Skin Deep by Violet Penrose

Author:Violet Penrose [Penrose, Violet]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: steampunk
ISBN: 9780473434434
Publisher: Griffon Press
Published: 2018-03-25T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

I was drooping with exhaustion by the time the ritual finished. The frenzy of the dance, the excitement and fear of acting as dress maid to a nest of vipers, and the aftereffects of the drink Sibyl had fed me had left me drained. I dressed wearily as the Malawian women slipped from the room, carrying the now soporific snakes.

“Care to join me for a nightcap?” Sibyl asked, wrapping herself in a dressing gown.

I shook my head. “I’m tired beyond words and still have to walk back across town.”

“Why don’t you stay the night?”

Such concern was new. In the past, once Sibyl had slaked her pleasure with me, she’d been only too happy to push me out into the night. “No, Marion’s unwell. I must check on her before I go to bed.”

“Please stay. Your friend will be asleep. She hardly has need of you before tomorrow. I hate the thought of you trudging across London in the dark, on your own.”

The Glydes’ mansion had a dozen well-appointed bedrooms. If I departed at dawn, Marion would never know I hadn’t been home. “Very well.” What were Sibyl’s intentions? Was her offer an innocent one? Or did she also long to resume our previous intimacy?

“Which room will be mine?” I asked, gesturing to the row of doors.

Sibyl smiled. “I was hoping you’d share mine.”

Was she lonely without Lord Glyde? The thought left a sour taste in my mouth. It hurt to be forever second best. Still, it was the one and only chance I’d have to sleep beside her. I could not deny myself that pleasure.

A basin of warm water steamed on the washstand. I longed to rinse the gritty cream from my skin and the musk of snake from my hands.

“Remove your clothes,” Sibyl ordered. “I’ll scrub the njoka mankhwala from your skin, then you’ll remove mine. It’s a devil of a job to do on your own.”

I stripped off my clothes and stood before her, naked, exposed. Sibyl dipped the cloth into the water, wrung out the excess then advanced on me with a smile. She dribbled water over my shoulders, my breasts, my belly, watching it run down my skin and then wiping away the rivulets with long, hard strokes. Whereas the ministrations of the Malawian women earlier had been reminiscent of being bathed as a child, having Sibyl wash me was anything but. She repeated the process over and over until my skin shone pink and as fresh as the serpents after they’d shed.

My fatigue faded before her onslaught. Desire flared, like a banked furnace being stoked into life. Her breath whispered along my damp skin, sending shivers shooting through my every nerve. Her kisses followed the path of the cloth, skimming across my chilling flesh, leaving me quivering with desire.

“Now it’s my turn to bathe you,” I said. “And then we must to bed before we catch our death.” I loosened the tie of her dressing gown, feeling as if I were unwrapping a present on Christmas day, then unwound the African cloth bound across her hips.

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