Claim deridia book 5, p.31
Claim (Deridia Book 5), page 31
And then she had kissed him.
He’d kept so still, absolutely certain that if he’d moved, if he had even breathed, she would have frightened away from him. Stammered apologies, or given more drivel about her place and that did not include being so presumptuous.
Even with her own husband.
So he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t breathed. And she had been bold, and he had been so outrageously proud of her for that moment’s bravery that it had taken everything in him not to kiss her soundly in return, to hold her to him, to shower her with praises.
But that would frighten her, he knew.
So he’d waited. And been rewarded with more of her lips against his skin, his cheek, his brow.
Until finally, she was where he wanted her most.
And they had parted too soon, the urge to share with her the last pieces of his family, his history, insisting that he take her, then and there, to Machrus.
And he had.
And now...
He felt freer than he had before. As if some secret he had not meant to keep had been lifted from him.
He had meant to speak of it sooner. Not at the very first, or so Lorken had chided him when he’d suggested it. It would too easily lead to a misunderstanding, or so his brother claimed. Make her feel unwanted, more burden than wife.
But as he held his wife in his arms, as the prospect of fulfilling their accord in the most intimate of ways was suddenly and incredibly before them, he knew that he was grateful.
Not at his brother’s loss.
Never that.
But that the Yarrow had opened their doors. That one last treaty had been afforded.
That he was the one to be bound to this woman.
That she wanted to be his.
He carried her to their bed. But he did not dwell on how small and fragile she had appeared when last he had carried her here.
He thought instead of the tilt of her chin as she stood on her chair, the determination that filled her as she claimed her rights.
It was beautiful.
And so very unexpected.
And he would deny her nothing.
He eased her onto the bed, his own heart pounding in his chest. He wanted this to be right. For her. For them. There had been too much to learn, to unlearn, and he prayed that this at least might be different.
If it even happened at all.
He had meant it when he promised her that he awaited her word. Any denial, any hesitation at all, and they would part.
Even as everything in him ached at the thought of separating from her. He had grown used to wanting her. To contenting himself with their chaste exchanges, to providing her all the time she needed to grow comfortable in his presence. Better a lifetime of companionable evenings than acting too rashly, too quickly, and damaging the burgeoning bond between them.
And that fear might even have been enough to paralyse him now, to urge her to wait even longer, until she was surer, until she was confident enough in herself, in him to know that he did not expect this of her.
He was used to the wanting.
But what he felt, gentle and timid and new was the want that seeped through the bond itself. He would never have allowed it to trespass from him into her, not when such an advance would have undoubtedly been unwanted.
But she did not know her own capabilities, and he knew little of how to instruct her. Not when it was still unclear just how able her Yarrow mind would adapt to the bond itself.
But it flared, open and earnest, just as it did when she looked at him. No longer full of fear, anxiously awaiting his disapproval—or worse yet, that he might physically harm her.
Not even the mild glances she had taken to giving him, when she was as close to content as he had yet felt from her.
This was something else. Something urgent and foreign, and she was right to be nervous.
The Maker knew that he certainly was.
He had meant to undo the lacing of her leggings while she stood upon the chair. His fingers had found the carefully tied bow, even concealed by the long shift she wore overtop. But he had not quite managed it, and she had yet to surrender her arms from about his neck, holding him to her even as she lay reclined against the bed.
A kiss upon his cheek. His throat. His mouth yet again, her lips softer than he had ever imagined.
Not that he had allowed himself to dwell about such things.
He had been proud of himself for that. To have kept his thoughts and his desires carefully away from her. To put her needs far, far above his own.
But it was a need, wasn’t it? To be pulled close? To be held?
Not as a sibling did, love punctuated by teasing words and rougher handling.
Adelmar had taken it upon herself to ensure he received an embrace at least every fortnight since his mother had gone away, declaring him just as needful as any other, despite his claims to the contrary.
But that was his sister. Insightful to the last, certain in all things.
The perfect sanmira.
Rook pulled back, needing to look at his own wife, to see her cheeks, a brighter blue than he’d ever seen them, her eyes, so deep and sparkling that they might have been the cusp where river met lake four spans eastward.
How had it come to this already? When she’d born so many hurts, so much backward instruction.
But perhaps that was the truth of it.
To him, he’d only shown her the little kindnesses. No more than any should have expected from a stranger that, eventually, hoped to be named a friend.
Or even... something a great deal more.
Someday.
And despite his worries, his concerns that she was not yet ready...
One look at her eyes, and he was lost.
For the need that was present there simply mirrored his own.
His fingers moved of their own accord. Finding the pull of the drawstring that held her leggings neatly tied about her middle, tugging and releasing through the shift.
Reaching upward, watching as the near-black pupils of her eyes opened further as she watched his hands delve beneath the modesty of the thin muslin that kept her covered from his eyes.
His breath grew shorter as he felt the impossibly soft skin of her thighs, the gentle curve of her knee, then finally the delicate ankle—first one, then the other as he pulled the leggings free.
“Lovely,” he rasped, the word so wholly inadequate for what he thought of her. She was beauty itself. So different from his own kind, but there was a grace in her every feature, the movement of her body, usually kept so firmly controlled.
And was now unravelling.
Her hands had found the bedclothes, grasping tightly then releasing, her breath coming in short little bursts.
Did she wish to touch him? To reverse their positions so that he was the one that lay prone, while her fingers delved and pulled clothing free in their wake?
Would she know that she could ask it of him—ask him anything at all—and he would not deny her?
He smoothed his hand back up the length of her leg, back to its place against her torso. He did not attempt to remove her shift. Not yet. Not until he knew for certain that she would prefer all garments removed from her person. Her skin was growing warmer, a fine sheen causing her skin to shimmer with what he could only hope was desire.
“I feel...” she began, her voice lost as she shook her head as his hand came to explore the regions of her chest. It was slimmer than a Marzon woman, only the barest of swellings that suggested that she might nurse a newling there if one was given the chance to grow.
There was a pang of sadness there, but he gave it no purchase. It was theory and nothing more, that no child would be able to grow from their union. The markers were there that it would prove an impossibility, but there would be others to love and cherish.
Born of others, yes.
And perhaps that would sting all the greater, with time.
But for now...
“How do you feel?” Rook asked, knowing that he felt as if there was a vice tightening about his chest, that the need to be closer to her was nearly a tangible thing.
An instinct that was unfamiliar to him. He’d felt the rumblings of desire before—he doubted any could claim they had not. But he’d little inclination to marry, and he would dishonour no woman in such a manner.
But she seemed to have difficult voicing such thoughts, and he very nearly pulled back, to allow her time to think, to find the words that were currently eluding her.
Only for her to abandon her grip on the bedding and grab hold of his face instead.
For him to be lost in the deep blue of her eyes.
And to feel her pulling, tugging at him through the bond, to bring him closer.
To look.
To feel.
And he did not know that it could be used so. Not like this. Impressions, yes. Language and custom even. But it was hardly a tether to be used with such purpose.
But he could not ignore her. Not when everything in him urged him to close whatever distance he could between them.
And if the first was to be mentally, then so be it.
He shuddered when he allowed him to sink further into her mind, to feel the heat that was coiled and simmering, a thrum of awareness that would have brought him to his knees had he not already been hovering over her upon the bed. It was safety and doubt all rolled into one, of trust and nerves.
And a little fear as well.
Of herself.
Of what might come after.
Despite the fact that he would never betray her in this manner—not ever. If she feared that their joinings would be experienced by all tied to his bond, then she was mistaken.
This was for them alone.
He soothed what he could. Reassured what he could, his fingers stilling about the slight swell of her breast, the other stroking along her temple, quieting the needless concerns, the worry that need no taint what was going to be lovely... so very lovely...
If only they were brave enough to begin.
He swallowed. He could have courage enough in the few skirmishes that had occurred during his time as a trader. Bandits who slunk into camp and thought to steal what was not theirs, only to find that the Marzon were well defended with their bows and knives.
Yet Naida...
She made him feel the coward he always feared himself to be.
Afraid to ask too much, afraid to push too quickly. Afraid to teach too much, to expect her to give more than she was able.
That any word he spoke might be misunderstood, and leave even more hurts on a soul that had been tainted by too much hardship.
They could not speak through the bond. No words could pass between them.
But he had a voice for that. Low and gentle as he murmured into her ear. That she was a gift that he did not deserve. That he would be so tender with her, that he would never dream of hurting her, never. “It would only be hurting myself, do you see?” he asked, his thumb stroking along the line of her cheek.
And the reminder brought the relief she required, for she relaxed against him. She need not speak at all, if she did not wish to. Did not have to try to tell him if something was not to her liking. He would know. The bond was relate it without her effort, and while he hoped that she might feel comfortable enough to give voice to her pleasure, or her displeasure, there would be time for that, wouldn’t there? When their marriage was no longer new, when they were so accustomed to each other, in mind as well as body, that she knew there would not be any recourse.
Not for this.
Never for this.
“May I look at you?” he asked, and he withdrew slightly from her mind so he might settle instead on his other senses. And her brow furrowed before he drew his hand to skim along the neckline of her shift. There was a cord there, so it would not require its full removal. Only the insistent tugging of a ribbon. Of a wife that did not mind if her husband saw just a little more of her.
But only if the thought was an agreeable one.
She drew in a tight breath before she nodded. He tested the bond, and while she was nervous, it was no more so than it had been. He did not think his heart had ever pulsed so quickly at such a simple action. Just the pulling of a cord, just the sound of her sharp inhalation when the ends tickled across her collarbones as he eased the gathers open.
Until the neckline gaped, until fingers could delve, slowly, ever so slowly, exploring what he had been unwilling to look upon, even when she had dressed and undressed in his presence.
Privacy was not something he had cared about before. There had been too many brothers during his growing up years, although he had become more possessive of his sanctuary when his parents had given him his own sleeping space. But the roads were long and the travel tedious, and on hottest days the band would often make use of rivers and lakes to cool off after a long day of walking.
But this... this was entirely different.
The Yarrow were a modest people, regardless of their penchant for fabrics so light the suns caught through the many layers.
“Are you all right?” he murmured, forcing himself to look upward, to catch her eye, rather than simply stare at the newly uncovered flesh.
She swallowed, and he could feel her pulse flutter beneath his hand, but she nodded, a glint of heat and desire pooling in her eyes.
And that was all the permission he required.
Always gentle. Always careful. But he allowed his lips to meet new flesh, to explore all he liked while he felt her squirm and gasp lightly when he found particularly sensitive spots. He would commit all of them to memory. Someday would know her body even better than he knew his own. Which parts she liked seen, which ones she preferred simply to be touched, or any she wished avoided altogether.
The thought of that encouraged him, that while he was new and unpractised, that would not be forever.
Someday...
Someday this would be easy. No less beautiful, he was certain. She would be no less beautiful.
But instead of the anxious knot of worry that he knew was coiled in the recesses of both their minds, there would be a confidence. That touches would bring only pleasure. That their desire was mutual.
The strap of her shift slipped down her slim shoulder, permitting him another few inches. There was a subtle change to her skin, a little paler, pulled taut by the exposure to the room.
Or perhaps even due to his ministrations.
The thought made him smile, that he might affect her in such a way.
And when his lips found their new expanse, there was no mistaking the hitch in her throat, the way her hand flew and found its way into his hair, holding him close, pushing him back all at the same time.
Even as her back began to arch.
All her sensitive places.
He wanted each and every one.
It was the most delicious sort of game, one that might take a lifetime to perfect.
But a what a lifetime that would be.
He smoothed his cheek against the curve of her breastbone, and when the second strap met the same fate as the other, he was afforded another two inches.
More squirming as she grappled with her composure.
Did he dare take her shift away completely?
He wanted to. How he wanted to.
To see her fully bare, lying on their bed.
Waiting for him.
Wanting him.
It was a vision he’d not dared allow himself to conjure. Not when it would hurt too much while she warred with her own instincts and upbringing, pushing aside anything that resembled...
This.
But before he could ask, he felt her fingers at the fastenings at his waist, and it was his turn to swallow. Her eyes were slightly dazed, and he wondered how aware she was of her own actions. It was a boldness he had not expected, but he would begrudge her nothing—nothing at all.
Even if it meant distracting him from his fun as he explored the upper regions of her person.
Her movements were awkward, her arms hindered by her shift, by his position nestled between her legs. It was indecent.
But mostly, it was wonderful.
He pushed her hands aside gently, and undid the clasp for her. Then smoothed a hand up the length of her, marvelling at her softness, the strength hiding beneath a form so delicate.
“I care for you,” he murmured, needing to say it. Needing her to know it.
If possible, her eyes darkened further. “I believe you,” she answered.
And how was he to keep from kissing her again, when her voice, the very bond itself, spoke of her truthfulness? There would be doubt yet. Uncertainty.
But in that...
She was sure.
And he was heartened by it. Made him a little more courageous himself as he stepped free from the last of his own clothing, as he pulled her with him until her head was upon the pillow, her legs no longer dangling against the edge of the bed itself.
And the feel of her...
Of skin against skin...
To cover her so fully with his body. To feel the first rasping need for friction, to move against her.
To find her most hidden places, and find his welcome there.
Her hands found his shoulders, caressing lightly, gripping tightly as his hands smoothed against her side.
Her hip.
The ever so slight swell of her belly.
And lower still.
He wished he could commit her whimper to his memory for the whole of his days. The first delicious breath that came when he touched her, and there was no pain, just a thrill that echoed from the recesses of her mind, straight into his own.
To smooth her open, an anatomy he was unfamiliar with, had only allowed himself the barest of understandings when he had studied the knowledge of her people.
But he knew enough.
Enough to prepare her. To allow her to grow used to his touch. His fingers.
Just as she had grown to respond, to even counter his kisses with determined ones of her own.
Until her hips began to squirm, until her breath shortened to pants, especially when he touched something just inside. Something firmer to the touch, that had her close her eyes tightly as her heels dug into him, urging him to...
