Page 45 of First Snow
If it were up to Arttu, he would gladly skip the silly party and spend the night with Jareth in their room. The bed looks nice, and there’s a generous tub in the bathroom. But he’s here to bring down a murderer, not to get laid. He must always keep that in mind. Arttu forces a hopefully convincing grin onto his face.
“You can ravish me anytime,” he says, his voice deceptively steady. “Doesn’t matter to me if some of your posh friends are watching.”
And isn’t it funny that he sounds so convincing? Because that’s a lie squared: he’d rather have Jareth to himself, but if he has to go to a party with him, Arttu would prefer they show everyone that they belong together, now isn’t that twisted? Jareth, of course, is absolutely oblivious to Arttu’s inner turmoil and the falseness of his words. It breaks Arttu’s heart a little to see the soft smile with which Jareth regards him.
“Then let’s get ready. I can’t wait to see you in a slave’s outfit.”
“I look like Princess Leia in her slave costume,” Arttu complains to Annikki and Paul who are crowded into the bathroom with him. Between the three of them, and Paul’s giant costume suitcase and makeup cart, the spacious wellness temple feels crammed. At least the hilariousness of the whole situation helps Arttu distract himself from the inconvenient fact that he has grown way too attached to Jareth. And isn’t it amusing that Jareth flew in his right-hand woman, as well as a fucking stylist, just to help Arttu dress up? The gesture makes a pleasant fluttering spread through Arttu’s chest, nonetheless.
This isn’t supposed to happen. He’s supposed to stop an operation as soon as his professional attitude is compromised. Arttu has hammered this simple logic into the heads of dozens of officers preparing for their first undercover mission. But he can’t follow his own rules here, not when no one will investigate once Arttu withdraws.Not when it means never seeing Jareth again, a treacherous voice in the back of his mind adds.
Arttu focusses on his reflection in the mirror, unhappily turning this way and that. The sight doesn’t get any better. There are heavy golden cuffs around his wrists and ankles, and a golden belt sits low on his hips, holding a flimsy excuse for a skirt: two red sheets of fabric that barely cover the more private parts of his body. How did Carrie Fisher pull this off? Arttu looks ridiculous.
Annikki, of course, is greatly amused. “Don’t worry, you look hot. EvenIcan admit that.”
Arttu feels himself blushing. Damn, this is embarrassing.
“This costume is indeed inspired by Princess Leia’s slave outfit, and you look fabulous in it. But we can always try something else,” Paul offers.
Paul is a sweet guy in his fifties, funny and relaxed. He’s trying his best to make Arttu comfortable. It’s definitely not his fault that Arttu wants to crawl into a hole and hide.
“Or do you want me to do the Amidala makeup to match?” Paul asks, chuckling. “It would certainly suit you.”
“Oh my god,” Annikki squeals. “Please, you should do that!”
“Absolutely not,” Arttu yelps, horrified.
Paul regards him with a thoughtful expression. “Allow me to try something.”
Arttu sighs in defeat.
Arttu steps out of the bathroom, heart hammering in his chest. Paul has decorated his face with a fantastical golden pattern that frames his eyes like a mask made of stars. It makes him look like a stranger even to himself, cheekbones sharper and eyes larger, as if he were indeed some alien creature. Jareth is going to laugh at him.
Arttu’s bare feet don’t make a sound on the plush carpet, so he has a second to watch Jareth standing with his back to him. He looks stunning in dark blue suit pants and a dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms. Sipping a cup of espresso, Jareth gazes out the tall windows into the darkness. He’s sexy as hell, suave, and—
Jareth turns around. His gaze falls on Arttu and his eyes widen. He chokes on his drink and starts to cough violently.
Rushing to his side, Arttu awkwardly pats him on the back.
“That bad, huh?” Arttu asks when Jareth has caught himself enough that he’s able to straighten up and breathe again.
“What?” Jareth regards him with a dazed expression, pupils blown wide and lips slightly parted. He looks almost as if—
“The costume,” Arttu stammers. “I look ridiculous—”
Jareth’s hand closes around his throat; not choking, just pulling him to the tip of his toes. He presses a harsh kiss to Arttu’s lips.
“You’re gorgeous, sweetheart.” Jareth turns him towards the full-length mirror recessed into the door of the closet and coaxes Arttu to look at himself with two fingers pressed under his chin. “Breathe. And now look at yourself.”
It’s weird seeing himself like this. Arttu is used to being perceived as taller than he actually is, as he’s broad-shouldered and sturdily built. But next to Jareth he looks…almost petite. The costume appears even more salacious next to the elegant clothes Jareth is wearing.
Jareth’s large hands glide feather-light over Arttu’s arms. Next, he skims over Arttu’s chest and stomach. Arttu’s hands instinctively move up to cover his soft belly, and he suddenly feels even more self-conscious. He doesn’t have chiseled abs to show off, but who has the body of a carnal deity like Jareth has?
“Don’t hide from me,” Jareth whispers and bats Arttu’s hands away. “You look absolutely perfect the way you are, good enough to eat.”
Arttu makes a strangled sound, close to a whimper. Jareth’s adoring words leave him dazed.
“I had a thing for this costume as a boy, you know?” Jareth adds conversationally. “But it confused the hell out of me, because I’d have preferred to see Han Solo wearing it.”