Page 10 of Magdalene Nox

Instead of an answer, she got an uppercut to her jaw, and for all intents and purposes, ended up on the ropes. She would take this woman up to her room.

“‘I like it that I’m not what ails you… And I like that my ache is not for you…’”

“Marina Tsvetaeva, ‘I Like It.’” Magdalene forced her voice to sound as nonchalant as she could. “Why?”

“It seemed perfect for a beautiful woman sitting alone in the middle of a crowded bar in Manhattan with seemingly no purpose other than to while away the time. Be it alone… Or with someone.” The woman ran her fingers over the rim of her wine glass, her eyes distant. And whilst the loud noise surrounding them didn’t quite allow Magdalene to hear the quiet melody of the glass singing under the long fingers, she had the urge to re-cross her legs.

Then the faraway look dissipated, and the woman smiled again, a little sheepishly, which made her even more attractive. “What can I say? I just hoped you wouldn’t think I’m crazy. After all, how many people on this island know about early 20th-century tragic Russian poets?”

“Not many, I grant you that.” Magdalene kept her voice questing, hoping her companion would reveal more.

“Well, I don’t know what that makes me then. Nerdy?” A deft tongue peaked from behind a row of teeth with another shy smile, and Magdalene had a thought of those teeth leaving a mark on her neck, one she’d have to cover for days.

The stranger, thankfully unaware of Magdalene’s rumination, lowered her eyes, still smiling widely.

“‘I like it that I can be ridiculous, and talk too much…’” The self-deprecation was something Magdalene found immensely attractive, that mild jab at herself. Yet she couldn’t allow anyone to have the upper hand.

“Ah, but the next line in that poem is,‘and not flush in a suffocating wave when our arms touch,’and I believe just a few minutes ago you seemed to do exactly that when our hands brushed.”

Crimson suffused the woman's cheeks again. Magdalene had watched it creep up the undone collar of the button-down shirt, and wanted to chase it, touch it, taste it.

“I find it… cute. Adorable. That, despite quoting poetry and sending over the best whiskey in the house, I can still make you blush.”

They shared a look, the fires dancing in the gray depths opposite her stirring something unnamed in Magdalene.

As her thoughts tangled with lust and the hint of possibility, it hit her. A déjà vu of sorts, although she was certain she had never seen this stranger prior to this in her life. The return of a feeling she’d experienced before, yet couldn’t place. It spelled a warning Magdalene knew she should heed. And she was always so disciplined, so careful to follow the signs and steer clear.

Magdalene curled her fingers into her palm, trying to keep herself from reaching out, when the stranger surprised her yet again. The dichotomy of boldness and shyness evident, she lifted a trembling hand and slowly brought it to Magdalene’s sternum. Their eyes met, and the gray ones widened almost imperceptibly–whether in surprise at her own boldness or in a silent bid for permission.

When Magdalene closed hers in acquiescence, she felt soft fingertips slowly caress her collarbone. Just one touch, a second, no more, and when she looked up, the world was changed, its focus narrowed on a single point, as the woman—just as leisurely—brought those fingertips to her mouth, and Magdalene’s breath caught. The stranger was tasting her.

Something that was weaving itself together under Magdalene’s skin snapped taut, and what else was she to do? A second, two, and she took those still wet fingers into her hand and pulled the woman to her feet.

“I assume you have a room?”

Before she dragged her in the direction of the elevators, Magdalene downed her whiskey in one greedy gulp, a drop of whiskey lingering on her lip, and she licked it away with anticipation as the woman signed for their drinks. She let go of the hand, the skin on skin overwhelming her and making her afraid to hold on for too long. It was all she could do to not jump this woman right then and there.

The ping counting the floors matched her heartbeat, growing louder the closer the elevator got. When it deafened her, the doors opened. The instant they stepped inside, whatever thin veneer of control still remained, cracked.

She was not quite sure how her entire gambit got thrown out the window, but in the blink of an eye, she was backed up against the closing doors and devoured.

Magdalene had no better word for it. The gentle hands that had played with the wine glass and held hers tentatively earlier were now firm and sure, cupping her face, delving into her hair, the long lithe body, all muscle and sinew, pressed to hers, holding her in place. And that mouth, the austere unsmiling lines of it, once it descended, left her nothing. Those lips consumed it all in one fell swoop. Her breath, her moan, her sanity.

She rarely kissed her one-night stands. Not that she had that many, and not that she didn’t enjoy kissing per se. She did. But it was… intimate. So she often withheld it, withheld herself, since none of those women elicited that sensation. And they seemed quite content to go along and to accept the crumbs she gave them. After all, they had her for those few hours, and whether they cared to which extent they got to have all of her or not, Magdalene, to be blunt, didn’t give a damn.

This woman, though? She rendered all of Magdalene’s previous experiences moot. She simply took. And Magdalene, usually the aggressor in any such game, gave in and instead just gave. The sensation of surrender swept through her like a summer storm, powerful, frightening, then cleansed, and she relaxed, pliant now, answering the fire with her own, biting that lower lip, letting the insistent tongue in and pushing back into the kiss.

Her hands dove for the woman’s waist, tearing at the shirt, seeking skin, finding it, the smooth hard planes of a disciplined body, the soft silk and muscle rippling under her touch. She was greeted with a sigh, the fingers in her hair tightening a fraction, pulling her face away, so their eyes met as Magdalene’s fingers crept up, leaving scratches as she went.

And yes, everything was different this time, whether it was the danger sign flashing in her mind, or that unnamed feeling she couldn’t quite describe. Unlike any of the others, she wanted to mark this one, to leave red welts and bite marks and traces of purple all over this skin that was heating up under her touch.

The eyes grew hooded, almost closing as she reached the bottom of the bra and unceremoniously tugged it up, but then she was being kissed again, her hands caught and immobilized at her sides as her mouth was devoured once more.

In the distance, the ping of the elevator passing floors sounded hazy and disjointed, and a thigh insinuated itself between her legs, hiking her skirt all the way up and brushing against her center without actually giving her anything, anything at all of what she craved. Then the world stopped.

As suddenly as she’d been flung against the smooth metal doors, she was released, keenly aware of how cold her front was suddenly becoming. The elevator was motionless and dark, bar the red emergency light.

The contrast was so intense, Magdalene thought she must have hit her head. Once her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she finally looked up at the stranger in front of her. The disparity between light and dark had nothing on the starkness of this woman’s transformation.

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