The Last Wish : The Voice of Reason 1
The Last Wish : The Voice of Reason 1
Dia datang kepadanya menjelang pagi.
Dia masuk dengan sangat hati hati, bergerak diam-diam, melayang melalui ruangan seperti hantu; satu satunya suara adalah mantelnya menyapu kulit telanjangnya. Namun suara samar ini cukup untuk membangunkan sang witcher – atau mungkin hanya membuatnya terbangun dari setengah tidur di mana dia bergoyang secara monoton, seolah-olah bepergian melalui kedalaman yang tak terduga, tergantung di antara dasar laut dan permukaannya yang tenang di tengah helai rumput laut yang bergelombang. .
Dia tidak bergerak, tidak sedikitpun. Gadis itu terbang mendekat, melepaskan mantelnya dan perlahan, ragu-ragu, mengistirahatkan lututnya di tepi ranjang besar. Dia mengamatinya melalui bulu mata yang diturunkan, masih tidak mengkhianati kesadarannya. Gadis itu dengan hati-hati naik ke seprai, dan ke atasnya, membungkus pahanya di sekelilingnya. Mencondongkan tubuh ke depan dengan lengan yang tegang, dia mengusap wajahnya dengan rambut yang berbau chamomile. Bertekad, dan seolah-olah tidak sabar, dia membungkuk dan menyentuh kelopak mata, pipi, bibir dengan ujung pay*d*ranya. Dia tersenyum, sangat lambat, lembut, menggenggam bahunya, dan wanita itu menegakkan tubuh, melepaskan diri dari jari-jarinya. Dia berseri-seri, bercahaya dalam cahaya fajar yang berkabut. Dia bergerak, tetapi dengan tekanan dari kedua tangan, dia melarangnya untuk mengubah posisi dan, dengan gerakan pinggulnya yang ringan namun tegas, menuntut tanggapan.
Dia menjawab. Dia tidak lagi mundur dari tangannya; dia melemparkan kepalanya ke belakang, menggelengkan rambutnya. Kulitnya dingin dan sangat halus. Matanya, sekilas ketika wajahnya mendekati wajahnya, besar dan gelap seperti mata bidadari air.
Terguncang, dia tenggelam ke lautan chamomile saat itu menjadi gelisah dan mendidih.
English.
She entered very carefully, moving silently, floating through the chamber like a phantom; the only sound was that of her mantle brushing her naked skin. Yet this faint sound was enough to wake the witcher – or maybe it only tore him from the half-slumber in which he rocked monotonously, as though travelling though fathomless depths, suspended between the sea bed and its calm surface amidst gently undulating strands of seaweed.
He did not move, did not stir. The girl flitted closer, threw off her mantle and slowly, hesitantly, rested her knee on the edge of the large bed. He observed her through lowered lashes, still not betraying his wakefulness. The girl carefully climbed onto the bedclothes, and onto him, wrapping her thighs around him. Leaning forward on straining arms, she brushed his face with hair which smelt of chamomile. Determined, and as if impatient, she leant over and touched his eyelids, cheeks, lips with the tips of her breasts. He smiled, very slowly, delicately, grasping her by the shoulders, and she straightened, escaping his fingers. She was radiant, luminous in the misty brilliance of dawn. He moved, but with pressure from both hands, she forbade him to change position and, with a light but decisive movement of her hips, demanded a response.
He responded. She no longer backed away from his hands; she threw her head back, shook her hair. Her skin was cool and surprisingly smooth. Her eyes, glimpsed when her face came close to his, were huge and dark as the eyes of a water nymph.
Rocked, he sank into a sea of chamomile as it grew agitated and seethed.
To be continued.
