Breath catches. Fingertips ache. Holding onto her would be like trying to hold the sun.
Warm firelight illuminates the two figures, one with lyrium in his skin and one with shimmers of the veil around her.
When he can stand it no more he surges forward banding his strong arms around her ribs. Fingers slide through his hair. She answers in kind. Passion meets passion.
They are lost in each other. The world falls away. Her lips against his, tongues dancing, fingers searching.
A button is undone, a seam is ripped, metal clatters against stone. Stripped of his armor he is a lean elf, defined, scarred, vulnerable. Scraps of her clothing still hang from ankle and wrist. He binds her wrists with the shirt, a twist of material and she succumbs.
Her warm body presses against him. Blood pounding loudly, cannot think, cannot hear. Can only desperately try to devour her as she devours him.
The stone is cold on her back, rough and abrasive. She likes the contrast. Hands bound she is a feast for him and no longer explores him with fingertips and palms.
Gasping, sweating, until she can take it no longer. He has not touched her aching body where she needs it most. Her hips rub against his, he draws slightly farther away.
It takes all his will to be gentle as he guides her to the bed. He wants to throw her, fall upon her like a starving animal.
She moans and pants her impatience.
He lays her down, knees bent over the side of the bed, spreads her legs, mouth finding her hot and wet.
"Fenris," she rasps.
Arms circle her hips, her fingers tangle in his hair. Pain like a bruise--pleasure like a stiff drink.
Her cries reach a crescendo, she quavers, clenches, releases...
More...
His eyes haven't left her face. Cheeks blossoming pink, lips parted and glistening. The warm light of the fire bathes her. He aches and wants more but feels content like this. Pride swells in his chest for reducing her to this carnal woman.
There is no slave and Champion here, no mage and warrior, no human and elf.
She bucks her hips unable to ride out another agonizing wave of slow pleasure. She slides back on the red and golden sheets.
"Hawke," he growls as he stalks her up the bed.
She wants more.
Determined and swift, loosing the laces at his waist. Material strains to hold him. He wants her but he wants to savor her.
When her parted lips find him, suck him deep, he almost loses it. Voice strained, moaning, lashes fluttering. Edge of her teeth gently, cool hands gripping his thighs. He is lost to her. Her mouth is hot and wet, an echo of where he longs to bury himself. Her fathomless eyes trace his face upturned and oblivious to all but the sensations she gives him.
The fire pops. The mansion is silent aside from the chorus of their breathing and pleas.
His hands find her face, draw her up. Hot breath mingles, shudders, then tongues again twisting. She pushes him back. "Lie down," she commands.
He obeys.
She straddles his waist gracefully and rubs her feverish skin against his length. Throat tight, mouth dry. He shudders. This touch is merely teasing. She feels incredible. Lyrium in his skin glows, the air in the rooms swirls heavily.
He is inside her. Stretches her. Gasping together, shuddering, muscles tremble. Just a twitch, a swing of her hips, she is bursting again. He sits up, hands sliding around her shoulders, arms encircling her again as he drags her in tight. Teeth nip at her ear, his hot tongue traces her pulse. He rides the waves of her pleasure slowly coming undone.
His patience wears thin, he rolls them. Her legs are over his shoulders, his hips nestle close. Deeper. He drives into her hard, fingers coming up to grasp her throat. Pulse hammers against his fingertips. Nails rake his back. He swells. The pain comes together wedded with the feeling of her. It is too much... More.
"Harder," she moans.
He lets go of control and spills himself inside of her. Wonders vaguely if that was a good idea. Doesn't care. He is exhausted and spent. She is a marvelous mess gold skinned and naked on red sheets. Both shimmer with sweat.
He eases down beside her, she nestles under his arm against his chest. It feels good.
"Thank you," she whispers against him.
He strokes her hair and doesn't know what to say. That he craves her still. That he is unsure now. His own beliefs weighed and measured and found to be incorrect. Hawke is no evil mage, no abomination. She is just a woman that had made love to him like a drowning woman clings to salvation.
In no time at all she is sleeping. He is not. In this room there is no human and elf. No slave and mage. Only Fenris and Hawke. Man and woman now bound with flesh.