Sensitive Negotiations: Part 2
They arrive late to Lady Satomi’s; a bridge floods out between her lands and Lord Ryouta’s, and they have to travel the long way around in winds and rain and mud. Its almost dinner by the time they arrive, and they have to rush to make themselves presentable, their travel clothes ruined by the ill weather. It is not until the first course is served that Obi even realizes which of the ladies is their host.
The only woman to hold a title in the north, Lady Satomi looks nothing like the the other lords. She is tall, sloe-eyed, her skin almost as dark as his. When she catches him looking, she smiles daggers and tells him, “My mother was not from Clarines.”
She is also unlike her fellow peers in that she does not believe in separating the sexes after dinner, nor does she share port with her guests.
“There are better vintages,” she explains to his miss, her back turned pointedly to him. “If you aren’t mired in your own dying traditions.”
Lady Satomi may not serve port, but she does serve madeira.
She sets it in from of Miss with a wide smile and hungry eyes, calling it a fortified wine. It’s so sweet, so smooth that it takes Obi nearly half a glass to realize it’s fortified with port, and by then it is too late. Miss had already thrown back one glass and is very politely not managing to decline another.
He tries to warn her, to slide up behind her and explain that she was being plied with a wine too strong for her constitution, but Satomi is constantly watching, guiding her away under the guise of introducing her to yet another powerful acquaintance. Miss is so eager to be listened to that she hardly notices the game being played.
Obi returns to his corner, crossing his arms. Let Satomi play her game. In another drink, he’ll be interested to see just who will be dragging a boneless young miss back to her rooms.
“Obi,” Miss sighs against his ear, weight warm on his back. “You’re very strong.”
He isn’t exactly feeling that way at the moment. “With the number of times I’ve had to carry you to your rooms lately, I can’t see how I wouldn’t be.”
“Mm.” She hums pleasantly, her fingers gently tracing over the muscles of his chest. Even through the thick wool of his formal coat, it’s too much. “True.”
He bumps open her door with his hip, bee-lining for her bedroom. He knows better than to try to put her down elsewhere; she’s in the sort of giddy mood that will only spell trouble if he doesn’t put her to bed this instant.
The door opens, and Obi has immediate regrets.
“Ooh,” she sighs, which does nothing for his nerves, “the bed is so big.”
It’s an understatement; the bed is huge. At Tadashi and Hideo’s manors, his bed had been as large as any lord’s -- Ryouta’s as well, probably, if he could remember any of it -- but this is the size of two of those put together. He can’t even -- what does Lady Satomi even think his miss would be doing in this bed?
He puts her down, seeing the rumpled mess of her hair, the wine-flushed cheeks, the darkness of her eyes in the dim light, and -- ah, yes. This is what Satomi thought she’d be doing.
“Can you manage from here, Miss?” he asks.
She stares at him for a long moment, lips parted, her hands fisted in his formal coat for stability,
“Miss?”
“Oh!” A flush creeps up her neck, spilling over her cheeks. “Y-yes, I - ow!”
She’s pulled only three pins from her hair, but already his miss has pricked herself. The pins are blunted, too dull to draw blood, but Obi does not doubt for a moment that Miss will find a way.
“Turn around,” he tells her, fond smile curving his lips. “Let me help you.”
She offers her back to him, bowing her head so that he can reach the pins with ease. They glisten in the lamplight, golden against the deep red knot of her hair. He works quickly, deftly, eager to be out of the romantic lighting and into his own cold room.
“I bet that could fit all five us,” she says, excited, and that is worse, imagining himself sandwiched between her body and Master’s.
“I’d like to see you lure Sir into that,” he laughs, and she stiffens under his hands. “He’d probably make Master lay on the outside to preserve his virtue.”
“Oh, I hadn’t even thought of that.” Her voice is strange, almost guilty. “I meant the five of us at Lyrias. You, me, Suzu, Yuzuri and Ryuu. It would be nice…”
He blinks. “Yes,” he agrees, stilted. “It would.”
He pulls the last pin, and her hair tumbles down her back in one long, burnished ribbon. His palms itch to bury themselves in it; he rubs them against his coat instead.
“There you are, Miss.” He takes an exaggerated step away. “Ready for -- Miss?”
She hikes up her skirts, shedding beads as she crawls onto her bed. At his question, she turns to face him, eyes wide.
“Miss, shouldn’t you –” get undressed? -- “get ready for bed?”
She stares down at her dress, blankly, and then reaches behind her back, yanking at hooks and eyes that hold it together. His Majesty would have an aneurysm knowing that she was treating part of the wardrobe he call an investment like that.
Obi stands there for a few minutes, watching her struggle. “Miss –”
She flops back, sighing. “It’s too hard.”
“You can’t sleep in your clothes,” he insists.
“Well, I’m not taking them off.”
They’ve veered into the belligerent part of the evening. “I’ll help you.”
He tugs her up off the bed; a harder feat that he anticipates, since she has decided to flop bonelessly about like a landed fish, rather than let him help her. His fingers unlatch the hooks neatly enough, but it’s her that makes it a chore, twisting this way and that so that his hands keep having to scrabble for purchase. He’d say it was unintentional, save for the way she laughs.
She only stills when he yanks her against him, roughly shoving her dress off her shoulders and letting it pool at their feet. For a moment they both stand there, panting, him in his dinner clothes, her in her undergarments. She stares up at him, eyes so dark he only catches hints of green, gaping.
He turns her roughly, so that her back is to his front. “Hold on to the bedpost,”
She whimpers. Obi takes in a long breath before he goes to touch her again, this time to loosen the laces of her corset. It’s fussy work, and she grows restless, listing to one side and then the other; at one point she seems to forget that he is behind her and slides onto the bed.
“Stop struggling,” he grits out, unamused. She squirms even more, giggling, and he – he just wants to go to his own room, to forget what it feels like to have her warm and so close, but of course she can’t let him.
He can’t work like this. He gathers her up, pinning her against his body, and uses his free hand to pop the clasps at the front. She’ll complain the next time she wears it, grumbling that she’s sure to get a lecture on proper undergarment maintenance if Wistal’s tailor ever hears of it, but he can’t deal with her right now. He is not going to spend quarter of an hour letting her squirm against him just so that he can save a corset from inappropriate stretching.
She struggles against him the entire time, and though he is both hot and bothered by the time he has finished, he is also annoyed.
He shoves his hands under her chemise, hooking into the waistband of her leggings, and yanks, dropping down to his knees. She clutches his head to her for balance, and it’s not until he’s pulled her legs free from their confines that he realizes just how – inappropriate the position is. She staring down at him, eyes glistening in the dim light, chest heaving.
He jolts upright, taking a few steps away. “Well, you should get to bed.”
She sighs, flopping back onto the mattress. “But it’s so big, Obi.”
“It is.” He knows better than to trust her non sequiturs when his miss is like this.
“It’d be a waste for only one person to sleep it in,” she pushes, a plaintive whine threading through her words.
“I have my own bed,” he tells her. “It would be just as wasteful for no one to sleep in it.” He does not speculate on how many beds are going unslept in this wing alone. It’s more apt to upset her than to win him the conversation.
“Mm, no.” She pats the other side of the bed. “If you sleep here, someone else can sleep there.”
“That’s not –” He sighs. “Miss, you should get to bed.”
“I’m trying to,” she tells him crossly. “Obi, what if something happened to me during the night? Should you be here?”
He knows she’s hinting at something more dramatic, but his thoughts drift to her waking up sick during the night, needing water and salt crackers and a warm presence. He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a long breath.
“All right.”
He strips himself until he is in just his pants and shirt. He would rather no clothes at all for sleeping, but even if Miss didn’t complain, he wouldn’t – he wouldn’t want to give this Miss more opportunity for trouble.
“Obi,” she says, full of censure, “you hate sleeping with your shirt on.”
“I’ll live, Miss.” He’s pretty sure he won’t, if he doesn’t.
“I’ve seen you without your shirt plenty of times,” she reminds him. “I’ve touched you without --”
“I’m sleeping with it on.” He’s lucky she’s never seen him without his pants on.
“Obi.” Her face is so grave. “I won’t be able to sleep if you’re not comfortable.”
He sighs, peeling off his shirt. She grins, slipping under the covers, and he slides in the other side. She’s not wrong that they could both stretch fully across the bed and not touch. That, at least, should keep his wild thoughts at bay.
He sprawls on his back, closing his eyes and –
The mattress dips.
“What are you doing?” he asks, not opening his eyes.
“You’re so far away,” she complains. He jumps as one of her small hands hooks into his shirt. “What’s the point if you’re all the way over here?”
“What is the point of this at all, Miss?”
She doesn’t answer, just creeps closer, sliding against his side. Her head lays on his chest, leg hooking around one of his. He wants to complain, to tell her that she should stay on her side, but he hears the soft, steady rhythm of her breath.
Well, there’s no point in waking her, if she’s asleep. How convenient.
