Chapter 62

She moved farther back, to those with blue or yellow bars. These males were more occupied in their own studies or hobbies; it was kind of the Temple to allow them occupation, although for some Sisters, this streak of independence bothered. There had been a case, Iyani recalled, some five years back, heard by the Matrons, to limit their recreation to times when a Sister might not be visiting, but it was struck down by those who thought it best to know what they were buying.

She turned the corner, away from the eyes of the Mart-matron. The other Sister had stopped awhile back, and was poking and prodding at a sapling boy, thin and tall, with a shock of red hair. Iyani wished her luck with her selection and promptly forgot about her.

The indicator bars were orange, here, or red. Males who were only moons away from being failed-men, sent to the fields to labor, or the crews in the city, for construction, never to father daughters or know the touch of a Temple Sister. To be unblessed, away from the goddess. Did they want that, Iyani wondered? Several empty rooms, before the last, the very last room in this long hallway of male flesh.

The male stared at her, his feral eyes hot on her body, his mouth quirked in a sardonic smirk. The intensity of his regard was so profound that she could not help but look back at him, puzzled

“My compliments, Sister,” he said. His voice was deep, rough and unpolished, and his accent was strange, as if the language of the Sisters fell heavy on his tongue. “Most never make it back this far. Brave heart.” The character notes at the bottom of his placard read Difficult. Refuses to hold training.

“Are you allowed to speak with me?” Iyana asked. She looked back over her shoulder, but no angry Mart-matron was charging in, Protectors at her heels, to punish such insolence.

The male shrugged. He was dressed differently than the others, a loose robe, belted at his hips, with boots underneath that peeked out, polished. “What are they going to do? I’m for the fields tomorrow. And I haven’t had company in a while.”

Iyana took a step closer. The male had a distinctive smell, dark and musky, like clean sweat that had only been recently earned. “Why do you wear that robe? Shouldn’t you be displaying what I wish to purchase?”

The man’s eyebrow went up, and he still hadn’t looked away, hadn’t directed his disrespectful gaze to the floor as a proper male should. Instead, he was a challenge, bright and full of barely concealed mordancy. It appealed. She walked closer. He was good looking enough, dark, curly hair and a short-cropped beard, angular features and green eyes. That was lucky; green-eyed daughters were prized above all others. Iyani’s own eyes were pale blue, almost gray, which spoke well for the chances of achieving that goal.

“If you wish to see me in all my glory, brave heart, come closer and open my robe.”

Sudden anger—and something else, a trickle of heat in her belly—compelled her. She strode forward and touched the belt with her fingers. It opened at her thought and as the robe fell from his shoulders, her animosity boiled over, igniting the fabric. To his credit, the male didn’t even flinch, merely stepped forward until he was nearly embracing her to get away from the Craft-afflicted material. Within seconds, it was nothing but ash.

“A full Temple-Sister, then,” he murmured, his voice hot in her ear, his breath dancing along her skin. She’d never been so close to a male before.

“Step back and let me look at you properly,” she said and for a wonder, he did so. She looked. He was tall, lithe, and covered with inked designs in all the colors of the sun, reds and orange, yellows and just the hints of blue. Underneath, she saw scars, cuts and lash-marks, a rough patch on both legs that looked as if he’d been dragged over gravel. “How beautiful.” She couldn’t help it, closed the gap between them again and touched her fingers to the whorls of ink, traced the lines of his tattoos, felt the texture of his scars.

He snatched up her hand—certainly beyond the pale for boldness!—and touched his mouth to her fingers. She gasped at the sensation. The scrape of beard against the palm of her hand tickled and teased, the whorl of heat in her belly grew.

“Do you,” she whispered, still half-expecting the Mart-matron to come running, “have a name?”

“I did once,” he said. “Should you like to hear it, brave heart?” He kissed her palm, then took one slender finger into his mouth and sucked. She wobbled, her knees giving way under the sudden cravings of her body.

“Yes.”

“Then buy me. Take me to your home, and I shall whisper it to you.”I Want by Elizabeth L. Brooks

I am alone in the house. As I walk from one room to another, I want. I want. I want…

…a hand knots in my hair as I pass, without warning, and an instant of fear turns to an explosion of lust when I recognize you. You push me against the wall and press your body to mine…

I want.

I am out with friends, joking and laughing and enjoying their company, but I keep checking my phone because I want. I want. I want…

…your voice catches a little as you say, “I think I’m in love with you,” and I find myself, for the first time, utterly speechless…

I want.

I am pushing my cart through the grocery store. The canned music reminds me of you and I want. I want. I want…

…your hand closes on mine and you pull me close, ignoring my protests as you sweep me into a waltz, there in the spice aisle, spinning until we are dizzy and high with laughter…

I want.

I am at work in the office, one boring chore after another, and I want. I want. I want…

…you take my hand and we sneak, gesturing frantically at each other for silence as we try to stifle our snickering, into the supply closet, the telecom cabinet, the server room…

I want.

I am at the window, watching the neighborhood children in a game of Horse and I want. I want. I want…

…your arms wrap me from behind and we watch together until you say, “Your kid shoots like a girl,” and I say, “She isa girl, and how is it that she’s minenow?” and we laugh and banter about whose job it is to teach our child to play basketball until I feel your lips against my neck and turn away, the window and everything beyond it momentarily forgotten…

I want.

I am in bed at night, mind whirling, too busy for sleep. I reach for the toy drawer but I want. I want. I want…

…your weight pins me down and your hands wrap my wrists, letting me test your strength as you fasten the restraints and I know you will toy with me, tease me, taunt me, until even the lightest touch is like fire against my skin…

I want.

I am pouring a glass of wine and deciding which book to read as I unwind and I want. I want. I want…

…you draw me down onto the couch, into the crook of your arm, and we are together even in our separate pastimes, my fingers tracing idle spirals on your skin, your lips pressing occasionally, warm and gentle, to my hair…

I want.

I am walking between the rows in the graveyard, reading the headstones as I pass though I could walk this path blindfolded. I stop at yours and lay the flowers there. I chose the kind you hate because I want you to be annoyed enough to tell me to take them away and come back with better ones. I want to lie on the cool grass until your ghostly arms pull me down to join you in your narrow bed. I want to feel your touch, hear you whisper my name, taste the salt of your skin, only once more. I want.

I want.

I want…