Whiteout
We once kneeled before kings and queens and alters; we kneel to ask someone to marry. We kneel to get down to a child’s level; we kneel to beg. Kneeling is a sign of reverence, submissiveness, deference – and sometimes mourning and vulnerability. To kneel is to humble oneself quietly before another, to honor them.
- Unknown
God, this massage. Aelin was a genius, a bloody, fucking genius. Elide had never quite understood the appeal of letting a stranger put their hands on her skin, but now, well … she had been wrong. Very wrong. Totally wrong. Call her a convert.
What a bachelorette party this had been. Elide liked her sister’s style – a day of alcohol and sunshine and no men whatsoever. Ah, the peace. Sighing softly, Elide soaked in the afternoon breeze and let every weight dragging her down go. Just for a minute. She pretended like the weight had never been there at all.
Turning her head to the side, Elide looked at the similarly relaxed face of Manon Blackbeak. The last time she had seen Manon this unwound, the other woman had been high as a kite off MDA (don’t ask – long Friday, longer Friday night, a Viking beer festival, and some really strange life choices).
“How the hell…” Elide’s sentence temporarily drifted off into a sigh as the masseuse worked a particularly tough knot by her spine. “Remind me again how the hell you convinced Matron to let you come to this? We’re actually enjoying ourselves.”
“Convince her?” Manon snorted, not bothering to open her eyes. “Reminder that she ordered me to. I just bitched back about it to keep up appearances.”
“Poor baby Manon,” Elide teased.
“Oh, go fuck yourself.”
“Not in public, babe.”
Manon laughed, made a very lewd gesture, and that was the end of that conversation. It wasn’t until after the group moved to the steam room that Elide payed the price for getting quite so goddamned relaxed. She couldn’t even point the finger at booze – no, this time, Elide had nobody to blame but herself.
Shit will now, quite metaphorically, hit the fan.
She’d let her guard down on this island, that was the crux of the issue. Forgotten why it was a bad idea to open her goddamned mouth. Laying on one of the wooden benches in the steam room, Elide let her attention drift in and out of the conversation, warm and boneless and heading for fucking catastrophe.
Groaning, Lysandra said, “That massage was incredible. I swear it felt better than oral.”
“Mhmm,” Elide sighed. “I miss oral. It’s been years.” And she felt, actually felt, every single head in the room whip around to look at her.
Oh shit.
Had she said that out loud? Judging from the deafening silence, yes. Yes she had. Fuck. No power on this earth, and damned few in the next, would get Elide to open her eyes right now.
“Elide?” Nehemia broke the catastrophic quiet, likely because everyone else still sat frozen in shock. Elide didn’t exactly look around to check. “When you say it’s been years since … do you mean oral oral? Like oral sex, or …?”
Dearly beloved, we gather here today to mourn the death of my dignity. Deep breath, “Yeah.” There, that should do it, no further questions.
Ha. Lies.
Nehemia, taking another hit for the team, asked what everyone was thinking: “Why?”
Refusing to sit up, refusing to move a bloody inch, Elide eventually replied, “Lorcan doesn’t like doing it, and I don’t mind.” Her tone of voice tried to clearly communicate: do. not. push. Unfortunately for Elide, no one fucking cared.
“Who doesn’t like giving oral?” That was Manon’s voice, dear god.
Aelin piped up, saying, “You know what Blackbeak, for once in our lives, I agree with you.”
“Thank you. Don’t let it happen again.”
“Fuck off.”
Lysandra, the traitor, interrupted this highly effective distraction to bring all the attention back onto Elide. “I think we’re missing the point here. No pun intended.” Cue collective grumbling. “Elide. Do you want him to do it?”
Sitting up and groaning, Elide dragged her hands through her hair. As she stared down at her knees – no way in hell would she risk meeting somebody’s eyes right now – Elide finally replied, “Look. Yeah, I like oral. No, Lorcan doesn’t like doing it. It isn’t a big deal, okay? Somebody else want to reveal a highly personal detail about their sex life that we can Dr. Freud to pieces?”
Aelin, a very, very good sister, changed the topic entirely, “So! Dinner tonight – I hope you guys like curry? Actually, I don’t care. Because I love curry, so that’s what we’re eating.”
Elide took that opportunity to drop out of the conversation entirely, fingers mindlessly massaging her aching ankle, the old injury flaring up again. She didn’t even look up when Manon came to sit beside her. “Manon,” she sighed, already tired of the conversation they hadn’t even had.
But Manon headed her off. “Here El,” she said softly, “let me.” And her hands reached for Elide’s damaged ankle. “It’ll feel better if someone else does it.” Elide didn’t bother to argue, because one, Manon really was good at massaging out the pain. Two, anything would be preferable to revisiting the previous topic of discussion.
Letting her eyes slip shut, Elide sank into the sensation of hurt separating out from her body. “You okay?” Manon finally asked, her hands stilling.
“Yeah,” Elide breathed. “I’m fine.”
Silence.
“Manon. I said I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Manon stood up, her knuckles brushing against Elide’s cheek like a prayer. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
+
That night, Manon couldn’t sleep. Midnight passed, one a.m. slipped her by. She paced through her hotel room, out onto the balcony, elbows braced on the railing. A soft breeze, cool and sweet, drifted through her unbound hair.
Yeah, I like oral. No, he doesn’t.
God damn it. Salvaterre had Elide, he had her, and he didn’t even know how to touch her. Manon’s fingers twisted around the railing, tighter and tighter. If she had –
Manon got on her knees for no man and damn few women, but for Elide … my god for Elide she would kneel. Kiss a path up one thigh, then the other, watching through her eyelashes as Elide braced against the wall, arched under every touch, gasping, begging, please. And when pleasure danced right there on the thin line with agony, Manon would drag her tongue through Elide’s core and lick her wide open. Her hands tangling in Manon’s hair as she painted rough patterns over Elide’s – damn it.
Manon shoved herself away from the balcony, paced back into the room, paced right back out again.
She couldn’t sleep.
She couldn’t – fuck it. She’d take a shower and burn this restlessness right out of her. Turning the water too hot, Manon pretended like her hands weren’t shaking. Don’t you dare think about Elide, burn this out, but don’t you dare think about her. She’s not yours.
Stepping under the thundering water, Manon let it pound away every thought. As she leaned back against the cool tile wall, one hand drifted between her legs, carefully parting her folds. Water might not have been the most helpful in this situation, but she was so slick it didn’t matter. She didn’t care. Pressing against her fingers, Manon lost herself in a rough pattern over her clit – her fingers slipping over Elide’s clit, thrusting into the other woman until she gasped Manon’s name like a prayer.
No. No. Manon pressed her head back against the shower tiles, hand stilled, core aching.
Remember Alessandra, god fucking her into the mattress one night in Prague until she came again and again and again, until she laid Manon back and opened her with two fingers, three, four, and Manon forgot how to say any word in any language.
Remember the brush of Elide’s eyelashes over her cheeks, the smile that curved at the corner of her mouth, the silky brush of her thick, wavy hair. The scent of her soap, citrus and sunlight, whenever Manon drifted too close into her orbit.
Damn it.
Manon’s fingers moved faster over her clit, slipped inside her core and she bowed over with a gasp. This was how she would touch Elide, sweet and slow and picking up speed until the other woman’s body made the filthiest fucking sounds. Elide’s arms draped around her shoulders, mouth close enough for Manon to kiss deep and dirty, shaking, hips snapping again and again as she came, crying out –
Manon
That’s how.
Manon arched under her own touch, coming like a whiteout, everything lost but Elide’s name buried in the back of her tongue.
When her eyes flickered back open, she pretended like her heart wasn’t pounding and pounding, pounding and pounding. God damn it. Sinking to her knees, Manon bowed her head, body to earth. The ache remained. Even with the fine tremors of an orgasm still racing through her, the ached remained.