3.2

Just as she knew he liked the way she pulled him to her. That he liked her fervency as she urged more of him on top of her, wanting the weight. To be as close as they possibly could, even if her need for breath made it a too-short interlude.

And it was delightful. The feel of skin against skin, warm and cool in turn, the shivery feeling that skittered down her arms as she hugged him to her, her fingers tangling in feathers, soft and downy as she pressed deeper.

She was met with a groan. As if he was sore in places and she’d pressed too hard—or maybe not enough? There was a nudge in her chest, as if she’d found the right of it. And her hands moved cautiously back to where they had been, and this time she found the base of his wings—taut where skin met feathers.

She rubbed.

Was rewarded with the feel of his head as he pressed it down against the curve of her shoulder, his body shuddering over her.

The angle was awkward for her, and she wished she knew how to coax him to the bed beside her. She’d climb on top of him. Coax his wings to spread and she could work properly. Wings could be a fussy business, and his reaction suggested perhaps his family was not tending to their responsibility of care for him.

She wanted to ask.

Didn’t.

Not about the bed, not about his kin.

Asked nothing at all when suddenly he was wrenching away from her hands, the bond tugging and wriggling, then settling when his mouth found her, insistent and needful.

Her sighs were lost between them, her attention only drifting from the want of him when his hand skimmed down her side, taking her shift with him.

She tried to help. To move her hips and use her legs to push it down and away from her. But doing so pressed their lower portions together in a way that made her breath catch in her throat, even as Lucian grew still and his breath heavy as he drew in heavy breaths over her.

Words failed her. There was only the sudden sense of urgency. That shifts were stupid and unnecessary. Just as were the trousers he wore to sleep. Most particularly when the knot he tied at the drawstring was not the same as the one on her shift, so she fumbled and murmured out a curse, only to be batted away so he could tend to it himself.

Which was fine. She could see the shift down her legs and threw it artlessly over the side of the bed while Lucian did the same.

It was almost enough to make her laugh at the both of them. That for two souls that had such difficulty talking with one another, they could be so aligned in this.

But he was reaching for her again. Brought his hands to her hips and then the softness of her thighs, and pushed them open.

Which should have made her feel exposed and nervous. Should have made her want to grope for the bedclothes so they might do their explorations under some shroud of modesty.

But they weren’t particularly modest, were they?

The book was inadequate. The diagrams too.

There had been paragraphs about preparing a mate—of needing to stroke at a male so that his phallus might extrude and settle into her opening properly and without discomfort.

She reached for him. Perhaps that was something she should have asked about first, but the impulse came upon her so quickly that she quite forgot her manners. She only made one full stroke down the length of him before his hand caught at her, keeping her still. “The book said to prepare you,” she insisted.

There was that choked laugh again. The shaking of his head as he pulled her hand away and held it. “I am quite prepared, I assure you.”

Oh. Well. “All right, then.”

She waited for him to prod at her. The book was quite clear that copulation should begin quickly after readiness, lest essential moisture be lost in the meantime.

But he didn’t.

Instead, it was his fingers she felt down below. Gentle. Careful. Smoothing against her with a delicate pressure at first, so soft that it was almost a tickle rather than the jolt of pleasure she’d experienced before. She bit at her lip and wondered if it would be terribly greedy to ask him to be firmer. Wondered too if his book had been the same as hers.

Or...

What if he hadn’t had one?

Which was a rather sobering thought, and she was not at all prepared to give that sort of education in the moment, not when her pulse was racing and her fingers twitched with the want to reach for his wrist and hold him to her and make him truly touch her.

“What else did this book say?” Lucian asked, his mouth near her ear. Low. Intimate. Only for her. “What did it say that you needed?”

Something deep inside gave an exquisite pulse in answer.

“Well,” she swallowed, her thoughts feeling very far away when he was touching her like that. But he had asked a question and it would be rude not to answer, and they were so very bad at talking to one another... “I confess I paid more attention to the sections on you.”

That smile again. The one that was not just a smile and made her stomach tighten when he looked at her. “Did you, now? And why is that?”

Firen swallowed, his touch shifting just a little. Dipping inside, she realised. Teasing her. “Because...” Her breath hitched. “Because I take care of you. And you will take care of me.”

He hummed again. Not an argument. Which was good. Very good.

She had not ignored the pages on female anatomy entirely. She knew how they would fit together. Knew he was touching something just at her entrance that made her breath coming in tight little sips, her heart racing to keep in time. “You don’t...” she insisted, thinking of the way he’d stopped her, of the pleasure he’d denied himself for reasons she could not quite name. “That is, we should...” She angled her hips slightly, trying to encourage him to join with her. Together was better, wasn’t it? Together was the point.

“Hush,” Lucian murmured. “Let me prepare you.”

Prepare? If he knew he was ready, then surely she could declare the same. That the aching, clutching feeling in her insides meant she wanted—that she needed him. But maybe there was something she’d missed in all her reading. Some pain he meant to keep from her with his dedication. Some consideration that she would be rude to ignore.

It was easier to say yes when he kissed her shoulder. When his mouth returned to her breast. When she grew distracted over what exactly he was doing down below because it all tumbled and churned into a thrumming tension. It made her shift and squirm, and even to tug at his hair as he continued to kiss and...

He licked her.

Just the once, across the flat of a nipple that had never known much use before. He turned his head to gauge her reaction. Which... which did not make sense to her in the least. Because that was a silly sort of thing to do, and yet...

He did it again. Lingering. Making patterns in her skin that perhaps were words, perhaps were symbols. Blessings? She couldn’t be sure of anything at all. Other than she did not want to stop. Did not want him to stop.

There was an urgency building in her. A craving that was not satisfied. Not by his dipping fingers that stretched and then retreated. Not by his ministrations to her breasts. The bond was a quiet sigh within her chest, but there was the memory—the reminder that there was more. That while he was pleased with her, pleased to pay her such attentions, it was not shared. Not in the same way.

“Can I be ready now?” she asked. As if he would know when it was her body. Her reactions.

She was met with a chuckle, and this time the kiss was to her lips. “If you like.”

But it wasn’t her hand that stroked and steadied him, it was his own.

And there were no more touches to her breasts, not when he was using the other to hold her open, to ease the way, to pause and halt when first he breached her. His breath was taut, the muscles in his neck equally so.

Patient. For her.

Because...

It stung.

Not fiercely, but a warning that she should not be too exuberant, not encourage him too quickly.

And he was looming, and she didn’t like it. He felt too far and too close all at once, and maybe she should have kept out of it entirely and let him tend to her and to him, but...

She reached for him instead.

Brought him back down to her. Which shifted matters considerably, and she felt him enter a little more fully. But it did not bring more pain—instead, it brushed against that portion of her he had found with his fingers, and her breath caught.

And her hips shifted.

And he was the one to hiss.

Which was a rather satisfying sound. When she had the bond to assure her he was all right and she had done nothing terribly wrong after all.

It was her turn to hum. To pull him as close as she could, and if she brought her legs just so, shifted and made room and clutched him to her, then the feelings spread. Honed. Until she gasped lightly and was rewarded with his groan. Of knowing they were as close as two people could be, and that...

That was glorious.

Perhaps they had some matters to sort out between them, but this would not be one of them. Not when he moved just so, when her pleasure amplified his. And his made hers feel safe and sweet. That she could touch as she liked, that she could rub at his arms, could find that spot between his wings. That she could do nothing at all and simply enjoy the feel of him as he moved over her. Treasure each of the kisses he placed on her cheeks, her lips. The way he curled his fingers into hers and his motions became more purposeful.

Stroking. Pausing. Settling deep and letting her body hold him still as her own muscles contracted in ways no diagram had managed to relate.

She did not want it to end.

She wanted to live in this moment. The belonging, the sweet tension. The knowledge that something was about to happen, and she wanted it. Needed it. But also... didn’t.

Because then it would be over, and she’d be tempted to talk again. But then he whispered her name. Or perhaps it was another groan.

But it was there.

She said his name in answer.

And she did not know which release came first. Knew only that the tension peaked at a magnificent unfurling. That the world was white, and the bond was bright and overwhelming in its peace. Its rightness.

She felt somehow languid and excitable all at once. That she might begin to laugh if she was not careful. That she would kiss him again, this time in triumph. In the affection that bloomed from every part of her. The need to touch him was fierce. To cling and hold and draw out that perfect moment for just a little longer.

Which was unnecessary, she knew. They had forever. Perhaps it would not all be new as this was. But it would grow more tender as they learned more of one another. He moved off of her, and she might have mourned the loss if he did not nestle her to his side, allowing her to do as she pleased. To kiss occasionally. To nuzzle and whisper little promises too quietly for him to hear.

That everything would be just fine. He’d see. His family would love her because they loved him. He would admire hers just as soon as he met them.

“What are you muttering about?” Lucian asked, his hand picking up a section of her hair so he might see her lips and make out some of it. “Not complaints, I should hope.” He was teasing her, because he knew perfectly well how much she had enjoyed it.

“Oh yes,” she countered, curling up against him. “Because it’s over,” she clarified, before he could take any sort of offense. “And I rather liked it.”

She did not ask if he felt the same. She knew he did. Had felt it in every bit of him. It might have been nice to hear, however, but that was all right. She knew she was freer with her words and feelings than most.

“And you wanted to sleep,” she chided, shaking her head in a dramatic fashion.

“An absurd thought,” Lucian agreed. “When this immodest creature intended to have her way with me.”

It was not exactly a compliment, and yet the words filled her with such fondness for him she thought she might burst. “Perhaps I might have considered sleeping, if you had worn proper night clothes.”

He rolled his eyes, but it lacked the tension he’d worn before. It had all eased out of him, at least for the moment, and she would treasure that as fiercely as she held the rest of it. “I brought it upon myself—that is what you mean to say?”

Firen sat up slightly, beaming at him. “Precisely.”

He was going to kiss her again. She could see it in his eyes. Feel it through the bond. To punctuate their teases with something warm and affectionate.

But instead, he sighed, rolling away and stretching out his muscles. “Where are you going?” she asked, distinctly disappointed that he had denied the kiss she felt had been promised to her.

“Did your mother never teach you to wash afterward?”

She didn’t like the prickly feeling that spread at the mention of her mother. The wariness that interrupted the perfect understanding she thought they had found through mouths and touch and mated congress.

She sat up, trying to smooth away the hurt that had no business being there, and stilled when he grasped hold of her chin gently and kissed her. Just once. Not the lingering, needful one that she’d wanted, but a brush of sweetness that soothed her more than she cared to admit. “I meant no insult if she didn’t.”

Of course he hadn’t. It was more of his teases, that was all, and she’d been foolish about it.

So she tossed her hair as he released her, and she knew it was tangled and frightful after their loving. A comb. A wash. “The book might have mentioned washing, yes,” she added as she vacated the bed as well. Rumpled. That’s how it looked. Where it once had been all crisp lines and a carefully tucked coverlet, now it appeared... likely as she did.

Lucian did not move even as she moved toward the bathing room. “We’ve only the one,” he reminded her, his brow furrowed.

She glanced down at herself. She had not forgotten she was naked—couldn’t, not when he was equally so and looking rather marvellous. His phallus had retreated, just as the book said it would, and she found herself wondering how long it might take to bring it out again. Which would mean washing all over, and that was a tedious business, wasn’t it? “Is there something you’ve not seen that you would need a separate bathing room?”

She did not bother to mention that facilities were scarce in her childhood home. That privacy was a luxury sometimes forfeited out of necessity.

Lucian huffed and brushed past her, but opened the door and gestured her in first.

She did not flounce. Truly, she didn’t. But from the sound that Lucian made as she walked past him, it was more than apparent he appreciated what he saw. Which was just as well. She found his form immensely pleasing.

The room felt smaller with both of them in it. Not cramped—not like when Eris grew impatient and intruded at home. It felt... intimate. Even more so when he went to a cupboard and pulled out a cloth. Then stopped her when she made to douse it in cold water from the tap.

He pulled on a decorative cord dangling near the basin, then opened the tap.

Instead of the cold water she’d used for her teeth, it was warm—almost hot.

He wetted his own cloth, then kept it running so she could do the same. “How?” she asked, thinking of kettles and hearths and even the stove that Da had installed after a particularly extravagant commission.

“Magic,” Lucian answered dryly.

She threw her wet cloth at his bared chest and was gratified at how it stuck to him before he retrieved it, scowling at her as he handed it back.

“A tank in the wall, heated by the hearth. Happy?”

“Elated,” Firen answered, wondering which parts of her she should wash first. Top down, she supposed. She rubbed at her lips, feeling a wistful sort of sadness as she did so. She did not really want to wash him away. But the book agreed with him, so she went to work. Lips. Her neck. And yes, her breasts that had returned to their earlier nothingness. There were no rippling sensations down her middle when she passed the cloth over the tips that had been so sensitive earlier.

But there was memory.

That sent fluttering pulses through her. That reminded her of what she’d experienced. That it had been real and glorious and would be theirs again.

She just wished she remembered what the book had said about when.

She caught him watching her. It embarrassed him to be caught. She could tell by the way he glared and his own movements roughened as he went down his stomach and began poking at the slit that hid his phallus. Would he bring it out again, just to wash?

Suddenly she felt a little awkward, suddenly realising why he might have wanted to attend to such matters without her watching him. But she’d been the one to insist, so she took the cloth to her own hidden places and wiped away the remnants of the two of them.

“I thought it would be messier,” she commented, wondering if she dared to dip inside as he had done to coax out any extra fluids she might have missed. But that felt... not precisely wrong, but a far greater show than she intended to give. Later. Perhaps decades later. When their eyesight grew poorer and the lights were dim, it wouldn’t matter quite as much.

“Did you?” He was exposed again, but it looked... different than it had. She could not explain why. Less... ready, and just... an organ. A part of him, to be sure, and he grimaced as he passed the cloth over himself, as if it was sensitive to touch. Which it would, wouldn’t it? She certainly was.

“Well, if we had to wash afterward, I assumed there would be quite a mess. Although I suppose it did not mention the need for laundering afterward, so perhaps I was wrong to assume there would be quite so many fluids involved.”

Lucian rubbed at his eyes and his hand delved into his hair. She tried not to stare as the organ retreated, but really, it was rather fascinating.

But she’d promised not to be too nosey. Did that mean understanding male anatomy as well? She hoped not. But his expression was not exactly pleased, so maybe it did.

“Sorry,” she murmured, and found that she meant it. “I just... waited a long time to understand everything. I’m excited.”

He took the cloth from her and deposited them both in a basket, evidently intended just for such a purpose. “It’s just rather sudden,” he begrudgingly offered. Not a reprimand, not exactly, but a warning of his feelings.

She needed to be respectful. And keep her eyes to herself occasionally. And maybe allow him to use the bathing room on his own.

It was humbling. Enough that she wrapped her arms about him and hugged him close for a moment, just so he might feel that she truly was sorry for overstepping. For rushing him. She’d even wait to ask how long it might be before they copulated again.

Generous of her, really. Thoughtful.

“I am sorry,” she said again.

And was rewarded with an awkward sort of pat on her wings.

“For which aspect?” he asked, not exactly carefully, but with a weariness that had not been there before. Perhaps he was afraid of talking as much as she had become. To grow serious and allow petty differences to influence what should have been simple.

Firen pulled away from him with a sheepish sort of smile. “Intruding. When you want privacy, I will respect it. Or... try to. As best I can. Just because we are mates doesn’t mean I expect we must spend every moment together.” She just might wish it. With all of her heart.

But it wasn’t practical. Mama had reminded her of that with increasing irritation when Firen would sigh and sit at the table and insist that she could not imagine spending her days working with the children or the kitchen and only seeing her mate for mealtimes and evenings.

Mama would roll her eyes. Without fail. And more often than not, hand her a dishtowel and would she please stop her daydreaming and this was real life, and mating was not all fantasies and togetherness.

Firen had listened. Truly. While harbouring all sorts of her own ideals of what it meant and what it was for, and she couldn’t quite understand why her mother had not taken more interest in the workshop and most importantly, the man that devoted his skill and his work to it.

Another pat, this one settling. Which felt much better. More like a proper embrace where he might overlook her neediness. “I shall endeavour to forgive you.” Before she could work out if he was in earnest or if this was yet another tease, he pulled away. “Now, we sleep.” He grasped her chin once more and held her gaze—as if she intended to look anywhere else when he was talking with her. “I do mean it this time.”

She wanted to say that she was fairly certain he’d meant it the last time, too. That if she kissed him long enough, the bond would do the rest in coaxing him, that perhaps they might at least try to see if his body was ready enough to go again.

But she didn’t.

A concession. To show him she could listen. That she cared what he thought and how he felt, even if it did not perfectly align with her own desires.

“Sleep,” she agreed. But his lips curled downward at the corners, and his eyes narrowed at her. “What? I didn’t argue!”

He hummed.

Didn’t take her hand to lead her back into the bed, which left her feeling more bereft than she should have.

By the time she followed, he was standing at his trunk, rifling through its contents. “The last time I possessed a sleeping shirt, I had not even moulted.” It was a grumble, more to himself than a revelation for her. He meant to dissuade her with clothing, then. She shook her head, and did not even watch as he put on another pair of trousers—knotting the cord that held them.

She did not watch. But if her eyes drifted just to catch that last part, then... peeking did not count. Not exactly.

She stepped into her shift and tied up the shoulders, but she did not knot them. She did not mind if he woke with newfound appetites.

“You do not need a shirt,” Firen assured him, climbing back into her side of the bed. The one she’d been all too happy to vacate when he welcomed her to do so. “I had to share with my sister for a while. I’ve been told I’m the perfect bedfellow. Might not even know I am here.”

He snorted, abandoning his search and taking to his own side. “That I do not believe.”

She needn’t be affronted, but there was a tinge of it. Most especially because she couldn’t reach for him and soothe the sting with physical affection instead. She needed to keep to her word. She would not be nosey. She would let him sleep and keep to herself.

Firen hated both promises immensely.

It felt... lonely. Even with him so near. His back was to her, his wings a proper barricade when the bedclothes went over the top of them. It would have been better to match his position, to close her eyes and pretend that he was curled about her. But that only reminded her he wasn’t. That there was no warmth behind her back, no solid chest and strong arm about her middle. Her wings made no pillow for his cheek, her hair did not move gently with each exhale.

Lucian groaned.

Rolled.

And her heart swelled with delight when he did just that. She did not even mind the grumbling under his breath. About bonds and how did she expect him to sleep when she was tugging so fiercely at it, and he would have words with her sister about lies and perfect bedfellows.

Which filled her with a new sense of peace. That he would speak with her sister. That everything would be all right in the morning. They’d make sure of it.

Together.

“Sleep,” he insisted, this time a growl low in her ear.

Which was not at all something that could be commanded. And yet...

She could sigh. And it did not count as moving if she wriggled just a little closer.

He rolled away from her, eventually. Back to his side, where she wasn’t clinging, and he could have space to breathe without her intrusion in his every sense.

But that was all right.

Because she was sleeping by then. And he was still close. The bond said so.