Envious Of Fire (Kissing With Teeth #2)

16. Taste.

—?—

A moment of silence passes while Kaleb stands by the front row resisting the urge to wring his hands. Markadian studies him from the edge of the stage. Lips puckered. Eyes sharp. It feels as if Markadian’s eyes see more than others’ do, how they penetrate.

Silently. Skillfully. Peeling apart Kaleb without a word.

Finally Kaleb can’t bear the silence. “Y-You like music?” he asks in a small voice, winces at how small he sounds, straightens his posture and tries again: “Do you like music, sir?”

“Just Markadian.”

“Do you … like music … Markadian?”

“I do.”

Kaleb nods, his neck stiff, his throat clenched. “Me too. Do you enjoy any, um … any particular composer? I’ve got some favorites. Franz Schubert. Hope I’m saying that right . Chopin—his nocturnes mostly, but I also love his etudes. I know I should say the classics like Mozart and Bach, but I guess I’ve had different … tastes … lately … and … and I played so much of them as a kid. Tchaikovsky I love, of course, ‘Swan Lake’, a total classic …”

“Come here.”

Kaleb lifts his eyebrows. “Sorry?”

Markadian rises, strolls to the edge of the stage in front of Kaleb, extends his hand. Kaleb stares at the hand for five long, bewildered seconds, then finally takes it. Markadian’s skin is so smooth, it’s velvet to the touch. When he pulls, Kaleb is amazed by the man’s strength, hopping up with ease. The spotlight blinds him, so he keeps his focus on Markadian as the man leads him to the center of the stage. In the spotlight, the rest of the world vanishes into darkness—the seats, the walls, the doors from which Kaleb entered, all gone. Only the two of them exist now.

“This is a … a very nice … a very impressive …” Kaleb has a hard time finding words tonight. Is it the wine? Did he drink too much? “It is an impressive stage, nice and wide and, uh …”

“Yes, it is,” agrees Markadian, who gently lets go of Kaleb’s hand, then stands before him. “You enjoy being on a stage?”

“I, um … I’ve never really …”

“You’re a violinist. A performer. The stage should be your second home.” Markadian slowly begins to circle Kaleb, poring over him like a fascinating book, turning his pages.

Kaleb stays in place, staring ahead, feeling tingles all across his body as Markadian’s eyes run over him, examining him. “I suppose you’re right. I never had many, um … opportunities to perform on a stage.”

“You have one now.”

“Oh.” Kaleb glances at the empty auditorium. He sees only darkness, still blinded by stage light. Markadian says nothing as he continues to circle him, excruciatingly slow. “I don’t have—”

“Here,” says Markadian, handing him a violin and bow.

Kaleb, too flustered to even ask where the violin and bow came from, takes them with unsteady hands. Markadian smiles gently, continues to circle him. Kaleb peers down at the violin. “Do you, um—Is there a favorite, uh—” Really, where did the violin come from? “Do you have a favorite composer?”

“You have familiar eyes.”

Kaleb peers halfway over his shoulder. “I do?”

“I never forget eyes.” He comes around from the other side. “I never forget faces.”

“Who do I remind you of?” Kaleb decides to ask.

“Someone I hate.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t fret,” says Markadian, continuing to circle him. “It’s only the eyes. As far as I can tell, you’re nothing like him. And why would you be? He is gone. He is nothing. He bores me. But you?” He comes around to the front again, stops. “You are not.”

Kaleb stares into Markadian’s eyes, silent. He finds himself thinking of Raya’s warning suddenly, to be wary of the brother and sister and their immortal bond, how he should never forget his place in this House, never grow too comfortable, should see this as a contract he can unknowingly break at any time. So why, in the presence of Markadian, does Kaleb feel no danger at all?

“Would you like to play something for me?”

Kaleb blinks. “Play …?”

“Play.”

Markadian calmly waits. Kaleb lifts the violin to his chin, then the bow to the violin, and after a moment’s thought, begins. He closes his eyes, losing himself to the music as he so often does when he plays. His only priority in the world becomes the melody as it surges to life, as if the violin itself draws breath, the strings as well, and it is less Kaleb making music and more the violin singing from its very soul, filling the auditorium with its sorrow.

When the melody ends, Kaleb opens his eyes. Markadian is before him. “Are you aware,” he asks, “of my fine ability to create illusions? And are you aware that some of the clothes that occupy your wardrobe are also a product of my magnificent power?”

Kaleb is confused by that, then peers down.

And finds himself naked—completely naked.

He lowers the violin at once, covering himself with a start. Markadian clicks his tongue. “No, no,” he says, “there is nothing to be ashamed of. Do you not know your own beauty? Oh, this is adorable.” He fights back a laugh, comes closer. “Lift your violin. Back to your chin. Don’t be shy. Your music pleased me.”

“I—um, y-yes, sir. I mean Markadian.” Kaleb quickly lifts the violin to his chin, absolutely awkward. The bow scrapes the string unintentionally, startling him. He doesn’t know what to play.

Markadian brings a hand to Kaleb’s shoulder, his fingertips grazing, as if brushing off lint. He smiles. “One should understand one’s own beauty. It’s important to use it, too.” He starts circling Kaleb again, only this time, it feels different, calculated somehow. “See how you have me completely enraptured? See how you have me spellbound? Tell me to do something, I may yet indulge you, anything you wish for. A bigger room? Done. A hundred violins? Done. A hundred thousand dollars? Done.”

Kaleb doesn’t believe a word of it. How could he? This is the Lord Markadian, the superior of the gods and goddesses here, the one in control, the one with ultimate power.

With the violin still raised, Kaleb says, “I would never … I would never use my … my looks to …” How does he say it? “I don’t think I’m the, uh, kind of guy who’d—”

“I cannot bring you harm. Do you realize that?” Markadian lets out a breath. “I cannot even bite you, if I wanted.”

Kaleb lowers the violin slightly, eyes wide.

“Oh, how adorable,” sings Markadian, voice growing playful by the second, unraveled, which somehow makes Kaleb even more uneasy. “Surely you know that is why you donate blood. Is it not something you’ve discussed with your fellow mortals?”

“I … I’ve never donated.”

Markadian stops. “You mean to say you’ve … never even been tasted? … Not even once?”

“No.”

“Ah, the gift Ashara has brought me …” He comes around to the front. “And yet it is so cruel … a cruel temptation …” Then he laughs it off. “But this only proves my point. You may see me a certain way, as I am sure so many do, but do you not notice the irony that it is in fact you who holds the power? I can’t touch you, even if—” His eyes drift down Kaleb’s body. He sighs, turns away.

Kaleb presses his lips together, uncertain of what to do. Then: “Perhaps another song?”

Markadian says nothing, then flicks a hand, gesturing to go on, to play, too perturbed to speak.

So Kaleb starts to play. Again. This time, the melody is not so confident. It wavers in places. Sometimes the string feels too tight, then not tight enough. Kaleb evens out his breathing as he works to regain control of his hands, his fingers, his rhythm. He is late to notice that Markadian has turned again, facing him to listen. Or perhaps just to stare at him some more. Kaleb, his hands at work, the music nearly automatic, he only has his eyes to communicate. He watches Markadian evenly, with steady, guarded eyes, watches the king of the gods as he plays the song without interruption. Markadian remains absolutely still, their eyes not once breaking from one another’s. Is Kaleb caught in a trance, or Markadian?

Kaleb nearly forgets he’s naked, forgets he stands exposed on an enormous stage before someone who is undoubtedly the most powerful man here, the most dangerous.

Yet he covets Kaleb like a gift he’s been given. Worships the blood in his veins. Reveres him.

Isn’t this very situation what Raya had been trying to warn him about without saying it directly? The deadly siblings? Their deadlier games?

Maybe this is exactly where Kaleb wants to be. At the center of it. With influence over the pieces. With a power of his own.

To wield advantage over the king of the gods.

Kaleb grits his teeth, then asks: “Do you … want to touch me?”

Markadian remains absolutely still. His eyes, still locked upon Kaleb’s. Did he hear the question?

The moment Kaleb is about to repeat himself, Markadian takes a step toward him. Then another. He is careful with how he approaches, Kaleb notices. The man slowly starts to circle once again, this time much closer. He leans toward Kaleb’s ear.

“ Yes ,” he whispers.

Kaleb keeps playing the violin. He thinks of Raya’s words. Raya’s warnings. Markadian and Ashara. “Go ahead,” Kaleb tells him, his words coming out far more playful and teasing than he intended. He tries to sound more confident and self-assured when he adds: “You can touch me.”

Markadian disappears around Kaleb.

He feels a hand on the back of his bare leg.

Fingertips, smooth and soft, gently dragging up his leg, up the sensitive skin of his right butt cheek, to the small of his back where it almost tickles, up to his shoulder blade. Fingertips are soon replaced by the cooler, even softer touch of lips.

Lord Markadian’s lips.

Kaleb swallows, his breathing changed.

“I would so … so enjoy to …” Markadian’s words are soft tufts of air upon the back of Kaleb’s neck, tickling the tiny hairs there. “No. I shouldn’t … I dare not ask …”

Kaleb turns his head slightly. “Ask what?”

Markadian’s lips touch Kaleb’s shoulder again, and there is another hand now gently gliding up the back of Kaleb’s other leg, coming to rest upon his left butt cheek, where it gives a testing squeeze, as if to appraise its firmness. “It’s impossible,” Markadian whispers, kisses again, sighs. “Never mind.”

“Please,” says Kaleb. “Tell me.”

Markadian stops, grows still. “It is a law we enforce strictly. A law I have never in all my years broken. A law that disallows us from ever … feeding directly .” His fingers close upon Kaleb’s ass, cupping it with need. “But how I crave … how I so … so crave … to take my dinner the old way … the natural way …”

Kaleb swallows hard, heart slamming against his chest.

He keeps playing his violin, his notes growing firmer the more Markadian talks, evidence of his increasing heart rate, the increasing tension in his nerves, in his body, in his blood.

Markadian’s words are mere breath in Kaleb’s ear. “I won’t ask again. Forget I asked at all. I … I can’t say with confidence where my head was at. I’ve lost it, must’ve lost my head …”

Kaleb thinks of Raya’s face.

Raya’s smile.

“You have my permission.”

Markadian grows still behind Kaleb, his breath held.

Kaleb repeats himself. “You have … my permission.” Playing even still, the music flowing, he turns his head partway. “You can have a taste of me … if you want.”

Markadian still doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.

Did Kaleb offend him? Was it perhaps presumptuous to offer permission to a god?

Until: “I will be gentle,” Markadian whispers back, barely a breath. Kaleb feels the man’s cool lips on his shoulder, then the back of his neck, then the front. Kaleb closes his eyes.

And finally teeth.

Kaleb parts his lips for a gasp, then a sigh of unexpected relief. It surprises him, that the sensation of teeth sinking into his neck is not altogether as unpleasant as he expected. Until this moment, he didn’t realize there was a gentle way to bite.

Markadian’s hands explore Kaleb’s body as he sucks upon his neck. Fingers still massaging his ass cheek. Fingers sliding to the front, across Kaleb’s abdomen, up to his chest, grazing his nipples, then down his side under his arm where it’s soft and sensitive. Kaleb only keeps playing the violin, despite his mind becoming more and more consumed by the teeth in his neck.

Then: “You taste so sweet,” moans Markadian, “so bitter.”

“Which is it?” asks Kaleb as he plays, out of breath. “Sweet or bitter?”

Markadian doesn’t answer. Kaleb’s palms sweat. His body, too. He wonders if, when Markadian isn’t speaking, he might imagine it’s Raya with her hands on his body, Raya worshiping him, Raya running fingertips over his skin.

Raya’s teeth in his neck.

“You’re excited,” whispers Markadian.

Then Kaleb feels the fingers wrapped around his cock.

He didn’t notice—the erection nor the fingers.

“An expected human reaction,” says Markadian, “with the blood rushing through you, rushing to all your ends. Will you allow me to relieve you of that pressure, too?”

Kaleb’s voice cracks when he responds, “Yes.”

Fingers around his cock are replaced by a mouth. Kaleb’s moans join the music of his violin as he experiences an entirely new rush of unexpected pleasure. There is no telling what note plays next, nor what power guides Kaleb’s hand. Each stroke of the bow on the violin is a stroke of Markadian’s mouth up and down his length.

Is this power, to bring a god to his knees? To invite a god’s mouth upon his cock? To play such music from the heavens while the gods and goddesses worship him?

Is it okay to feel so adored and coveted in this moment?

Is it wrong?

The melody picks up pace when Markadian does. It builds the closer Kaleb grows to feeling heaven. Much like rushing to the edge of this very stage, the inevitable rushes toward him as his melody crescendos.

Raya watching him with wonder, listening to his song.

Raya on a bed next to him, eyes closed, lips pursed in the most alluring way as she listens, her full, plush lips.

Raya next to him, body pressed against his, eyes, lips, teeth.

Kaleb cries out as he releases unexpectedly into Markadian’s mouth, and just as appropriately, he strikes a high note upon the violin, singing like an angel’s song freed from the strings. It seems to last forever, as long as a musical note can possibly last, as waves of pleasure rush to every end of his body, to every hair, to every cell that comprises his mortal form.

It is the most merciful relief he has ever known.

“I do wonder,” says Markadian, still on his knees, as if it is Kaleb who is the god, “if it would be greedy of me … to request your sweet music … every night … for the rest of my existence?”

Kaleb lowers his violin and bow, stares down at the god on the ground, the taste of power growing in his racing heart. “Be as greedy with me as you like, Markadian.”