Until You Grow Used to It
"His Majesty sends word that he will arrive shortly."
The maid delivered the message and withdrew in haste.
Left alone, Laniakea sat in her chair and watched the door that opened into the bedchamber. Only a little while ago she had seen Hyperion coming into the Main Palace. Before he stepped inside he had lifted his head and met her eyes, as if he knew she was watching. It had been too dark to make out his expression, and yet she thought he might have been smiling.
A restless unease stirred in her, and she bit her lip.
It isn't even the first time. Why am I like this?
This was already their third practice, and still her heart was pounding harder than it had the last two times. It had to be the letter she had received that afternoon. He had said he would keep going until she grew used to it. Used to what, exactly?
Without thinking, her hand rose to the earlobe he had bitten so carefully, taking care not to hurt her. Since that night she had fallen into the unconscious habit of letting her hair hang loose to cover her ears. She had never thought about them, never felt anything particular about them at all—until Hyperion taught her how keenly she responded when someone else touched an earlobe. After that, baring them had become strangely difficult. She was afraid that even a passing brush might drag out of her the wanton sounds she had made beneath him that night.
Things that had once meant nothing to her had turned into sources of shame. Whether that was a good thing or a bad one, she could not begin to say. It was less humiliation than embarrassment: the shame of laying bare, utterly defenseless, parts of her own body she herself barely understood. And Hyperion had licked every one of those places, slow and thorough……
"……!"
The memory of their last night rose up, and she shook her head, startled by her own thoughts. She was afraid. Tonight Hyperion would surely hunt down yet another of her weaknesses—one she herself did not even know she had. Tense, she kept her eyes fixed on the bedroom door.
There was more than one way into the bedchamber. A large room opened onto either side of it, an arrangement made—or so the story went—after the first imperial couple quarreled, so that two people sharing a bed might still keep a little time to themselves. She remembered her history professor laughing as he observed that if they had truly hated the sight of each other, they could simply have retreated to the Emperor's Palace and the Empress's Palace. The fact that they had gone to the trouble of building separate rooms inside the Main Palace meant that, even when they fought, they had still been fond of one another. He had added, hadn't he, that there were records of the two of them slipping out beyond the palace walls through a secret passage, because they liked to go and play together.
Nerves really do drag up the strangest thoughts.
Compared with the kingdoms around it, the Empire was still practically a young nation. Hyperion was only its ninth emperor, and the country itself was scarcely a hundred and fifty years old.
Then perhaps that secret passage is still usable.
She was grasping at anything that might drown the tension when footsteps sounded beyond the door. The door facing the corridor was well soundproofed, but the one that joined the rooms let sound through clearly. Another of the first emperor's arrangements, she suspected. A moment later came a knock. Hyperion, at last.
This was Laniakea's bedchamber, and his as well. More precisely, it was his. Everything in the Empire belonged to the emperor of the imperial bloodline. Even so, he waited until he heard her answer.
"Come in."
Only then did the door open, and he stepped inside.
The first thing she saw was his hair, still damp. Beneath it was the solid line of his body, trousers on, a bathing robe thrown over them. Droplets clinging to the ends of his hair and to his skin caught the light. He had not even finished drying himself before hurrying here. As she looked at him, she noticed what he carried: an opaque glass bottle, and glasses.
He came straight to her.
"Forgive me for being late. Were you waiting?"
"What? Ah…… yes."
She could not have said why admitting she had waited felt so embarrassing. It had not been like this the first time she came to the bedchamber. She had been shy then too, but the feeling that she was simply doing what had to be done had been stronger. Now, though……
Unwilling to let an awkward silence settle, Laniakea pointed at the bottle in his hand.
"What is that?"
Hyperion smiled faintly and set it on the table beside them.
"I brought it because I wanted your opinion."
He drew the cork with practiced ease. With the motion came the clean scent of a man freshly bathed, and the deep, weighty fragrance of wine.
She swallowed. Her throat moved visibly at the smell. She was no connoisseur, but she knew enough to tell that what he had brought was no ordinary wine.
"My opinion?"
Choosing the wine for banquets was the business of the Empress's Palace. Was this, then, meant for a banquet hosted by the Emperor's Palace? As if he had read the question in her face, he went on.
"It's a gift for Mole. I thought you would know best."
"You're giving Mole wine?"
Meanwhile Hyperion poured. He checked the aroma, then held one glass out to her. The scent had already stirred a thirst in her, and she took it gladly.
"Try it."
At his word she took a careful sip, and her eyes widened. At first a fresh fruit fragrance seemed to flood her mouth; then came the heavy, distinctive body of the wine itself. The two mingled on her tongue into a dozen flavors at once—complex, and yet the sort of taste one wanted to hold a little longer. She swallowed and stared at the wine in her glass, astonished.
"What wine is this? There was nothing like it when we tasted the candidates for the banquets."
"I imagine not. The yield is small. It would be difficult to keep in any great quantity."
He explained that it was made from a grape grown only in one particular region, and that a sudden hard frost there several years ago had killed a great many of the vines.
"So the imperial gardeners transplanted a few into the greenhouse and the rear garden. They don't thrive as they once did, though. For the time being, I doubt we can expect enough fruit to make wine."
"What a shame……"
She had taken several more small sips in the meantime, and the sigh was sincere. That something this delicious should be on the verge of vanishing.
"Which is why I thought of giving Mole these vines. They're precious, and if Mole can bring them back, I'd like to have the fruit made into wine."
"I think Mole would be delighted. Even before, whenever some rare sapling turned up from somewhere, Mole tended it so diligently."
Whether Mole would care for the wine itself, she couldn't say, but a rare tree would be received with enormous joy. She could already hear that voice, dying of delight, and she smiled as she took another sip.
Watching her pleasure, Hyperion lifted his own glass. Unlike Laniakea, who savored hers slowly, he drank what was in the glass in a single swallow, like a man who could not wait. He set it down so quickly it rang, and came toward her.
"Well, then."
A large hand swept her hair back behind her ear. He had only brushed her, and yet a tingling ran through her body. The hand holding her wineglass trembled. At the sight, Hyperion spoke gently.
"If you're afraid, or if you'd rather not, I won't. So don't tremble like that."
"It isn't that……"
She truly wasn't frightened. If she had been, she would already have drawn back when he approached. Her hesitation came from somewhere else. She set her own glass beside his with a soft clink, then looked him straight in the eye.
"Could you tell me first—just this—what you mean to do tonight?"
The last time had been so difficult because he had kept stimulating places she had never imagined. He had tormented her all night, and by the end she had only just grown used to it; the trouble was that she had been caught so off guard she had never managed to collect herself from the start. If he would only tell her what he intended before he began, she would not come apart so helplessly this time, reduced to nothing but moans as she had been before.
"That shouldn't be difficult."
At her words, Hyperion's hand drifted slowly downward. Past her ear, along her cheek, over the nape of her neck—and then, without hesitation, lower still. He took her breast fully in his hand.
"……!"
Startled, she tried to step back. As always, his arm caught her about the waist and kept her from fleeing. Callused fingers rubbed, through the cloth, at the tip that had risen taut with tension. And in a voice grown even gentler, he murmured,
"Tonight I'll begin here, and do my best to see that you grow used to it—all the way to the deeper places of your body."