Freyja can feel the blazing, rigid length of him beneath her. Growing impatient, she sets a thumb in wheel-rut of his hipbone, slips it beneath the waist of his trousers. His thighs twitch. His palm fits itself against her hip and turns feral, bunching her tunic higher around her waist. Freyja ducks in to nip at his lower lip.
With a growl he shoves her back, reaching behind him for the crumpled bearskin and spreading it flat beside the fire. Freyja admires the predatory working of his muscled back as she tugs off her tunic and boots. The way his exhale smokes in the cold when he turns and catches sight of her again. He spreads his palm over her breastbone and presses her back onto the makeshift blanket, kneeling beside her.
He has fine hands. Large and calloused, with short blunt nails - yet there is something sure and graceful in the pads of his long fingers and the way they settle on her skin, firm as pebbles, light as snowflakes. Craftsman's hands, she thinks. Slowly, experimentally, he thumbs her collarbone, the line of her throat. She shivers.
When he unwinds her breastband and lowers his head Freyja squeezes her eyes shut, fingers tangling in his hair. Pants under his glowing mouth, the purr of his beard against her skin. He keeps his left hand resting on her neck, over her pulse; Freyja wonders if he can feel it. Wonders, idly, if the thumping life beneath his palm might have the power to flow into the torn skin, and offer healing. Bucks, and cries out, when he pulls back and his breath ghosts over the dampness on her breasts.
She opens her eyes to a man who does not look healed: his jaw is locked, his eyes crinkled shut as though in pain. It makes her clutch his hair and pull his head down, draw his tongue fiercely into her mouth. Freyja lets a small, needy sound flutter in her throat, lets him feel it vibrate against his palm, and he groans like a man dying; for one convulsive second his hand tightens around her neck.
She chases that sound as hard as she's ever hunted anything in her life, sliding her hands beneath his clothing, dragging his trousers down his hips. By the time she finds it again her own smallclothes are gone and he has rolled to cover her body with his own, supporting himself on one trembling arm.
He can't sustain it for long. When he collapses down onto his elbows the breath goes out of her. He's not a small man, but even so he's heavier than he looks. Made of iron and earth. Freyja squirms a little, enjoying his warm weight and the way he shudders when she moves against him. "Tell me what you want," he breathes, and she looks up, questioning.
"Isn't that how it goes, in the bards' tales? The mighty warrior saves the maiden from certain death, and then it's kind sir, how can I possibly repay you?" He laughs at himself easily, painlessly; she likes that. "I never thought to be the maiden."
She reaches for him, smiling darkly. "You are no maiden." The proof is hot beneath her fingers. His breath stutters and she pulls him to her, like lightning to the earth.
He chokes and tenses and fights himself, eyelids quivering. Her head falls back. In the stillness and the silence she is almost too aware, every sensation like a needleprick. The coarse soft fur of the bearskin beneath her, the night wind fluttering in both their hair, the scarlet glow of the fire limning one side of his face. Over his shoulder she can see the stars like gleaming sword points in the blue-black sky. "Move," she growls.
He moves like a river - with a steady, devouring power, a smooth ferocity. The driving force of him presses her so deeply into the bearskin that she can feel the tiny stones and divots in the ground beneath. Freyja batters herself against it, clutching at his back, barely keeping above the plunging current. Then she lets it take her. Lets him roll over her, drowns and gasps for air and drowns once more, surges with him to break like a wave again and again and again - and then fall away, in a tumble of white sound.
Songs For Nomads 1.8
With a growl he shoves her back, reaching behind him for the crumpled bearskin and spreading it flat beside the fire. Freyja admires the predatory working of his muscled back as she tugs off her tunic and boots. The way his exhale smokes in the cold when he turns and catches sight of her again. He spreads his palm over her breastbone and presses her back onto the makeshift blanket, kneeling beside her.
He has fine hands. Large and calloused, with short blunt nails - yet there is something sure and graceful in the pads of his long fingers and the way they settle on her skin, firm as pebbles, light as snowflakes. Craftsman's hands, she thinks. Slowly, experimentally, he thumbs her collarbone, the line of her throat. She shivers.
When he unwinds her breastband and lowers his head Freyja squeezes her eyes shut, fingers tangling in his hair. Pants under his glowing mouth, the purr of his beard against her skin. He keeps his left hand resting on her neck, over her pulse; Freyja wonders if he can feel it. Wonders, idly, if the thumping life beneath his palm might have the power to flow into the torn skin, and offer healing. Bucks, and cries out, when he pulls back and his breath ghosts over the dampness on her breasts.
She opens her eyes to a man who does not look healed: his jaw is locked, his eyes crinkled shut as though in pain. It makes her clutch his hair and pull his head down, draw his tongue fiercely into her mouth. Freyja lets a small, needy sound flutter in her throat, lets him feel it vibrate against his palm, and he groans like a man dying; for one convulsive second his hand tightens around her neck.
She chases that sound as hard as she's ever hunted anything in her life, sliding her hands beneath his clothing, dragging his trousers down his hips. By the time she finds it again her own smallclothes are gone and he has rolled to cover her body with his own, supporting himself on one trembling arm.
He can't sustain it for long. When he collapses down onto his elbows the breath goes out of her. He's not a small man, but even so he's heavier than he looks. Made of iron and earth. Freyja squirms a little, enjoying his warm weight and the way he shudders when she moves against him. "Tell me what you want," he breathes, and she looks up, questioning.
"Isn't that how it goes, in the bards' tales? The mighty warrior saves the maiden from certain death, and then it's kind sir, how can I possibly repay you?" He laughs at himself easily, painlessly; she likes that. "I never thought to be the maiden."
She reaches for him, smiling darkly. "You are no maiden." The proof is hot beneath her fingers. His breath stutters and she pulls him to her, like lightning to the earth.
He chokes and tenses and fights himself, eyelids quivering. Her head falls back. In the stillness and the silence she is almost too aware, every sensation like a needleprick. The coarse soft fur of the bearskin beneath her, the night wind fluttering in both their hair, the scarlet glow of the fire limning one side of his face. Over his shoulder she can see the stars like gleaming sword points in the blue-black sky. "Move," she growls.
He moves like a river - with a steady, devouring power, a smooth ferocity. The driving force of him presses her so deeply into the bearskin that she can feel the tiny stones and divots in the ground beneath. Freyja batters herself against it, clutching at his back, barely keeping above the plunging current. Then she lets it take her. Lets him roll over her, drowns and gasps for air and drowns once more, surges with him to break like a wave again and again and again - and then fall away, in a tumble of white sound.