetness that rose from her flesh.

She fought against his coat, pulling at it to try and force it from his body, to make him shed at least one layer, to relinquish one stratum of armour. The strength of her in her passion was both frightening and exhilarating, threatening to rip the fabric in twain. He shrugged his shoulders and twisted out of the coat, his arms going back around her, two bands of iron to hold her as still as she would allow whilst he moved more insistently in his struggle to ride the wildness in her.

He whispered to her, words that promised, words that begged, words that plunged into her, dirty and sweet, bonding her to him and him to her, words slippery with lust and dark with possession, talking her through her ascent, guiding her in that climb to the summit, lifting her up to where the air would make her head spin and pound.

Her hands on his back, digging her fingers viciously into him. Her legs clamped around his hips to let him struggle futilely to find a way inside her, failing to achieve more than to feel the heat of her against him. Had she allowed it, he would have shredded the fabric between them in his frenzy to be lost within her, but she was too strong for him.

So he whispered to her in adoration, urging her on, pleading with her, promising her anything she wanted if only she would break again in his hands, promising her he would catch her and never let her go. Her body tightened in fear at the fall.

So he whispered her name.

And she fell.

Gently. So gently. Not what he had expected at all.