Becket keeps his hand on my throat, his thumb pressed gently to my windpipe as I begin moving in earnest, circling and grinding, chasing the sweet sparkle of my c**t against the base of his c**k. The wind flutters through his hair and his dark blond eyelashes, pulls his shirt tight against the firm curves of his muscles. He’s at odds with the landscape around us, with the world of rough moors and wild empty meadows. His jaw is too perfectly chiseled, his cheekbones and nose too refined. His hand around my throat is a hand for smoothing robes and pouring wine, for red-inked pages and prayer beads cool to the touch.
He is too cultivated, too civilized. Except then I think of his eyes glowing in the farmhouse, and a voice inside me whispers, not so civilized after all.
The uneasiness t
