Courtesan's Lover by Gabrielle Kimm Read Free Book Online

his mouth. He shuts his lips tightly and turns his face away, but the second man reaches out and grips Modesto’s chin and he cannot help it—his mouth opens. Liquid pours into it, and he chokes. But despite his retching, most of the bitter contents of the glass goes down his throat, and then the men sit him back down on the chair.
    â€œWe need to wait about ten minutes,” Modesto hears one of them say. They all stand around him. They are very tall in their black clothes, and they do not smile.
    A strange noise soon begins in Modesto’s ears—a soft hissing—and his face prickles. He begins to feel very sick; his eyelids are heavy. His eyes close, but he stretches them open again and rubs them, afraid to sleep in the company of these men. He wants to run from them, but his limbs will not move now, and soon he closes his eyes again. This time, they stay closed. He leans against the side of the big tub, and his head droops: he no longer has the strength to lift it, though his mind is still clear.
    Imprisoned now inside his body, he feels himself being lifted from the chair. Fingers fumble with his laces, and someone takes off his doublet and shirt. He wants to stop them doing this and shouts at them to leave him alone, but the shout crawls out of his mouth as a mumble, and nobody listens. His shoes and hose are taken off, and someone lifts him up—big hands grip under his armpits and knees. Hard fingers dig in.
    He is put into the water. It is warm and comes up to his chest. He lies in the water for some time.
    â€œIs he asleep?”
    â€œYes.”
    No, I’m not! Modesto screams at them silently through cold lips that will not move, and he tries to open his eyes, but the lids are too heavy.
    â€œBe quick, Paolo—the quicker you are, the less likely we are to lose him.”
    Another pair of hands pushes his knees apart; he experiences a brief feeling of terrifying, wide exposure and then big fingers grope between his thighs and grip, a white hot pain cuts through the suffocating torpor, and Modesto’s eyes snap open. The noise he makes is not a scream—he cannot do it; it is more of a groan. And the water in the tub reddens around his legs.
    ***
    It was particularly vivid that night. Although virtually no day passed in which he did not think of what had happened to him, it was rarely so painful. He seldom recalled the details with such intensity. He screwed his eyes shut, and an animal noise came from him as he remembered once again the howling enormity of his loss. He was unaware of crying out, but moments after the sound had left his mouth, his door opened and Francesca said, “Dear God, Modesto, whatever is it?” in a voice pitched high with anxiety.
    She was untidily bundled in her wrap and wildly tangle-haired. She held the edges of the wrap bunched together in the fingers of one hand and crossed the long room to the bed where Modesto lay curled in a tight bunch of stiffened limbs.
    â€œ Caro , are you ill?” He turned his face away from her and felt rather than saw Francesca drop to her knees beside his bed. She stroked his hair and murmured words he could not catch. He began to weep then: hard, reluctant sobs that coughed their way out of him as he stiffened in shame to be seen so by her. She rose from her knees and slid under his bedcovers; pushing him across the bed to make room for herself, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled his head onto her chest. Despite himself, Modesto clung to her, and she held him tightly as he wept, one arm around his bulky body, fingers gripping his back, the other hand cupping his head. He could feel her cheek resting on his hair, as her own hair fell around his face.
    She held him without speaking for a long while; later, they slept.
    ***
    Modesto opened swollen eyes to find his head still pillowed on his mistress’s breast. Her wrap had fallen open, and his cheek was pressed against her skin. Her arm was heavy