the doorway and looked across. Fei Yen sat in the tall-backed
chair at the far side of the room, on the dais, as if enthroned. A chi poo of brilliant red was draped about her small and
slender figure, while her dark hair was braided with fine strands of
jewels. A thin cloth of red and gold veiled her features, an ancient kai t'ou, as worn by the brides of the Ching Emperors for
almost three centuries. Now that they were alone, she lifted the
veil, letting him see her face. She was beautiful. More beautiful
than ever. His breath caught as he looked at her, knowing she was
his. He knew now how his brother, Han Ch'in, must have felt in his
final moments, and grieved less for him. It would be fine to die now,
knowing no more than this.
He walked across
to her, hesitant, aware of her eyes upon him, watching him come.
He stopped at
the foot of the steps, looking at her. The huge throne dwarfed her.
She seemed like a child sitting in her father's chair. Three steps
led up to the dais, but standing there, his face was on the level of
Fei Yen's. He studied her, conscious that in the years since he had
first seen her she had grown to the fullness of womanhood.
His eyes
narrowed with pain, looking at her, seeing how dark her eyes were.
How deep and beautiful they were. How delicate the lashes. How finely
drawn the curves of skin about the liquid centers. Eyes so dark, so
vast, he felt he could lose himself in their depths.
"Well?"
Fei Yen leaned forward. She was smiling at him, her hand extended.
"What does my husband command?"
He felt a fresh
thrill of delight course through his blood, at the same time hot and
cold, both exquisite and painful. Her eyes held him, making him reach
out and take her hand.
He looked down
at her hand. So small and fine it was. Its warmth seemed to
contradict its porcelain appearance, its strength oppose its apparent
fragility. Her hand closed on his, drawing him up the steps to where
she sat. He knelt, his head in her lap, her hands caressing his neck.
For a moment it was enough. Then she lifted his head between her
hands and made him move back, away from her.
They stood,
facing each other.
Her hand went to
the ruby-studded clasp at her right shoulder and released it. Slowly,
with a faint silken rustle, the cloth unraveled, slipping from her
body.
She stood there,
naked but for the jewels in her hair, the bands of gold at her ankles
and at her throat. Her skin was the white of swan's feathers, her
breasts small, perfectly formed, their dark nipples protruding.
Mesmerized, he looked at the curves of her flesh, the small, dark
tangle of her sex, and felt desire wash over him so fiercely, so
overpoweringly, he wanted to cry out.
Timidly he put
out his hand, caressing her flank and then her breast, touching the
dark brown nipple tenderly, as if it were the most fragile thing he
had ever touched. She was watching him, her smile tender, almost
painful now. Then, softly, she placed her hands upon his hips and
pushed her face forward.
He moved closer,
his eyes closed, his body melting. His hands caressed her shoulders,
finding them so smooth, so warm, they seemed unreal; while her lips
against his were soft and wet and hot, like desire itself, their
sweetness blinding him.
She reached
down, releasing him, then drew him down on top of her. At once he was
spilling his seed, even as he entered her. He cried out, feeling her
shudder beneath him. And when he looked at her again he saw how
changed her eyes were, how different her mouth—a simple gash of
wanting now that he was inside her.
That look
inflamed him, made him spasm again, then lie still on top of her.
They lay there a
long while; then, as one, they stirred, noticing how awkwardly they
lay, their bodies sprawled across the steps.
He stood and
tucked himself in, aware of how incongruous the action seemed, then
reached down to help her up, unable to take his eyes from her
nakedness.
Saying nothing,
she led him through into the bridal room. There
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