8.2

She was in the kitchen. Not perched on the counter, offering him nibbles in between washing up, but seated in a chair, watching him work. He had a whole list of things to be mindful of when scrubbing out the cook-pot. Most particularly how it must be dried thoroughly afterward, and really she should just wait for him to do it because he worried her arms would snap off if she tried to handle it herself.

To which Orma rolled her eyes and sipped at her tea, Brum batting at her leg with his long tail as he happily looked between his people.

He had such a way about him. He did not talk down to her with his instructions. There was no embarrassed squirming in her stomach that she felt like a child, and their relationship was somehow tainted by her rather stunted education.

He simply... talked.

And she listened.

And would likely need to be told at least three more times before she felt remotely proficient at any of it, but that wasn’t the point.

She’d tried to tell him she was well enough to help with the cleaning, but he insisted the first lesson should always be observation first. Hands-on training was far down the line.

He got a glimmer in his eye when he said that, as if the words weren’t really his. “Is that how you learned?”

He finished with the cook-pot and returned it to its usual place on the stove. “Under my master’s tutelage.” He paused, as he often did when he spoke about his past. She didn’t feel guilty for poking at the bond, trying to see what troubled him about it. It wasn’t hesitation for her sake. But rather...

He hadn’t done it for so long. Perhaps the memories did not come as easily any longer. Tucked away and left to themselves. Shoved aside by other, more relevant matters. It made her hurt for him.

She would listen. To anything he cared to share with her. So maybe they could become real to her as well.

“My parents... they preferred to involve me in whatever I desired. Which led to a few burns along the way, since I was determined to learn to cook as my mother did. Well. It was the sweet things, mostly. Because if I knew how to bake them myself, then how could she refuse me eating as many as I pleased?”

Orma smiled, waiting to feel a tinge of envy for the life he’d known before. The one so decidedly different from her own. But she found she could listen. Could appreciate the parents he’d lost. The childhood he’d clearly loved.

“It made for more than one lecture when I started my apprenticeship. Always wanting to jump in before the foundation was set. That’s what he said, anyway.” He turned to her, looking far too handsome as he dried his hands on a cloth. “And how is your foundation?” he asked, quirking his brow and attempting to look stern.

“Abysmal,” she answered, knowing it was true and feeling surprisingly all right with it. “But better today than it was yesterday.”

She smiled at him, and she was rewarded with a returning smile, full of all the affection he felt for her. She was trying, and her efforts were noticed and appreciated.

Orma leaned back in her seat, using her one free foot to rub at Brum’s back as he lounged on his cushion. The other was tucked beneath his girth and was steadily growing numb.

When Athan had brought her down, the table was empty of all evidence of medical notes and texts. She really should ask what happened to them—if he’d taken them back to her father without her notice, or if he’d stashed them away in the storage room upstairs. Or maybe they’d been absorbed into his father’s library.

But she found she did not much care, not so long as they would be kept private—and she even trusted Athan more than her own father on that front. Her father had overridden her wishes more than once if he deemed her judgement faulty. Athan hadn’t. Wouldn’t.

She waited for the niggling doubt to come. To steal away the peace she’d found sitting here at their table, watching Athan go about teaching her household tasks.

But all was quiet.

“What?” Athan asked, giving her a curious look.

Her head tilted to the side. “What do you mean, what?”

Athan’s eyes narrowed at her. “You are looking at me most strangely.”

“Oh.” Orma shifted in her seat and continued rubbing at the Brum, who rolled over so she might access some of his belly as well. “I was thinking about what happened to the books,” she tapped against the tabletop so he might know which ones without her having to bring up that particular subject again.

“Ah. They’re upstairs, if that’s what was worrying you.”

Orma took a breath. Smiled again. “I wasn’t,” she answered, far more truthfully than she imagined she would.

Athan looked at her as if he found her very strange indeed, and that was all right. It was a private revelation, and she could have those, even with the bond bright and coiling between them.

He shook his head at last, mumbling something to himself about silly mates and strange looks, and began a lecture on the importance of prompt attendance to kitchen messes, lest a host of sky-lint be drawn through the shutters and overtake the space.

“I know what those are!” Which should not have pleased her so greatly, and almost startled Athan with her enthusiasm for them. They weren’t terribly exciting at all—just tiny little flying insects that swarmed in great plumes in the summer evenings, catching the last of the sunlight and reflecting off their shimmering wings. She’d loved to chase them when she was little, her sister sitting primly off to the side, too old for such nonsense. Her brother had been older still, but he would scoop her up in the air and fly with her as they drifted higher than their mother cared for her to go on her own.

There was always a wistful sort of pang when she thought of her siblings. They deserved their own lives, their own families. They had proper mates and provided the heirs, and they were busy with work at the Hall.

While Orma...

She took a breath. Let it go.

Athan drifted toward her, squeezing her shoulder lightly. “How do sky-lint make you sad?” he asked, a little bewildered but always gentle with her feelings. “Frustration, I could well understand.”

She swallowed, turning her head to glance at him in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion. “I was thinking of my siblings,” she admitted. “They were so much older than me. I miss them, but I also... don’t. Is that awful? I hardly know them any longer. Which is probably my fault. I rarely went to them. I couldn’t help when my sister had her babies. And I always felt a nuisance to my brother’s mate.” She rolled her shoulders, trying to push back the sudden melancholy. There was no need for it, but it tried to settle, anyway. So she diverted. Back where it was safe. Where she felt sure and certain of herself.

So she leaned into his touch and thought of how he asked for her to tell him she loved him. How he needed to hear the words, not simply rely on the bond for reassurance. “I trust you,” she shared, feeling his heart swell to be told so. “That’s what I was... before, before. That I didn’t need to ask where my books ended up because you’d take care of it.” She paused, sighing a little as the moment settled. Of Brum at her feet. Of Athan at her side. “You’ll take care of me.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, his wing coming to wrap around her along with his arm. “Most happily,” he promised her, and although there was a part of her that would dispute that—that no one would choose a mate on purpose that was anything less than hale and hearty...

There was no mistaking his sincerity. He enjoyed doing it, strange man that he was. He liked tending to her.

“Now,” Athan asked, standing back to his full height. “Do you require anything else to eat, or is tea sufficient?”

She nodded to the chair across from her. “Just tea, and you in your chair actually getting to enjoy yours with me.”

He hummed, his own mug next to the sink where he’d taken intermittent sips. But it wasn’t the same as sitting and sharing, and he could not convince her otherwise.

He retrieved his mug and poured a fresh helping from the pot before he sat. It was... nice. Just to be. The last of the pressure in her head was easing, and her stomach was full and her heart equally so from the company she kept. Even if her foot had entirely surrendered under Brum’s weight, utterly neglected in circulation.

“Better?” Athan teased, easing back in his chair and watching her carefully. Not because he expected her to burst into tears again. Or to flee out the front door and disappear into the dusk. But just because he liked to look at her, or so he claimed.

She didn’t mind. She liked to look at him, too.

And in her opinion, hers was the better view.

◆◆◆

Orma paced in the garden, Brum watching her from his head tucked into his front paws—distinctly irritated.

Athan had not been wrong when he said his time watching the fish in the stream was a serious business. She was a distraction with her movements, and he did not seem to appreciate it.

“Sorry,” she mumbled for the third time.

Athan had left her that morning. Which was fine. She’d told him to. There was a patient he particularly wanted to see, and although she’d felt better the night before, he’d insisted on another draught to banish the rest of her headache before it had a chance to return.

Which was sensible.

But it also meant she fell into a deep sleep, despite how much rest she’d had the entire day. And it meant when he’d woken her, full of apology and a heavy-laden breakfast tray, to occupy her time when she awakened for good.

He’d asked after her. Of course he had. If she was as poorly as yesterday, he wouldn’t leave at all. But that would mean more potions, and she would not begin that habit anew.

So she’d told him she was fine.

And she’d almost meant it.

As she’d slept another half-hour, then drank tea kept warm by a covered cloth. Ate smoked fish and a piece of bread thickly buttered.

The idea of remaining in bed afterward was less than appealing. The bed needed attention—to be aired, at least, if not stripped and the linens replaced. Then she needed a bath, which was not such a terrible thing, except she missed him even in that. Even undressing was enough to make her think of him, although it had only happened the once.

If he’d been there, he would look at her as something precious, leaning against the doorway as if certain he’d be ejected if he came a little too near. Maybe he might have been, before. When she was shy and uncertain of both herself and of him.

But now she was sorry for his absence. That he could not watch as she smoothed fragrant soap along her limbs. That she would even lean forward and ask him to attend to her back and wings.

He would swallow. Would do as she bid, because the request had been hers and he would deny her nothing.

His touch would be chaste—he would do only what was asked of him. He wouldn’t stray, would not capture a handful of breast simply because it was there and available.

But he wasn’t there, and all she had managed was to get herself flustered and bothered.

She dressed. Stripped the bed.

Stared at the pile and hadn’t the least idea what to do with it. There was always someone else to come and whisk away the rest—presumably either to wash or take to a proper laundress. But there was only her, and she was not about to risk ruining perfectly good linens by tossing them in the bath and scrubbing at them with soap meant for people rather than fabric.

She found more linens in a cupboard in the hall, and that felt an accomplishment. Making the bed was less so. She fluttered back and forth, tugging and tucking until it was suitable, but it was all much harder than she’d expected.

Which was good. Better to be huffing and puffing over hard work than... other feelings that she could not satisfy.

Satisfied with the bedroom, she took the rest down to the kitchen and left them in a pile in the corner. Athan would know what to do. Perhaps even Brum did—or perhaps he was interested in the linens themselves, because he nosed through the lot before curling up in the centre of them—eyeing her with far too much gratitude as if she’d meant to give them as an offering at all.

She should push him off. Surely it would be harder to scrub sheets when they were also covered in fluff.

She chewed at her lip. Athan could do that. When he was back. Her accord with the Brum was far too new to disturb him and still preserve their friendship.

There was more she could do. Or... more that another, knowledgeable woman might do while her mate was attending to important work. She wiped at her forehead and settled on another cup of tea. Better to rest in between her labours, lest she overtax herself and waste the rest of the day tucked into clean sheets with a pounding head.

But then the tea was gone, and she was alone again.

Which was supposed to be fine.

Except he’d woken this part of her, and it really was horribly unfair of him.

The Brum had tired of her as the day wore on so he’d escaped to the garden. She’d left him be for a while, then she ached for even his company, so she followed.

And paced.

And wondered if perhaps he’d loved her a little too well, if she could be this distracted when there were other pursuits that should occupy her time.

Except there weren’t. Not yet, anyway. She had no responsibilities. No household tasks to call her own.

Which left her with far too much time and far too many feelings.

She sat down on the bench. Which really did not help her mood, because they sat there together, and he wasn’t there, and why had she not thought to bring a book out with her? Not one of the awful medical texts, but something nice. A story. Perhaps about mates finding each other against all odds, or the loveliness of everyday life, or...

She groaned, pushing her head back and letting the sunlight war with the coolness of the breeze, heating and cooling her all at once.

She’d take off her shoes and put her feet in the stream, except she did not know if that would disturb the fish and therefore the Brum.

Flustered and terribly bothered by even her own thoughts, she shifted, turning so she could lie back on the bench and stare up at the sky, willing herself to sleep. Which she couldn’t, of course. But she could try.

But she found herself willing the backdoor to open, instead. For Athan to come back, to pick her up, to tell her he’d missed her.

She did not expect for him to open the window up above her.

Did not expect for him to suddenly be there, looming above her as her eyes opened and she was too surprised to sit up quickly enough.

“Do you know,” Athan asked, his voice low and not angry... not exactly. Frustrated, perhaps? Or... “How terribly distracting it is to complete an examination when my mate is bothered?”

Which was mortifying. Or might have been, except he was suddenly kneeling at her side, his hand coming to the back of her head to cradle it from the hard surface, but also to keep her still.

While he kissed her. Off-centre and askew from his awkward place beside her, but no less wonderful.

There was no keeping still. No placidly accepting his kiss while she lay quiet and receptive.

Her hand moved without thought, delving into his hair and holding him to her, unwilling to relinquish him now that he was hers again.

But breath eventually became a necessity. And when he pressed his face against her breast and she smiled in triumph, certain she should be sorry but utterly unable to conjure anything of the sort, she skimmed her fingers through his hair and was rewarded with his shudder. “Do you know what it’s like to have your mate doing important work and feeling bothered just at the memory of him? Of wanting him back so badly, but trying not to be selfish.” She nuzzled against the top of his head. “I want to be selfish,” she admitted. “I want to keep you all to myself. To use my good days to their fullest.”

He made a strange, choked sound and she pushed his head back so she might better assess what was wrong with him. Which evidently was unacceptable, because rather than let her look, he took her in his arms instead. “You have been bothering Brum,” he reminded her. And she could lie and say that hadn’t, but that would be foolish.

“I was lonely,” she said instead, because that was true.

“You could have visited you mother,” Athan suggested, somehow managing to open the door without her assistance. “She would have liked that.”

She’d considered it. Briefly.

But she’d be alone, and her mother would ask with that hopeful glint in her eye if they’d mated fully yet, and look over Orma with all the expectation that she was better. Truly better.

And Orma didn’t think she could handle that yet.

“Yes, well. I thought of that before my bath. Then I started imagining what it would be like to have a bath with you, and visiting became far less interesting.”

They passed through the kitchen, his steps hurried by the gentle movement of his wings, adding speed to each half-step. “We will tear down the washroom wall,” Athan explained, as if it was a serious suggestion. “Expand it so there will be room for the both of us.”

She laughed, except his eyes were serious. As if... as if it was of supreme importance they make that a possibility. “Athan, that’s absurd!”

He quirked a brow at her and pushed open their bedroom door. The shutters were open, the breeze pushing away the last remnants of her previous day. “Is it? Why?” He leaned down and ran his lips across her temple, and she shivered lightly. “I should like to have you in a bath. All warm and soft with oils.”

Orma swallowed thickly.

“Well... that would be... that might be...”

He placed her down on the bed and gave her no time to formulate her objections to the scheme. It would take time, and resources, and surely it would be intrusive to have someone come in and knock out a wall, even for something as appealing as a bath large enough for two...

Orma’s eyes widened because a sudden thought distracted her from the steady pulse of her blood. “You didn’t leave a patient up there, did you? Because if you abandoned one just because of me then we can’t possibly...” she was pushing at his shoulders, ready to shoo him back, but Athan held firm, kissing one cheek. Then the other.

“They left,” he promised her. “But I saw you out the window, and it seemed far too much effort to go around.”

“Oh,” Orma murmured, letting the urgency fade in favour of relaxing against the mattress, her arms soft as they twined about his neck. “All right, then.”

He chuckled at her. Kissed her deeply.

As if there was nothing else he would rather do than be there with her. To kiss her. To relish the moments when she was well, and love in different ways when she wasn’t.

There was no hurry. For all his bursting through windows and kissing her on benches, he did not push. Did not delve beneath her clothes or push between her legs. He wanted to be just like this, luxuriating and only when her grip on his hair tightened—when the bond flared and she whispered his name, did he allow his hands to travel.

Which she could have allowed. Let him play with the threads that coiled and tightened at his simplest touch. Even now, the merest whisper of his fingertips against her wrist was enough to make her breath catch in her throat. To fight the urge to squirm and pull him closer. She did not think she needed as long to be ready for him as she had before. Which meant if there would be fewer explorations, then they were going to be hers.

She reached for his shoulders. Pushed lightly, then a little more firmly when he merely gave her a quizzical look before he moved back with far too great a concern.

He thought he’d frightened her. Silly man. With the bond warm and pulsing between them, he would know she wasn’t. He’d done nothing wrong, so she leaned forward and kissed him as she pushed him onto his back.

He had his boots on.

So did she.

And these were clean linens, so that was hardly suitable.

And he’d been at the infirmary, which meant...

She nibbled at her lip, wondering at herself. At conflicting desires and the want to get on with things and satisfy this newfound ache that was far more pleasurable than the ones she’d known before but no less distracting.

“Stay,” she insisted. “Just... stay.”

She hurried for the supplies she wanted. If they couldn’t have a proper bath together, there could still be warm water and a clean cloth, and she could watch his skin pebble as she worked.

“Orma,” Athan called when the water took longer to heat than she wanted.

“Stay!” she repeated.

He would. Because she’d asked it of him, and because she could feel him peering at the bond, trying to work out her whims.

That was all right. Let him look and wonder.

She was careful with the pitcher so she did not slosh, even in her haste. She had a cloth for washing, and another for drying. He’d removed his boots and undone the laces of his shirt, but one knot at his wrist was giving him trouble.

“That was going to be my job,” she chastised, putting down her supplies on the night table before coming to stand in front of him. “You’re spoiling my fun.”

“If your fun includes leaving me alone when I could have you in the bed with me, I question your taste.” He brought his free arm to wrap about her middle, pulling her toward him. His legs had opened, so she was nestled far more closely than she ought to, and his hand was trying to find that particularly sensitive spot on her hip through her clothing.

“You’re making this much more difficult than it needs to be,” Orma protested, knowing full well if he insisted on teasing her, she would quickly lose her resolve to properly dote on him.

“Am I?” He pulled her even closer, crushing their arms between them as he nuzzled his head between her breasts.

She scratched lightly through his hair, trying to pull him back to look at her. “Yes,” she insisted, bending down low enough to kiss him just the once lest he think she was truly cross. “You are. Now keep still while I work.”

She pushed at his chest, and his lips twitched as he did not move at all, even at her prompting. Orma rolled her eyes, but made use of it and removed his shirt.

Knots conquered, she smoothed her hand across the lines of his stomach, eyeing him almost shyly. “Lie back, please.”

She would not indulge the parts of her that clung to modesty. He was going to lie naked as she’d been before, and he would let her do as she liked and then she would have her way with him.

It was nice to be decided. To feel the heavy weight in her middle as parts of her swelled with enthusiasm at what was to come, but it was a pleasant sort of awareness. Not urgent. Not pressing and forcing. But very much present as she tugged his trousers free and watched his throat bob as he watched her.

“Are you going to disappear again?” He asked, and she really should have asked if this was all right. The suns were bright in the window, and their neighbours were far enough that the view would solely be for her. But perhaps he had his own modesty to contend with.

She chewed at her lip, considering.

“Do you mind?” she asked, gesturing over him. “Would it help if I...” her cheeks flamed that her compromise would have her remove some of her own clothing, but there it was.

“Yes, please,” Athan urged, not at all looking as if he was bothered in the least, his hands coming to tuck behind his head while he waited for her to strip off her dress.

She really should rescind it. Keep him at her mercy while she was perfectly chaste and covered. But it would only grow colder for the rest of the season. And there would not be warmth left for lying about without blankets and thick shawls, most especially without a hearth.

A larger bath.

A hearth in their bedchamber.

Her heart fluttered to think of the changes they might make. That they had the freedom to do so.

There were rules about the tower. The preservation of history. Of culture. Tapestries could be exchanged, but only when the others were cleaned and properly stored for future generations. Rooms must be maintained—freshened with new upholstery, but not with renovation.

But here...

She made a great show of loosening her hair. Of running her fingers through the length. Seeing to the ties at her throat down to her navel. Her shoulders. Then shimmied out of the dress itself with heat in her cheeks and a flutter in her heart to see him so... interested.

She kept her shift on. Indecent, but covered for the moment. She feared if she took it off too, he’d lose what little remained of his self-control and wouldn’t let her have her fun with washing him. So it stayed, and she pushed him to lie back, and he did so, still watching. He was on her side, which shouldn’t bother her, but it felt... wrong. So she came to stand on the other side and waited for him to move to his own pillow, and he chuckled softly as she obliged her. “So particular,” he insisted, and she rolled her shoulders.

“You love me anyway,” she reminded him, knowing full well the truth of his answer.

But he hummed, and reached for her, and while she took his hand briefly, she would not let him distract her. She re-situated the pitcher on his table, made sure the water hadn’t cooled too much. She wouldn’t like to be doused in tepid water, and while this was for practical purposes, there were also parts that most assuredly were not.

The ones that wanted to touch him. To look. To be as nosey as she liked, to understand all the parts of him in ways that other mates might. Not hiding behind lowered lids and modest blushes. Bold and...

Free.

His breath caught when the cloth first touched him, and she hesitated. “Too cold?” she didn’t think so, but perhaps she’d misjudged.

“No,” Athan assured her, doing his best to take on a more at ease position. “Just fine.”

She shook her head, amused and something else that had... very little to do with amusement.

She didn’t know she could find a form so fine as she did his. For her eyes to be drawn to a slim waist, strong hips. To find the curve of his wrists and the strength in his forearms strangely alluring.

She had the advantage, of course. She could swipe the cloth and mild soap across threads she could see. Could feel the bond respond in turn, could marvel at the way his muscles bunched and tensed as he waited to see where she might go next. Not to push, not to hurry, but full of anticipation.

It did not take long before he stood ready for her, and there had been no need of teasing or coaxing at all to have him there.

Should she wash there too? He did. Always fastidious about his hygiene. But perhaps this had little to do with cleanliness at all. Maybe it was about pleasing him as he did her. Of learning what made his blood race, of what could turn his vision black. Could steal his breath and make him wholly hers, for just a single moment.

“Orma,” Athan murmured, and she’d been staring in her indecision, and that should have been mortifying enough, let alone to be caught at it. There were taut lines about his neck as he struggled with the strain, and she was... tormenting him, she realised. With long, slow passes of wet cloth against skin. Of heat that pooled and spread—through her and back to him.

Over and over.

“Come here,” he urged, and she hadn’t even got to dry him yet, and this was her seduction and she would do it how she pleased.

But then she looked at him.

Looked at his eyes.

Found the entreaty there. The need for her. Not to stand and play at nursemaid, but to be with him. In the ways she’d wanted only the day before, but been denied.

She meant to crawl over him to get to her own side, pitcher and cloth forgotten on the table. He could dry in the sunshine, and perhaps that was nicer, anyway. But before she’d cleared him entirely, his hands found her hips, gripping and tugging until she straddled him.

Not tucked up high as she’d been before.

But lower.

Letting him nestle between her from the start.

She gasped, eyes wide, because that was bold and highly presumptuous of him, but she could not deny the way her own pulse heated. The way she warmed and fought down the urge to squirm. To move. To take him in hand and...

Why did she need to wait?

Except that he was holding her. Keeping her still. Waiting for her to look at him. “Are you still sore?”

Oh. She had been, hadn’t she? But that was yesterday, when the world was tainted by pain and discomforts. Today was different. She shook her head and smoothed her hands against his torso. Watched his muscles clench and relax at her slightest touch. Over the threads that twined up and around his hips. He had no cluster of bond where she did. His was farther up, just beneath his ribs, and if she cared to, she could scoot further down. Could lie on top of him and press a kiss there, just to watch him be the one to squirm.

“Orma,” he repeated, his voice low and needful.

“Athan,” she answered, as his hands moved over her hips. Over scar tissue. Too-tight muscle. Smooth skin.

“I should like to...” he began, then stopped. Hesitated. As if she would deny him. Would complain and make him wait.

Was there more that should happen first? A set time, an amount of kisses to be shared before culminating in the more?

She didn’t know. Could only take a breath and run her finger down his chest and watch his eyes burn as he took in the view of her. “Like to what?” she asked, feeling horribly wicked for asking when she knew the turn of her own thoughts. She was teasing him, she realised. But also teasing herself. Testing her self-control. If she could be patient.

He was.

She however...

She didn’t expect him to break first. For him to suddenly sit upright. To catch her in his arms as she nearly fell backward. For his eyes to dance with good humour and desire in turn as he crushed her to him. Kissed her deeply. While she was wedged and suddenly far more needful than she’d been a moment before.

It was the angles. Or maybe the way he’d pounced at her. Claiming and holding, his hands caressing her sides, holding her waist. The way he—she swallowed thickly, her breath catching in her throat—moved his hips just once, pressing up at her.

“I want to have you,” Athan murmured into her ear.

Her heart hammered in her chest, and the threads between them sparkled and shone in the sunlight.

“Then have me,” she urged. Not a taunt, not a tease. A promise.

He made a strange sound at the back of his throat and brought one hand to cup her head and hold her in his kiss. The other delved between them, urging her to rise just enough that he might join them.

In her mind, he would lay her down first. Would make it like it had been their first time.

She hadn’t expected to feel him prodding at her, seeking entrance with her perched in his lap. Wondered at the mechanics of it, wondered if she should move or keep still, should offer to lie back and let him do as he’d done before.

She did so want to be helpful.

But then he caught. Sank or pushed, or maybe it was a pull if she was the one on top of him, and she did not want to move, needed to adjust to the feel of him like this, her hands tight on his shoulders as she tried to make sense of the sensations.

It was pressure, firm and tight, made all the more because of the angle of his body against hers. She felt too sensitive to move, Athan’s breath a warm pant against her shoulder. “You all right?” he asked, smoothing circles into her waist with his thumb.

Then not her waist.

Toward her hip bone. Where he knew that cluster of bond to be, awaiting attention.

She gasped, finding it all a little too much, and she very nearly got off of him entirely.

She pushed at his hand, and that was better, the movement rocking her ever so slightly. Distracting her. “I...” she started to answer him, because that was important. To connect, to answer his queries because he cared about her comforts, and she had been sore, but now...

She made another, experimental movement.

Then another.

While he abandoned his grip on her hair so he could smooth his hands over her back, her hips. And it felt much less like he was the one taking her, and instead...

He shifted back ever so slightly, and she couldn’t question about pillows or if his back was straining and they ought to move over. But it allowed her room to do as she pleased, which had been the point after all. Even if it meant not getting to dry him properly, even if she had forgotten to remove her shift and it was tangled and scrunched up between them.

Those things should matter.

Would. After.

Once she...

If she could only just...

“My Orma,” he murmured in her ear, pulling her into his embrace, obviously not caring for the increased distance between them.

The bond flared.

Pulsed.

And her blood along with it, her muscles tensing, coiling, then releasing all in a rush that left her dazed with it all.

She didn’t remember Athan’s pleasure, too consumed with her own. It seemed to stretch on far longer than it should have, so maybe that was his, as he coaxed out of the last of her satisfaction while he submitted to his own.

It had all happened so quickly. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she’d simply grown too lost in the whole of it, where time mattered little, and there was only him and her.

When she had calmed enough to pay attention to more than the ebb and flow of her own emotions, she opened her eyes. Reached up and cupped Athan’s face. Kissed him once. Waited for him to look back at her. “Are you all right?” she asked, stroking her thumb against his cheekbone.

She thought he would turn on his side. Would nestle her close. But he did not seem ready for even that, instead curling his arms about her and holding her in the most intimate embrace she could imagine. “I love you,” he said rather than give a proper answer to her question.

That was just as well. She’d never managed one of her own, either.

And because he needed to hear it, not just feel it echoing between them, she hummed. Brushed her fingers through his hair. “My Athan,” she murmured, and felt him shudder. Felt him retreat, which was a strange and alarming sensation as he slipped free of her.

But he didn’t pull away. Just held her close.

And she let him. For as long as it was needed.

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