Clean Hands
Part Two of The Woman Who Rented the Moon.
Vesper put my hand back on her waist.
The mirror had written one word in the fog.
Careful.
She looked at it.
“Coward.”
The word vanished.
Her robe was thin. Her skin was warm beneath it. The moon hung low above us, chained to the sky, watching like it had paid extra.
“Your hand is shaking,” she said.
“No.”
She moved it higher.
“There. Now it has a reason.”
I forgot whatever clever thing I had been saving.
Good.
Behind a closed door, something coughed.
“The fox?” I asked.
“The fox.”
“Is he always here?”
“He thinks so.”
She snapped her fingers.
The coughing stopped.
Vesper stepped closer. Her bare foot touched mine. Smoke, rain, and crushed green things came off her hair. Like a garden after midnight. Like the flowers had learned bad habits.
“Do you know why I asked for clean hands?”
“Because this is a ritual?”
“Yes.”
She took my wrist and turned my hand palm up.
Her fingers moved across the lines there.
Slow.
Not soft.
“Clean hands means no ghosts.”
I swallowed.
She saw it.
Of course she saw it.
“No old names,” she said. “No using me to finish an argument with someone who is not here. No touching me like proof. No touching me like revenge.”
Her thumb pressed into the center of my palm.
“Make them wait outside.”
The brass mouth on the front door made a wet, offended sound.
“I heard that.”
“Guard them,” Vesper said.
The lock clicked by itself.
She let go of my hand and walked to the table.
The robe shifted around her thighs. One silver leaf slid from her hair and landed in the figs.
“Rule one,” she said. “No lying.”
“I want you.”
She turned.
“That was quick.”
“I’m trying to save time.”
“No. You’re trying to sound brave.”
That hit.
She came back to me.
“Try again.”
I looked at her mouth. Her throat. The loose knot at her waist.
“I want your robe on the floor.”
“Better.”
“I want your hands in my hair.”
“Better.”
“I want you to stop looking at me like you already know what I’ll do.”
Vesper smiled.
“But I do.”
“That makes it worse.”
“No,” she said. “That makes it honest.”
The moon hummed.
The sound moved through the floor. Through my knees. Through places I had not given permission to join the conversation.
Vesper reached for the knot at her waist.
She did not pull it.
Just held it.
Mean.
Gorgeous.
Fully aware.
“Rule two,” she said. “Do not pretend you don’t want what you want.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“You looked away.”
“I was being respectful.”
“You were being scared.”
I had no defense.
She liked that.
“Rule three. If I say stop, you stop.”
“Yes.”
Her face sharpened.
“Say it like a man, not like a reflex.”
I met her eyes.
“If you say stop, I stop.”
“And if you say stop, I stop.”
The moon went quiet.
The mirror cleared.
The trees stilled.
For one second, the whole room took consent seriously.
Then Vesper moved.
She kissed me before I could prepare.
No slow lean. No warning. No little romance-movie mercy.
Her mouth hit mine hot from the wine.
Her hand went into my hair.
Mine tightened at her waist.
She made a low sound, and the silver leaves dropped all around us.
One fell into her glass and hissed.
The table shook.
A pear rolled off the edge and split open on the floor.
Behind the door, the fox said, “Finally.”
Vesper pulled back.
“Out.”
The door opened.
A white fox stepped into the room with a cigarette in his mouth and judgment in his bones.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
He exhaled smoke in the shape of a heart.
“Cute,” he said.
Vesper pointed at the wall.
The fox sighed and walked straight through it.
“I hate him,” I said.
“He likes that.”
Then she kissed me again.
Harder.
This time I stopped trying to be interesting.
My back hit the table. Figs crushed under my hand. Wine spilled and ran down the black wood like blood.
Vesper opened my shirt.
Fast.
A button snapped and disappeared between the floorboards.
“The building keeps what it likes,” she said.
“That was my shirt.”
“You were hiding in it.”
She pushed the fabric off my shoulders.
Her fingers touched my chest.
The room got hotter.
Not metaphor-hot.
Sweat at the back of my neck. Heat under my ribs. Her breath against my mouth.
She dragged one nail lightly down my stomach and stopped just above the waist of my pants.
The waiting did more damage than the touch.
“You’re thinking again,” she said.
“I’m trying not to.”
“Try less.”
She took both my hands.
Held them against her ribs.
“No ghosts.”
“No ghosts.”
“No pretending.”
“No pretending.”
“No vandalism.”
“No vandalism.”
Her robe opened a little under my hands.
Moonlight moved over her skin.
Her breath came shallow. Then her shoulders dropped. I felt it happen. Half an inch. Maybe less. Like a locked door inside her ribs had finally opened.
I kissed her neck.
She grabbed my shoulder.
Not to stop me.
To stay standing.
Her head tilted. Her pulse moved under my mouth. The trees bent toward us, leaves brushing my back, her hair, the ruined table.
I kissed below her ear.
She whispered something.
I did not catch it.
I wanted to.
That made it worse.
When my mouth moved lower, her hand caught my jaw.
“Not yet.”
I stopped.
Right there.
No argument.
No wounded pride.
No stupid little male performance of disappointment.
Vesper looked at me.
Waited.
Then smiled.
“Good.”
The word landed in my chest and stayed there.
She touched my mouth with her thumb.
Fig. Wine. Salt.
“Again,” she said.
So I kissed her again.
Slower.
Dirtier for being slower.
Her tongue touched mine. Her hand slid under my open shirt and pulled it down my arms. The shirt hit the floor. The floorboards opened and swallowed it.
I stared.
Vesper did not.
“You get used to the house.”
“I don’t think I will.”
“Better if you don’t.”
She backed away.
Three steps.
Bare heel. Loose robe. White hair. Silver leaf still caught in it because even the trees were making fools of themselves.
She raised one hand.
The trees behind her split open.
A bed came out of the wall.
Black wood.
Red sheets.
Low and wide and waiting like it knew my name.
The moon dropped lower.
The ropes creaked.
Vesper looked over her shoulder.
“Come here.”
I did.
Not fast enough to look foolish.
Not slow enough to lie.
When I reached her, she took my hand and placed it on the knot at her waist.
“Pull.”
The room went quiet.
Even the moon shut up.
I pulled.
The knot loosened.
The robe slid down one shoulder.
Then the other.
Vesper caught the fabric at her chest before it fell.
Of course she did.
She stepped close enough for her mouth to touch my ear.
“Now,” she whispered, “tell me exactly what you came upstairs to do.”
To be continued.
Part Three, Private Domestic Use, is where the moon gets its money’s worth.
Author’s note:
Clean hands. No ghosts. No pretending.
Which rule would you have broken first?
// Scorpio Veil
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