The Widow's Ways update

“You have no idea what I want,” Tilda said firmly. It was said more for her benefit than for Minerva’s. She didn’t like the idea that the Widow still had a grasp on her thoughts and feelings, that she had changed so little that Minerva could still look into her mind.

For a moment, Minerva looked down at herself, at the tanktop and athletic pants that had become soaked with sweat as she did her work-out. There was no telling how long she had been at it before Tilda had discovered her. It must have been a while for her machinist body to work up a sweat. And she still looked as if she could run a five-minute mile.

Minerva moved as casually as she would if a dog or a cat were watching her; she stripped off her top, then lowered her pants. Her breasts were bound in linen to keep them in place during her exercises, while lace panties preserved her modesty below the waist with the luxurious tastes Tilda had always known her to have. 

Her body was perfection, as carefully maintained and sculpted and manicured as her lovely face had ever been. Even the faint sweat caressing her supple muscles only added a glimmer to her body, while the few scars she had earned in battle accentuated her sensuality, promising wicked delights as much as they hinted at her harsh past. As a cog and a Baroness, her worth had been in her beauty, and no punishments had marred it. Those scars were all on the inside.

Minerva noticed how Tilda’s eyes were lingering on her and let that go almost unmentioned; Tilda’s ears burned with the palpable tension that came from leaving it unacknowledged. But she was almost over her embarrassment when the Widow finally continued their conversation: “Neither do you,” she said, her wry humor making her seem amused by Tilda’s wandering eye more than anything else.

Tilda moved, lashing out at her, and Minerva had already dropped her soiled clothes in the first second of the bout. Tilda held nothing back, hoping to overwhelm Minerva with sheer force and her youthful stamina. Minerva had, after all, been exercising when Tilda stumbled upon her. It wasn’t fair, but Minerva was the last person who could or would complain about that.

Minerva moved with a surpassing grace, a dancer’s movements, sliding and flowing away from Tilda’s blows like the sunlight throwing itself around in spring. She was ephemeral, fluid, never where Tilda’s fists landed or kicks traveled. But when she countered, it was with brute force that belied her effortless sensuality. Tilda’s bones ached in her knotted fists as Minerva knocked her swings aside and blocked her kicks. 

The Widow was breathing hard, but not from exhaustion. From exhilaration. “Good. Good. I’m proud of you. You haven’t forgotten your skill. And you’re more than in touch with your rage. You know you deserve to feel it, to express it—“

“Shut up!” Tilda barked, now swinging wildly in an attempt to pin Minerva down. Roundhouse kicks and lead hooks scything through the air, trying to catch Minerva despite her weaving—like hunting deer with a catapult instead of a crossbow. 

It didn’t work. Tilda should’ve known it wouldn’t work. But she could see that Minerva was holding back, not following through, trying not to hurt Tilda more than she was trying to defeat her, and that incensed her beyond all measure. She knew she’d earned it when her kick pinwheeled into Minerva’s side—but instead of doing any damage, the Widow moved with the hit, taking the blow and absorbing the impact as her arm pinioned down and caught Tilda’s leg, then hiked it up into her armpit, trapped. Minerva was through giving Tilda second chances. 

She stepped forward, right into Tilda’s space as effectively as breaking down her front door, and barreled her down onto her back, landing on top of her, holding her down in a cast-iron grip. While Tilda was still processing the sudden proximity of Minerva—God, her speed—the impression of bittersweet sweat and blazing red hair and the sheer heat radiating off of the Widow’s very body—Minerva was locking Tilda’s arms up above her own head, legs kneeling into Tilda’s midsection. Tilda might burst her own appendix on Minerva’s kneecap before she got the Widow to let her up.

“That wasn’t very smart, Tilda. And you’re such a smart girl. Why is it that when it comes to me, you get so damn stupid?”

Tilda tried to escape, knowing it was hopeless—the Widow wouldn’t lock in a hold without knowing it was unbreakable. And there seemed little point in testing just how serious Minerva was about leaving one of her own people fighting fit, if that erstwhile Regent proved stupid enough to… do everything Tilda had done. But she was tired of being patronized. A part of her wanted Minerva to take off the kid gloves and leave only the iron fists. Wanted to be disciplined, wanted to be hurt, just so she knew what she was to the Widow. Wayward Butterfly? Temporary ally? An enemy being toyed with like a cat with a mouse?

“Do you feel better now?” Minerva asked. Even this early in the morning, her breath was sweet as candy. Tilda could’ve laughed at her vanity if Minerva weren’t so close.

Tilda struggled against her. Minerva held her arms down, dropped a leg down between Tilda’s thighs so that whenever Tilda tried to raise her lower body, all she accomplished was rubbing her womanhood against Minerva’s firm thigh. 

“Don’t hurt yourself now,” Minerva cautioned, smirking insolently as she saw how Tilda’s fighting spirit died away. “It’s interesting, the interplay between sex and violence. I would’ve thought any woman would be aware of it, especially with you having courted Odessa. But I suppose everyone has their blind spots.”

“Let me go!” Tilda demanded.

“You can ask more politely than that. Or…” Minerva took one hand away, leaving Tilda’s two arms pressed down by only her one. Her thigh was still against Tilda’s groin, not actively stimulating her, but the firm pressure was enough to make Tilda uncomfortably heated. “I could give you an advantage. Seeing as you’re less experienced.”

“You’re sick,” Tilda said. She couldn’t marshal the willpower to try to escape again. She didn’t know if that was because she would give herself more pleasure trying to break free, or because it would end the blissful tension she was already feeling.

Minerva smirked, the expression big and bright in Tilda’s vision as her face dipped down until it had disappeared from Tilda’s sight. She whispered in Tilda’s ear. “If it would make you feel better, I would let you pummel my skull into gristle. I would let you carve this beautiful face from my bones so you’d never have to look at it again. I would allow you to rip out my tongue… but it would still be my voice you heard calling out in the night, when you’re alone in bed and you don’t know what will make you sleep. You’re right, Tilda. I don’t know what you want. But I know what I want. And you can give it to me.”

She took her leg away. Tilda gasped slightly. It hadn’t felt good, exactly, but it had taken away an ache she had been feeling in her sex for what felt like forever.

“I’m not holding you down, Tilda,” Minerva said. “You can get up if you want to.”