A Pink Dormouse Production
Marianne looked down at her fingers, pale against Mylo's back. The thought struck her that in a much earlier time in another place she would have passed for white as easily as she had passed for a boy on the streets of London in those few, frantic weeks before Roal had found her and taken her in. Technically she was passing now, since no one ever commented on her 'year-round tan', and there was no reason for her to go dropping Great Grand-maman Dubois into conversation every five minutes.
She pressed a finger on either side of the last nick, which was mercifully clean. No more need for the tweezers then.
"That's the lot." She sat up, allowing Mylo to roll over and look up at her. "How in the name of heaven did you get hit with a two-by-four anyway?"
"These things happen." Mylo flashed her a self-satisfied grin. "My mistake was taking my jacket off to put out that fire without checking who was behind me."
Marianne sighed. Not that she expected gratitude, but it would be kind of nice sometimes.
"Thanks for taking him down, by the way," Mylo added as an afterthought.
"'S my job. You okay for anti-B's?"
"Tetanus up to date?" Lockjaw would be a seriously ironic way to go. It had been Billy the Kid who had died from lead poisoning, she seemed to remember.
Mylo nodded again.
"Are we done with this, woman? I'm not objecting to you admiring my nakedness but I'd sure appreciate it if you could return the favour."
Marianne stretched then reached back and grasped the hem at the back of her muscle-T. Then she pulled it over her head and shook her hair free.
"You look mighty fine, woman. I always knew you were hiding curves under that jacket of yours. Right from the first time I saw you."
Marianne growled deep in her throat. She was unsure how to take that particular compliment, having always been more inclined towards developing her muscles than to showing off her more feminine qualities. She raised herself up on her knees and thumbed open the button of her jeans, then slowly unzipped the fly. Nils had been away a month, and they had been screwing all that time. Not every night, true, but often enough for it to count as a thing. Something that was more than just a few casual, almost accidental, fucks when they were hyped up from a fight, or from a night out on the tiles.
She had told herself over and over that they ended up in bed because she still missed having her cat-boy to snarl at (good natured snarling, admittedly) and he missed having Nils for sex-on-tap after every fight. But over the year and a half after Kitty had gone (bastard, screwed-up, conniving, coke-head betrayer), Nils had become first choice for running errands for Dariel, repairing burned bridges and forging new links.
"I guess Nils will be back soon," Marianne said, getting off the bed to shimmy out of her jeans and boxers.
"Next week. Why? You think he's going to object to sharing me?" Mylo grinned.
"Just wondered." Marianne got back on top of Mylo. Of course Nils would not object to sharing. He had never objected to her watching, had he? "Mouth or hand?"
"Whatever happened to pussy? Or are you going all stone-butch on me?"
"I was saving that for the second round." Sex with Mylo was like sparring. Sparring was more interesting than working out with a punch-bag, and sex with a cohort was more fun than sex with herself. Sex and sparring were both equally good for keeping her fit - and for keeping her mind off calling up Dariel and asking him if he missed the cat-boy as much as she did. She had a suspicion that Dariel was keeping up to date on Kitty's career; she knew that he had for the first couple of months after he returned from the Inquiry, no reason to suppose he was not still doing so.
"Well, if that's your plan, I suppose I'd better call sixty-nine. Share and share alike."
"Sixty-nine it is." Yeah, she could handle carrying on with this after Mylo's boyfriend got back. At least until someone equally interesting showed up on her radar.
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