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There is blood on his collar. The red is lurid against the starched fabric, a contrast to the perfect composure of his expression as he sheathes his blades. The Venatori assailant appeared suddenly, but Viago showed no surprise—a benefit of his paranoia, Maeve supposes, because if you always expect an attack, you are always prepared for one. She barely had time to reach into the Fade for her magic before the Fifth Talon sprang into action, his blades flashing in the evening torchlight as he cut down their attacker.
He looks at the corpse with a dispassionate expression. "Fool," he declares.
She is staring at him.
He catches her gaze and frowns slightly, looking down at himself. “It’s not my blood. He didn’t touch me.” A smirk, altogether too pleased with himself. “He never had a chance.”
But that is not why she is staring.
She knew well enough that her lover is a dangerous man. That he is Fifth Talon of the Antivan Crows is proof enough of that. But she has only had rare occasion to see him in action, except for their earlier lessons. Watching him leap to her defense, quick and graceful, is a different thing entirely. Now he stands, looking at her, blood on his clothes and a loose curl falling into his eyes. He impatiently pushes it aside, and she feels the heat rise unbidden in her face.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
Maeve recovers herself quickly. “Yes,” she says, “I’m fine. He just startled me.”
Viago eyes her, curiosity bright in those storm blue eyes. "Hm. You should be more aware of your surroundings.”
At this moment, she is altogether too aware of her surroundings, standing in a darkened alley with a corpse cooling at her feet, Viago standing beside her, blood-soaked and somehow impossibly handsome despite—because of—it. “Why should I,” she teases, “when I have you?”
“Because I am not always with you,” he reminds her, “and because I would be most upset if you got yourself killed in my absence.” He is still watching her, assessing in that way he does. “You are still staring at me,” he observes.
“I’ve never seen you…” she gestures at the scene.
His expression softens, turns concerned. “Ah. I’m sorry. I should have realized—”
“Viago. I’m not upset.”
“You’re not?”
Maeve looks him over, letting her eyes trail meaningfully down his body, her admiration obvious in her expression. “That was one of the hottest things I have ever seen.”
Viago’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline, incredulous and maybe slightly amused. “What?”
“You heard me perfectly well,” she tells him, because she knows that he did.
To his credit, he hesitates only a moment, sparing a quick glance for the corpse before he reaches for her hand and draws her deeper into the alley, around a corner into a quiet alcove. His blue eyes are almost black in the dim light, focused on her face, and looking more closely she sees there is a spatter of blood on his cheek. She reaches for it, smearing it with her thumb, and then he is crowding her against the stone wall, his breath hot against her cheek.
“You just saw me kill someone,” he reminds her, his voice low and urgent, as thought she might have forgotten. Perhaps he thinks reminding her might dissuade her interest. “I’m covered in his blood.”
But Maeve is already reaching for the belt of his armour, deft fingers tugging at the heavy silverite buckle. He presses close, and she can feel him stiffening against her, the evidence of his arousal nudging insistently at her hip. As surprised as he may be by her attraction, his body clearly reciprocates.
“And I told you—it’s hot.” She manages to get her hand under the tight leather, fingers wrapping around the heated flesh of his shaft. Viago makes a strangled sound, and then he dips his head to crush his lips against hers, no hesitation now as his tongue sweeps into her mouth. His hands come to grip her waist, hips rocking as he thrusts into her grip.
“You like that?” he asks, pulling away just enough to speak, his breath hot against her mouth, nose pressed into the warm skin of her cheek. It is his turn to reach between them, tugging at the laces of her trousers until he can slide a gloved hand into her smallclothes, between her folds. She can feel the delicate seam of leather just barely ghost against her clit, and she rocks her hips, seeking more. “I can feel how slippery you are, even through my gloves. How wet. Cazzo—”
“Viago, please—”
“You want me to fuck you right here, don’t you?” His index finger slides along her entrance, teasing, and she makes a plaintive sound as she squeezes his cock, trying to guide him closer. The pressure makes Viago moan, and he presses urgent kisses along the line of her jaw and down the column of her throat, nipping at the place where her pulse pounds beneath her skin. “Want me inside you?”
“Yes,” she insists, and she feels him smile against her skin.
“Greedy little thing,” he says, and then he relents, two gloved fingers shoving roughly into her cunt, his thumb finding her clit and stroking firmly. “We’ll have to be quick—and quiet. Can you do that for me, amorina?” Maeve nods vigorously, biting her lip to muffle the sounds she wants so desperately to make as he presses deep.
Viago fucks her with his fingers while he rocks into her fist. The positioning is awkward, her hand constrained by the leather of his armour, but the skin of his shaft is velvet-soft, and the tip leaks steadily, easing the friction.
“You know there’s blood on my hands,” he murmurs, and it is not a metaphor. “I just cut that man down for threatening you, and now those same fingers are inside you, fucking you, making you come—” he presses down on her clit, making her gasp as pleasure sparks up her spine, “and you love it.”
Maeve is half-gone from need. “I love it,” she agrees, panting, and she withdraws her hand from his breeches to shove at the waistband, trying to free him fully. When she does, he presses against her belly, smearing dampness across her hip where her own trousers are lowered.
“I’m going to make you come like this.” His voice is quiet and rough as he speaks against her ear, steady despite his own arousal. “I’m going to make you come like this then I’m going to turn you around and fuck you from behind against this wall.”
Viago has always talked during sex, and Maeve has always loved him for it, and now is no different. He maintains a steady stream of filthy, whispered promises while his fingers work inside her, filling her, his thumb pressing into her clit until she is gasping and pleading incoherently. The stonework of the wall is cold at her back, the only thing steadying her as Viago’s relentlessly drives her towards the edge. The air is thick with the scent of sex and the bitter tang of copper, Viago’s clothes damp as he presses against her.
“Come for me,” he urges. “Come for me now.”
It should not be so easy for him to simply demand it, and yet it is—he does something devastating with his thumb, curling to find that spot inside her that makes her vision blur, and then she is groaning into his shoulder, trying to muffle her cry as the orgasm sweeps through her.
Viago does not give her time to recover. He withdraws his fingers from her, the leather of his gloves wet and shining, and then he is roughly spinning her. He presses her face first against the wall, shoving her trousers and smallclothes down and her thighs apart as far as she can manage still constrained by fabric. “Maker,” he whispers against her ear, and she can feel the hot, hard length of him press against her from behind. “You should see yourself.”
He doesn’t enter her immediately. Instead, he slips his cock between her thighs, coating himself in the moisture that slicks her skin. His shaft drags along the length of her cunt, the friction maddening but not enough. “Inside me,” she begs, “Viago, please, fuck me—”
“Not. Yet.” The words are gritted out, and Maeve knows this is torture for him as well as her. As much as he said they must be quick, he cannot resist teasing her, the head of his cock catching on her entrance as he thrusts between her thighs.
She braces herself against the wall, palms flat against the rough stone, grinding back against him and trying to urge him properly into the heat of her body. Viago groans, bending over her, mouthing at the back of her neck. “Fuck, Maeve,” he grunts, and then he takes himself in hand and guides his cock into her, one deep thrust that has her taking him to the root. “That’s it, take it all—”
He fucks her hard and deep, gripping her hip with one hand as he drives into her, a stream of filth falling from his lips as he fills her. “You take me so well,” he praises. “Love watching you stretch around my cock, so wet, you’re dripping for me. Look at you.” She can feel him forcing her open with each thrust, the way her body yields to the thickness of him. There is the barest edge of pain as her fingers press into the rough mortar of the wall, far eclipsed by the pleasure of it.
She tries to be quiet, but she cannot help the soft cries she makes, the little sounds of oh, oh, oh each time he presses deep. And then his free hand finds his way back between her thighs, finding the place where they are joined and petting her clit in time with each stroke of his cock. That makes her cry out, and Viago groans as she tightens around him, too far gone to chastise her. “Come again,” he demands. “Come on my cock, amore, let me feel you.”
This orgasm is even stronger than the first, and she turns her face to press against her arm, muffling the sound her shout as sensation overtakes her. Her muscles clench, cunt squeezing in pulses around the intrusion of him inside her. “Cazzo,” Viago pants, his thrusts growing erratic as he approaches the edge. “Cazzo, fuck, Maeve.” He spills inside her with a shout, and she can feel the warmth of his spend as it fills her, her body milking him for every drop.
They both stand for a moment, trembling in the aftermath of their pleasure, Viago softening inside her body. Distantly, Maeve is aware of the sound of voices on the adjacent street—Trevisan civilians going about their business as best they can despite the occupation—but mostly she hears her own heart, still pounding in her ears. Eventually, Viago withdraws with a low hiss of regret, as though it hurts him leave her.
She turns, slowly, drawing her trousers back up. Viago is tucking himself back into his breeches and belting his armour, but he looks at her with a kind of wrecked awe, his face still flushed, eyes dark in the aftermath.
“You,” he says, “are a menace.” And then he’s leaning down to kiss her again, softer than before.
She grins up at him when he draws away. “I’m not the one who murdered someone tonight,” she reminds him.
“No, just the one who was so turned on by it that you compelled me to fuck you in a filthy alley with a corpse cooling not five metres away.” He reaches out to straighten her shirt, the gesture achingly tender in contrast to his teasing. “I’ve made a mess of you.”
She glances down at herself and sees that it’s true. Her clothes not only rumpled, but streaked with blood transferred from his armour and dirt from being pushed against the wall.
“Come on,” Viago says. “We should go before any more Venatori come looking.” He reaches for her, and Maeve slips her hand into his, smiling.