The King’s Courthouse, the Wharf
Corwynn shifted closer. Niccolette did not back away; her hand flattened, gently, and her palm rested fully against him, settled comfortably on his bare skin in the warm room. She drew her fingers back, stroking softly, and spread them out again, flat, continuing her explorations without the slightest hesitation.
“I should be rather disappointed if you did,” Niccolette said, teeth dragging carefully over one small lip. The color she had painted on was already somewhat worn, left behind at the Winged Fish and on the glass of gin she’d set down; she did not seem worried about it. “I should be glad to devote my full attention to your… care.”
Niccolette’s other hand settled gently, carefully, on Corwynn’s uninjured side, her thumb stroking softly over his skin. His hands traced down over her shoulders, and he eased her back towards the chaise lounge. Niccolette giggled, letting Corwynn wash her hands free of blood, leaving red stains behind on the cloths. He kissed her knuckles, and Niccolette shifted, catching his face with her hand, curiously playing her palm and fingers over his lips and cheek. She traced her hand down, slowly, lingering.
At the brush of Corwynn’s hands against her back, Niccolette shifted forward, coming against him – only to make his task easier, of course. Her hands settled back against his torso once more, although she didn’t find his bare skin with her lips – not yet.
The line of buttons went from Niccolette’s neck all the way down her spine, small, covered with slippery red silk, each one taking its time to yield beneath Corwynn’s probing fingers. The dress was deceptively well-cut; it was tailored rather precisely to Niccolette’s figure, and it clung, lingeringly, long after the first few buttons were undone. In time, with the warmth of Corwynn’s torso against her, Niccolette settled her lips against his neck, and set about doing her best to distract him from his careful, delicate work.
She felt it, as much as he did, when the last of the dress gave way. Niccolette shifted, and eased her hands away from Corwynn, and tugged lightly at the sleeves, letting the last of the dress come free and tumble to the ground. She left it there, heedless of the delicate silk, and stepped carefully out of it. She wore a pale, delicate corset, only a few shades darker than her skin, a match to the rest of her undergarments. There was no hint of shame or shyness in Niccolette; she wore the underthings with as much easy confidence as she had the red dress.
They lingered, there, a little while; there was plenty to occupy them both. The laces of the corset were stubborn, too, when their time came, but not more stubborn than Corwynn. Niccolette had turned away to let him work, hands holding her loosened hair up off her back. She turned back unhesitatingly to Corwynn when he was done, hands lowering, hair tumbling down over her back and shoulders. She settled herself against him, no more concerned about the brush of dried blood against skin than she had been about the red silk, and claimed a kiss, properly this time, her hands finding new places to explore already.
Perhaps especially for a Brother, Niccolette was mostly unmarked; Corwynn had seen her in the midst of more than one fight, never hesitating, never flinching, but she had no more than a few scars on the pale canvass of her body, and despite the years in Mugroba, fewer freckles. The exception, of course, was the handprint on her left side, much larger than her own slender hands, and so distinct that one could nearly read the lifelines left behind, with the unmistakable raised edges of a burn scar. The little finger rested just above her hip; the thumb, at the top, was settled above her lower ribs.
Niccolette made no attempt to cover or conceal the scar; she would not flinch, or try to guide Corwynn’s hands away. She wore it – and all the rest of herself – as comfortably as she had the corset, and the red silk before it, as easy here as she had been before her mirror in the privacy of her room. There was no hesitation in her, no reluctance, not about the baring of her skin nor anything else. She did not need to white-knuckle herself through the brush of him against her skin, or hurry through it to have it done; she was more than content to linger, to enjoy, to leave all thoughts and worries and angers aside, even if just for this while.