PRICK AND BLEED
The power of a wish. In the world above, wishes were will-o’-the-wisps: beautiful, but insubstantial and always just out of reach. Here in the Underground, will-o’-the-wisps were very much real. Tricksy little creatures: sly, deceitful, but tangible. Touchable. My wishes had weight.
Sounds faded, lights dimmed. It was a moment before I realized we were no longer in the great cavern. Swept up in the powerful current of our kiss, I had not noticed when the Goblin King and I were no longer surrounded by jeering, leering hobgoblins. I had not noticed that we were alone. I only noticed that his lips were no longer on mine, and I suffered their loss like a child deprived of its sweets: no—more, please, more.
I whimpered when the Goblin King withdrew, clutching and clinging to him. He stopped my amorous advances with a gentle hand on my mouth. I nuzzled into his fingers, craving whatever bit of him I could touch.
“Elisabeth, Elisabeth,” he shushed. “Elisabeth, wait.”
Wait? I had waited my entire life for this moment. Not for consummation, but for validation; I desired so hard I wanted to be found desirable in return. The Goblin King saw me—all of me—and now I wanted him to know me. I pushed away his restraining hand and leaped forward; I was a cat, a wolf, a huntress. I was out for blood and flesh.
“Stop.” His voice was firmer now. I ignored him, pulling at his cloak, his shirt, his breeches. “Stop, Elisabeth. Please.”
It was his please, not his protestations, that broke through my determination.
“Stop?” My voice was thick. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, his words slow and sluggish, “because you know not what you do.”
My mind was slow to parse his words. I know not what I do. Then my cheeks burned. “Oh.”
Clarity burned away the haze of lust that fogged my senses; my embarrassment stung worse than any slap to the face. I turned my back to him.
“If I know not what I do,” I said, my voice quavering. “It is only because I am unschooled and untutored. Untouched.” I swallowed. “I could be taught, mein Herr. I am a quick study.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
I sensed his presence behind me, near enough to touch, but not nearly near enough. I cringed at how desperate I sounded. I did not want to be desperate. But I was. Oh, God, please touch me, I thought. Please.
He stepped closer to me. I could not see him, but I could imagine him. I could imagine those mismatched wolf’s eyes staring down at me, at my neck, down the low line of my wedding gown to where my shoulder blades were exposed. I could imagine his fingers, long and slender, reaching out to trace them, stopping just short of actual contact. I could imagine this all so clearly, but what I could not imagine was the expression on his face.
“Elisabeth.” His tone was steady. “There’s so much you don’t know. Would you still want this if you knew?”
A laugh burst from me. I could no more disguise my wanting than I could my eagerness. Neither could he. I had felt the shape of him through his trousers, pressed against me.
“Yes,” I breathed. “Yes, I would. Yes, I do. I want this.”
The Goblin King gripped my shoulders tight and pulled me against him. One arm snaked across my neck, the other wrapped around my waist. I felt every last bit of him through the thin cloth of my wedding gown. He trembled as he held me. I was breathing hard, my breathing made harder by his arm pressing against my throat.
I arched my back and closed my eyes. I covered his hand about my waist with my own, and brought my other hand up to touch his face. Beneath my fingers, the feathery pieces of his hair, the curve of a cheekbone, the strength of his jaw. His head bent, bringing his mouth to graze against where my neck met my shoulder. A soft kiss, a light bite. A nip. I moaned. The echoes of that moan ran up and down his body.
Slow, too slow. I wanted him to devour me, break me with the urgency of his lust. If he could not give that to me, then I would take it from him. I took the hand at my waist and moved it lower, closer to where I wanted him. His fingers clenched at the skin of my hipbone, rucking up the sheer material of my dress, exposing my bare leg to the air inch by inch. I struggled against him—not to run away, but to hurry him along. With agonizing slowness, his fingers explored my body below my waist, dipping, stroking, caressing. Not enough, I thought. Not enough.
My hand threaded through his hair tightened with impatience. He let out a slight hiss of pain. Moans of pain, moans of pleasure—to my ears, they were all sung in the same key. His fingers buried in my secret crevices tightened in response and I gasped—or tried to—my inarticulate cry lost in his stranglehold about my neck.
My other hand—the one guiding his course across my thighs, my hips, between my legs—reached behind me to touch him. I slid my hand down the length of his hardness, the proof of his desire unmistakable through his leather breeches. His hips bucked and a long shudder ran through him. I gripped him harder, staking my claim on him. Mine, I thought. Mine.
But he was shying away from my touch, pulling out of my grasp and away from me. I growled in frustration, but suddenly he wasn’t there. I opened my eyes and turned around.
The world tilted, and for a moment, I could not find my equilibrium. The Goblin King stood only a few yards from me, but the distance was infinite. His feathery hair was a bird’s nest of ratted tangles, his lips swollen, his cheeks flushed. His wolf’s eyes glowed.
“Enough, Elisabeth.” He was short of breath. “Enough.”