Season of Ashes Ch. 03-05

Dominik Fujiwara was a chink. A distraction. An excuse. And as Milicent stared at him, she found herself relenting to confessions she had stifled before. He was a mountain of brawn, a lethal paragon of faultless physique. How could she possibly resist? But he was more than that. Beneath his perfect veneer lay an intoxicating disposition of stunning complexity. She thought of the way he had burst into the toilet upstairs. He could be ruthless, yes, but he could be protective, too. It was attractive.

It was also useful. She couldn't outclass his physical prowess. Acting any tougher than she already had would, at this point, only provide diminishing returns. But she could prey on the morsels of chivalry evident in his nature. All it would take, Milicent knew, was the tiniest stroke of fragility -- just enough to rouse his solicitude.

"No," she answered. She figured he was referring to the intrusion upstairs, which had rewarded him with an ample look at her figure without offering her a reciprocal delight. "This, for once, isn't a matter of quid pro quo." She understood the assumption; mercenaries always looked at the world as a series of transactional brushstrokes. Maybe this wasn't so different. Milicent would never set herself to a particular enterprise without the promise of profit; but money wasn't the only reward. "Think of it more like..." -- her eyes wandered off, head craning to look at the ceiling; the word was elusive -- "...magnanimity?" The alienness of the concept was evident in her upturned inflection, which turned the remark into a question.

Leaning forward, she deposited her half-empty mug on the low table, then rose to her full height. She interlaced her fingers, removing her silver ring and placing it with a clink right next to the mug.

"Stay."

She marched to the kitchen, found the semi-rusted kettle, and poured the rest of the water in a ceramic bowl. She squeezed the desiccated sponges next to the sink, testing their integrity, before selecting the one that appeared least likely to host a melting pot of multicultural bacteria. A quick two-minute exposure in the ancient microwave was sufficient to suit Milicent's standards for hygiene. She dumped the nuked sponge into the bowl with a gentle splosh and carried it back to the sitting room.

"Trust me." She positioned the bowl on the table near him, then -- without fanfare or introduction -- sat right next to him on the couch, crinkling her nose to foil a sneeze from the dust-spores that puffed out to herald her placement. "I'm saving you from a terrible, freezing fate."

Her fingers dipped into the bowl, breaking the water surface as she examined the temperature: perhaps a dozen degrees above tepid, but tolerable. She crushed the sponge in her hand, squeezing out the bulk of the water, and looked at him with an expectant expression.

God, he was handsome up close. The voltaic bolts that she had sensed between their bodies reached a new magnitude of potency at this proximity. Milicent's breathing quickened. She had a sense of high-voltage energy about her now, a galvanic undercurrent that made her movements -- blinking, turning, tilting -- twitchier than her usual languid pace. She was nervous. Or excited. Or both.

"Clothes. Off." This time, she sweetened the deal. "Please."

Dominik

Silence stretched between them once again, but this time it was not the discomfort of two strangers trying to feel their way around an unwanted companionship. The musty air crackled with tension, enough to make his hair stand on end -- however metaphorical the sparks between them were. She smiled coyly over the rim of her mug, and her lips were no less enticing for being without her ruby lipstick.

She didn't try to hide her gaze, so Dominik made no effort to hide his. This was no brief once-over; he could see her appraising him like a sculpture in a museum, taking in the lines of his frame as he sat before her. It was at once enticing and disconcerting, being sized up and examined. What if he was found wanting? The thought was there no matter how confident he was in himself, but he smoothed it away. It was easier as he watched her expression. The same, enigmatic smile still danced on her lips, the interest obvious in her eyes as she drank him in, her tea forgotten in her observation. He would have bet on her ability to draw him from memory with her eyes closed thereafter, with nigh-photographic accuracy. There were few doubts about her competence after the events of the night.

There was no point in suppressing the hunger in his gaze as she purred back a response, each word slipping delicately from her tongue. His brow rose fractionally, arching in surprise at her expression of generosity. She was as unfamiliar with the concept as he was surprised by the admission, that much was apparent. Nevertheless, she didn't wait for a reply. Milicent instead removed her ring -- as performative an offer as any he'd seen. Fujiwara didn't think a real wedding band was likely, but that didn't change the symbology of the gesture.

A little voice somewhere inside him screamed caution, raw with anger at how he was allowing himself to slip into the fantasy. He pushed it aside. He'd fucking earned a little relaxation.

His eyes followed the sway of her hips as she glided out of the room, the towel clinging to her curves with sinful promise. He sighed heavily as he leaned back against the couch, his spine tingling with her voice in his ear. He couldn't tell whether he was more exhausted or aroused. His pulse fluttered in his throat, and he forced himself to breathe as he listened to the sounds of Milicent in the kitchen. He wasn't a schoolboy, full of hormones and nerves, so why was he letting Milicent get to him? She was a work of art -- but he'd had pretty girls in his bed before. It had to be the post-combat rush.

He looked up as she returned bearing a bowl, and his eyes followed her again as she settled on the couch next to him. His pulse quickened further at the closeness, and he could sense a similar tension in her. Milicent was breathing faster, her actions twitchy and robotic. Still, her gaze was expectant as she looked up at him.

It was difficult to refuse, so he didn't. Dominik sighed, nodding as he shifted in his seat, turning toward her slightly and starting to unbutton his shirt.

"I can't say that I was looking forward to a frigid shower." He offered a chuckle, trying to lighten the tension with a hint of levity. It was a bad idea for them to become entangled, and there might still be time to save himself from making a mistake. The silence of the room stifled his words as soon as they left his lips, and he couldn't help the way his gaze slipped lower to where the towel clung precariously to the curve of her bust.

He fumbled with the button of his shirt, cursing his weakness even as he lifted his gaze back to meet hers. There was no hiding the predatory gleam in his eye. He freed the last button, and tugged the shirt off, revealing his muscular physique to her properly.

Though his military days were far behind him, Dominik took pride in maintaining the same raw physicality that had served him so well in his deployments. People in their line of work came in all shapes and sizes, but his power had served him well over the years -- he wasn't about to let that slip so easily. Even clothed that had been obvious, but now the full truth was revealed to her gaze.

Smears of red had soaked through his shirt, and though none of it was his own, it was clear Dominik was no stranger to injury. Scars slashed over the ridges of muscle here and there, and three puckered bullet wounds added punctuation across his torso. Each one had a story behind it, written in sweat and blood. Still, he never let it stop him. Each time, it only made him more certain he'd make the next more difficult to achieve than the last. For each scar he had, he'd left bodies or worse injuries in his wake.

Fujiwara tossed the stained shirt aside, draping an arm over the back of the sofa as he turned to face her fully. The hint of a smirk showed in his lips, and his eyes burned as he looked at her once again. He was certain now, certain that he wanted the blonde vision before him, and certain that he saw a reciprocal urge in her expression. Gone was the transient anxiety about what trouble this could bring. They both needed it, after what they'd been through -- a connection to something human.

His voice was low in his chest, each word laced with a growl, "Fine, but only because you asked nicely."

Milicent

Time dilation was a hell of a thing. The breakneck pace of their shared tribulations had left them with barely enough room to breathe. They'd known each other for hours, mere hours, but that interval had seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, catapulting them from their initial meeting in the Grisaille to this very moment. But this very moment -- this sedated, interminable moment -- insisted on its own importance. The syrupy seconds stretched; the span of each minute doubled. Maybe it was because Milicent's heart was racing, punctuating each discrete unit of time with an ampler share of beats. Or maybe it was dark sorcery. How else could she explain the draw of Dominik's fingers, which tugged at the periphery of her vision, demanding that she admire the canvas they were unveiling? The way they lingered over the buttons of his shirt, undoing them bit by bit to expose more and more of him...

...And there was so much of him.

The intensity of the eye contact became a bit much for Milicent, so her gaze wandered down to his gradually exposed torso. That was a mistake. She had seen striking men before; she had expected him to be striking in his own way. Yet even so, the sight of his bare chest made her expression falter -- a nascent sign of her loss of composure -- and she felt a damnable, scorching wave of heat blossom across her cheeks. To her credit, Milicent didn't stammer or withdraw like some ingénue who'd bitten off more than she could chew. But she did clear her throat, did drop her gaze and twist the sponge between her fingers to distract herself while he discarded his shirt. He liked it when she was polite, just as she liked the feral undertone in his voice.

"My parents were right," she said, risking another glance up to meet his eyes. "All it takes is a little courtesy to get your--" -- her eyes dropped helplessly, scanning the broad expanse of his muscled chest -- "--way." Her pitch dropped at the end of the sentence, adopting a huskier purr that rumbled in her throat. Her holographic smile -- sometimes there, sometimes not -- curled into a permanent grin; she beamed at him.

"Has anyone told you," she began, leaning forward to place the sponge on the slope of his collarbone, "that you're a masterpiece?" Gently, she pressed down, urging the sponge to bleed warm water over his skin. Rivulets started meandering down his chest, the droplets cloudy with particles of grime. She dipped the sponge back in the bowl, swirling it like a watercolour brush before bringing it back and laying it against his deltoid. She applied pressure, employing circular strokes to paint a varnish of wetness over his skin. Slowly, she established a pattern, lowering and raising the sponge to polish more and more of his body. As she worked, her eyes -- much like a professional's -- avoided meeting his at this intimate distance; instead, her gaze paused on the thick slabs of his pecs, the defined trenches of his abs, the shapely swell of his arms. She massaged him with the psychic weight of her ogling observance just as assuredly as she scrubbed him with the tangible strokes of the sponge.

After a couple of minutes -- or perhaps it had been hours? -- Milicent paused, placing the sponge on the table. She'd managed to apply an elementary layer of shine to the front of his chest, but instead of continuing the process or asking him to turn around, she stalled, eyes wandering over the results of her work. His flesh was a codex of secrets, a message enciphered in muscles, scars, even bullet holes. She wanted to read him. She wanted to understand him. He inflamed her curiosity. He inflamed her.

She didn't ask for permission; she didn't exchange a glance with him to seek his silent approval. Without warning, her empty hand spread over the centre of his belly. Her middle finger dipped into the shallow ditch that split his abdominal muscles into two columns. Her palm could taste the heat beneath his skin; the sweltering furnace of his stomach blazed against her touch. Her upper teeth sank into the plush cushion of her lower lip. She exhaled -- a long, dreamy sigh, a breath of relief following the consummation of a deep-seated desire. She was touching him. She needed more.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and one brow lifted, as though challenging him to stop her. Her hand roamed up, slender fingers sculpting over the chiselled plateau of his body. She was doing it; she was reading him, reading him the way a blind woman would, using her hand to memorise the terrain of his flesh. She couldn't remember a time when her pulse was this loud. She could feel it buzzing through her thumb, vibrating against his chest and harmonising with the thud of his own heart.

"Hmm." A contemplative little moan, light as a feather, dripping with unrealised want.

She leaned forward, angling her chest toward him. Her golden mane slipped forward, dangling along the sides of her face. The deep, dark crevice between her breasts grew more pronounced from the angle of her slant. At this distance, Dominik could no doubt discern the change in her irises: the way her pupils dilated from her excitement, onyx voids threatening to eclipse the surrounding sapphires. She closed the gap; her towel brushed against him; the flowery aroma of her vintage soap perfumed the air. Her cheek slipped alongside his -- close enough for both of them to sense the inevitability of contact, the electrifying promise of touch -- and her mouth came to a halt right next to his ear.

"Tomorrow," she whispered, fanning his skin with her warm breath, "we can pretend this was just a dream." It was a naïve, starry-eyed proposal, so it was only natural for Milicent to punctuate it with something heinous: her tongue slipped past her lips and smeared a wet streak from the hollow beneath his ear to his lobe, instantly rewarding her with her first clear taste of Dominik Fujiwara.

Dominik

Milicent was composed enough not to turn shy as he revealed his torso to her eyes. That didn't prevent her from showing exactly what she felt as he did; Dominik's smirk grew as she dipped her eyes to avoid his gaze, fidgeting with the sponge in her hands. That only revealed more of his body to her eyes, and her appreciation of him showed in the colour of her cheeks, the way her pupils dilated in her sapphire eyes. In her own way, Milicent was laid bare before him in a much more fundamental sense than she had been before, despite the cover of the towel. That would depart soon enough. He was certain of that.

Her voice was thick with lust as she wandered over the ridged muscle of his body, and Fujiwara felt like a sculpture on a pedestal, a work of Michelangelo being savoured by a connoisseur. She had a way of showing her interest in a manner that made him feel the universe was centred around them, as if there was nothing but this shabby sitting room in the middle of the Latin Quarter, like the city outside was meaningless. He wasn't surprised that he wanted more; he was surprised by how much he wanted it.

The first touch of the sponge on his skin was cool. The moment had stretched long enough that the lukewarm water was room temperature, but the slight chill did nothing to dampen the fire he felt in his core. Milicent's touch was gentle, dabbing the sponge and tracing gentle strokes across his skin, taking time to appreciate every ridge of muscle, and every valley between. He saw her eyes lingering on his scars, her hair falling across her face as she leaned forward to watch her work -- and to appreciate him more fully.

"I can't say I've heard that before," He replied, his tone somewhere between amused and aroused, still the same barely-contained growl lurking beneath, "but the way you say it?" Fujiwara paused, giving a soft chuckle, "I can almost believe it."

It was true. The way she looked upon him now was practically reverential, an expression that he associated more with spirituality than carnality. She tended to him with motions more reminiscent of a sculptor creating a religious idol. He'd never felt anything quite like it, but he knew he wanted more. It only stoked the hunger within him, only made his arousal burn brighter with each passing moment and each touch of the sponge. His skin prickled with the cool air as beads of water traced the same valleys Milicent's eyes wandered down, but he was aflame with incandescent heat nonetheless. His exhaustion was forgotten -- how could he be tired when this beautiful creature was inches away, lost in exploring his body?

Silence fell once more, both of them forgetting to speak, forgetting anything but the other as they sat on the drab couch. She was close, but so far removed from him, the sponge a buffer of deniability between her fingers and his flesh. This was it; the precipice before the waterfall. The calm before the storm. Bittersweet for the longing they both felt, tempered with the excitement of a shared, secret desire. It was unbearable but full of promise at the same time.

Milicent set aside the sponge, but made no move to refresh it in the water -- now growing cloudy and pink with the efforts of her labour. Her eyes were fixed on his body, following the beads of water on his skin. They didn't need to speak; she said everything she needed to when she pressed her hand to his stomach, fingers gently smoothing over the hard ridges of his abs. She sighed, but the sound could have come from either of them; as spellbound as she was by him, Fujiwara was just as entranced by Milicent. She worried at her lip with pearlescent teeth, and she finally met his gaze once more, her eyes wide with excitement.

She didn't need to speak to ask the question. He nodded, and her gentle moan sent heat burning through his veins -- and left him straining in his slacks. His heartbeat quickened against Milicent's palm, and he made a low noise in his chest as she leaned toward him, the growl reverberating through both of them as he felt her warmth on his skin. The towel separating them was a nuisance that could so easily have been brushed aside, pulled away before she could deny him, but Fujiwara was intent on savouring this moment for a little longer. There was something special about the peace before the plunge.

Her whisper in his ear sent a shiver down his spine; her tongue teasing at his ear elicited another growl. This one was more guttural, hungrier than the last.

"No." His voice was hoarse with need, almost animalistic as he denied her offer. He let the silence extend, let her twist in the wind like a kite cut free of its mooring. He pulled back, holding her gaze with his, before bringing her back to the moment, "That's not going to be enough for me."

A warning and a question at the same time. Could she be more than a passing fling? Would they last more than an ill-considered night after the terror of near-death? Fujiwara didn't know the answers to those questions, but he also knew he was too far gone to stop now.

His forefinger and thumb captured her chin, his touch like rough leather to her velvet skin. He didn't wait for an answer. Couldn't wait for an answer. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers in a hungry kiss, tasting Milicent for himself.