“Oh, there is no practicality at all. I simply wish to see you in your undergarments.”
He laughs, relaxing more, as I assure him I am teasing and he may undress as much or as little as he wishes. I do turn my back for that part. I cannot help it. I might abhor the ridiculous degree to which I am expected to hide myself, lest my bare skin inflame male passions, but I have still internally recognized my society’s limits and the perils of ignoring them altogether. So I have my back to Nicolas as I strip off my outer garments, leaving on only my bottom layer of clothing—my corset and drawers.
I turn to see Nicolas studiously gazing upon the cave wall, which is very sweet, particularly in that it affords me the opportunity to enjoy the sight of him without being seen doing so. He has taken off both his shirt and undershirt, leaving his upper body bare, and it is... Oh my, it is a sight to behold.
One of my friends, who shares my interest in carnal matters, is fond of working-class men. Stable hands and blacksmiths and such. She waxes rhapsodic about their physiques. My lovers have been men of my own class and higher, not given to athletic endeavors more strenuous than a good fox hunt. I will admit I have admired the muscular forearms on a groom or dockworker, but I presumed that was mostly because it was more exposed skin than I would see on a man of my own class.
I was mistaken.
Nicolas’s class is above my own, sothatis not the explanation. While Ihaveseen powerfully built men of nobility, I never see them in anything except long sleeves and buttoned collars. I will also say that Nicolas is not constructed like a strapping dockworker, with forearms the size of my thighs. His build is slighter, and as such, it is perfection in its lines and symmetry. His bare back and arms show a man fond of athleticism and not afraid of hard work, the result being a physique that has me growing very warm, despite being in wet and cold underthings.
I have seen such male physiques before, but they have always been sculpted in marble... and are usually missing a limb or head. Nicolas, from the rear, is perfection, and I find my mouth dry just looking at him. My mouth dry and my body hot, growing warmer by the minute as my gaze drops to his hips, his skin visible through the wet ivory fabric of his drawers—
“Crécerelle?” he says. “May I turn?”
I want to say no.Sorry, but no, I am suddenly very shy, and you must sadly continue facing the cave wall... so that I might continue staring at you.
“Yes, of course,” I say, and drop my gaze, not out of modesty but respect, lest I be caught gaping.
He turns, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him tense. He clears his throat quickly and sits nearly as quickly, and I am left standing there, almost naked, feeling as if he barely bothered to look at me. Worse, fearing he got just enough of a look to decide he didn’t want a longer one.
“Would you be more comfortable if I pulled on my shirt and trousers?” I say.
He gives a laugh in a tone I can’t quite decipher. “More comfortable, oui, but that is hardly the point, which is to ensure you are warm and as dry as possible.”
My heart sinks, and the heat evaporates in a blink. “I do not mind dressing if the sight of me is repellant.”
“Repellant?” He twists to face me. “I thought I knew what that word meant, crécerelle, but clearly I do not.”
I sit quickly, pulling my knees in. “I am sorry if that sounded as if I were fishing for compliments. I understand that the situation is uncomfortable.”
“Not in the way you seem to think.” He stretches to lean over far enough to kiss my bare shoulder. “I am trying to be a gentleman and not gape at you with proof of my interest making itself obvious.”
When I frown, he smiles and kisses my shoulder again. “If my meaning is not clear, I will not explain further and only be glad I did nothing to embarrass either of us. And I know you are not fishing for compliments, so I will only say...”
He meets my eyes and switches to French, letting loose a torrent of it that has my eyes narrowing.
“That is most unfair,” I say.
“Is it? I would not wish to be overly forward in my flattery, particularly considering your current state of dress and the fact that it is for necessity, and not for my viewing pleasure.”
I roll my eyes.
“Would you like me to say a few words of admiration in English?” he asks.
“Not now,” I say. “The buildup has been too great, and the moment has passed. I will say only that I ought to apologize for having taken so long to tell you to turn around. I was caught up in admiring the view, which is, I must say, quite perfect. You are an excessively handsome man fully clothed, but quite devastating in your drawers.”
His mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. Pauses a moment before he says, “And so you deliver a breathtaking compliment in such an efficient manner that I am not certain how to respond.”
“As you said, efficiency is the order of the day.” I turn to face the fire again and inch closer to it. “And in light of that efficiency, no response is required.”
“All right, then, let me skip past a response and move straight to my own words of admiration—”
“No.”
“No?”
“The moment has passed. You missed it. I am quite bereft. Now, let us discuss the ship.”