She can't wait any longer. She's always been an optimist-believing anything's possible. But this isn't. She watches him slide his shirt off, wincing as he does. The bruises and scars painting his torso are impossible to miss.
She swore she wouldn't do it. She'd only reveal herself when he required a new melody—and only then. But as he sinks into the grass against a tree trunk, shuddering in pain, she reaches her conclusion.
She emerges from the brush, bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. He jumps at the sight of her, not expecting any disruptions. "You are in grave condition," she says, her voice deep and low. "You push yourself too hard," she adds, a quiet after-note as she settles beside him in the grass.
She removes the satchel from her waist; she'd known he'd be needing it sooner or later. He flinches, body jerking, as she presses a bandage to his exposed chest, drawing it tight across muscle to stop the bleeding. She wraps his wrist, the burns making him groan quietly at the contact. The other injuries she thinks he can tend to himself; she doesn't want to make him feel belittled and she thinks her blush might be noticeable if she keeps touching him.
He's staring at her, undoubtedly trying to puzzle her out but too tired to chase after her like before. "You need rest," she grunts, pressing him gently into the trunk of the tree, "Relax."
Her fingertips feel frozen against his skin, glued there forever. He notices but doesn't complain. She gulps, her body trembling. She can't control herself anymore; he's gotten too handsome, too courageous, too compassionate. The temptation haunts her hourly.
She hooks a leg over his lap, blushing deeper as she does but unwilling to halt her actions. He stiffens slightly but doesn't shove her away. "Relax," she repeats, her own voice hoarse as she says it.
She seats herself fully in his lap, curling her fingers around his shoulder blades. There is heat beneath her, so she knows he can't be wholly uninterested. She removes her hands, and with a sharp breath, begins to slip her deep blue garment from her shoulders. He watches transfixed, hypnotized, as the fabric falls farther, farther, farther, coming to a stop at her waistline. Her bound chest is shielded from him by bandages, but her lean abdomen, her angular shoulders, her pallid skin—all on display for him to see. Her every imperfection exposed.
She shifts awkwardly in his lap as his eyes take her in, growing increasingly uncomfortable by his stoicism. Then, slowly, he extends a hand, places it on her hip. He strokes his thumb over the bone, meeting her eyes as he does. He tilts forward, dipping his head and kissing just below her belly button. The gesture makes warmth blossom within her. He then clasps the remainder of the outfit, watching her for affirmation as he tugs it past her hips, her strong thighs, her knobby knees. She kicks off her boots and the bodysuit with them.
He smoothes his hands down her legs, stopping at her knees before repeating the process over again. As he does, she tentatively reaches for his pants, undoing them quickly and easing them down past his knees-off. His boots keep hers company, and they're left in their undergarments. There is a pause, the air heavy with uncertainty, thick with hesitation. She makes the first move, succumbing to the fire in his eyes that she has been struck with. She reaches behind her back, untying knots. The bandages fall to the ground, her body bare save for the skimpy underwear hanging past her pelvis. He gapes, lips parting slightly and eyes wide. He touches, gently, watching her face again because he's not sure if he can. He cups the exposed skin, squeezing at it tenderly, and she gasps, her fingernails digging into his shoulders again. He rubs and kneads and teases until she's panting, her breaths quick and stuttered. "Please," she begs, her eyes desperate.
He understands. His underwear is gone along with hers within moments. She gasps at the sight of him, aroused and longing…for her? His hands are all over her, not forceful but light touches as he feels up and down her back, then lower, making her blush and gasp again. He reaches upward, stroking her cheek through cloth and she senses him loosening the mask. "No," she immediately orders, stilling his hand. She cannot do that. Anything for him but that—not yet. To reveal her identity would be disastrous, foolish…stupid even. And she is far from stupid.
He recoils at the harsh tone but seems to understand. He focuses on other tasks, handling her and scooting her up just so that she hovers directly above him, his skin hot against hers. Both breathe heavily, already prepared and so yearning. She nods briefly, trying to assure him to do something-anything-and move. He does, sliding into her easily.
For a moment, it's pain. Hot, searing pain between her legs as they sit, waiting. This is no longer even about her; it's about him now. To please him would be the greatest achievement, a guarantee to die content. She needs that more than anything in times like these. Her eyes are pinched shut as she tries to bear it, to accept it so that she can attain her goal. Delicately, he lifts her hand and kisses each knuckle, as if she were a princess. If only he knew!
It's okay-finally. She rocks her hips down to alert him to the fact, and he moans at the movement, his brow furrowing with pleasure as she builds a rhythm. Up and down, up and down, she works herself to the tempo in her head, observing his change of expression as she moves. He is agony as she raises off of him, then relief as she returns, allowing him to fill her again, and utter bliss when she takes the care to squeeze around him, evoking sudden gasps and whimpers from him.
Within her too, a change begins to occur. Mounting high, coiling beneath her belly, she can feel her emotions escalate, the movement of him within her morphing from pain to good to wonderful. She catches herself whining above him, moaning each time she descends in a way that would disgrace her should she be anywhere else. He seems to enjoy watching her, his eyes fixed on her face each time her head flings back in ecstasy, each time her fingers shake as they skim across his body.
She can't go on; it gets to be too much. As if reading her thoughts, he knows. He places both hands on her hips, holding her steady, and thrusts up into her. Once. Twice. Thrice. Deep, heavy movements that make her eyes flutter and her mouth drop open, consistent hushed cries flooding from her lips. He's so deep inside of her, and she can feel her body twisting tighter and tighter and tighter. He kisses her chest, resting his forehead there as he shoves up into her again, one last time.
She blinks, and everything is a haze as she falls apart. His hands swiftly catch her limp body as she loses herself within the rapture of letting it go. He follows, crying out as she clenches around him with her release, unable to withhold his own. They lay there, regaining their breath, her body slumped against his.
Finally, he moves again. He cups both of her cheeks, and they gaze at each other. He leans up, and she fears he'll try to remove her veil from the world once again. He kisses her forehead instead, a satisfied grin on his lips as he pulls back, resting against the tree. Warmth floods her cheeks, the motion too unexpected and sickly sweet.
"Rest," she orders, propping his head against her satchel for a pillow, positioning his spent body in the grass. He catches her arm as she goes to sneak away, a command of his own flaring within his eyes. She relents, curls against his side, their fingers intertwined.
She wants to kiss him—she wants to kiss him so badly, it hurts. She wants to assure him that this meant everything to her, that it wasn't just spontaneity and hormones. She wants to explain that she's never forgotten that day seven years ago, that she's still her-regal, elegant, and completely his. But she can't-not yet. It's too soon, and his mission's far from finished. But maybe one day, maybe, she'll tell him everything.