The Dance of Love
It had been a week since they'd brought the Urn of the Sacred Ashes to Redcliffe. The Arl had visibly recovered by now. And now the Arlessa, by constant nagging and wheedling, had finally got her heart's desire: a ball at the castle in celebration of the event. True, it was a rather slapdash affair, with most of the servants dead or injured, and few neighbours willing to travel over in these times. But she got to dress up and dance, and to show off her newest gown, which seemed to be the main point of the exercise.
Zevran stood in a corner, watching discreetly, having claimed ignorance of Fereldan dances in order to be excused. He had to admit Alistair was looking rather dashing tonight, in festive clothes borrowed from Bann Teagan, a dark red doublet, a white shirt and tight black trousers. And the man could even dance tolerably well. Wynne and Leliana seemed to be enjoying themselves too, the bard teaching the Arlessa some new steps from Orlais while the mage just seemed to be content with listening to the music and the conversation.
Cat, however... Zevran could hardly suppress a grin when he looked at her. She was wearing a dress, a gift from the Arlessa, and the deep frown on her face made it obvious she hated it. It was a dark green ball gown, with a long skirt, a tight-fitting bodice and a light green kerchief covering her breasts.
"After all, you are unmarried, my dear," Isolde had purred with a sly glance.
When Zevran had asked her why she'd agreed to wear it, she had shot a long dark glance in the direction of the Orlesian noblewoman and growled. "The woman is not above a little blackmail, Zev. She threatened to tell the Arl about us and make a public scene, so I figured it wasn't worth the bother."
She hadn't promised to enjoy herself, however, and Cat was determined not to do so, that much was obvious. She refused all offers of dance partners as well as all attempts at conversation, and she retired to her room as soon as she decently could. Zevran lingered for a little while, then he followed her up. When he slipped into her room, he found her in the armchair in front of the fireplace, her shoes discarded, her legs propped up on a footstool, a glass of brandy in her hands. He chuckled softly and walked over to her.
She sighed deeply when she saw him. "Thank the Maker this is over, Zev. I don't think I could have lasted another minute down there." He settled companionably on the armrest of her chair, draping an arm around her shoulder.
"Ah, bellissima, but why didn't you dance?" He silenced her with a raised hand. "No, don't tell me you can't do it. I've seen the way you move in combat. You can't possibly tell me you couldn't master a few paltry dance steps."
She shook her head. "It's not that. I like dancing well enough, at least I used to enjoy the country dances in Highever. But this courtly, formal dancing just drives me mad with boredom. Tell me, Zev, how do people dance in Antiva?"
He smiled. "Well, the nobles dance much like yours, really, Orlesian court dances, though, I might add, with rather more grace. The common people, however, the young men and women who dance in the streets and the taverns on warm summer nights, that's a different story."
She looked at him, her eyebrows arched up in curiosity. "Tell me."
He laughed softly. "I'd rather show you. But this dress won't do." He pulled her up to her feet, examining her with a critical eye from head to toe, then took one of her daggers from the table where she'd been cleaning them. "Allow me." She gasped in surprise as, with a few well-placed cuts, he removed the kerchief, then the long tight sleeves, pushing down the remaining strips of fabric over her arms to expose her shoulders and the top half of her breasts.
"Much better," he grinned. "Now get out of these petticoats." She obeyed and he took the dagger to the long skirt, placing a long slit on either side. "Now you can move freely! And you look a lot more... accessible".
She blushed briefly. "But how are you going to teach me? We don't have music."
He shook his head. "You don't need music for dancing, carissima. All you need is the rhythm." He took her hand and placed it on his chest, above his heart. "Listen! Feel!" Softly he tapped his chest in time with his heartbeat. "This is what you need to listen to," he whispered. "Now, close your eyes." He pulled her to him, then, his left hand resting on her naked shoulder blade, his right grasping her left. With a swift move, he pushed his leg between hers, so their thighs and groins touched intimately.
Cat giggled. "Isn't this a little too close, Zev?"
He looked at her sternly. "Not at all, my sweet. You see, you need to feel me, so you'll know where I'm leading you."
She frowned at this. "Leading me? But what are the steps?"
For a second, his smile returned. "Ahhh, bella, but you see, Antivan men are a proud bunch. They like to be in charge, at least on the dance floor. There are no steps. You go where I lead you." She opened her mouth, about to protest, but he silenced her with a hard kiss, pulling her body even closer as he started to move, in time with their heartbeats, in precise measured steps. His lips moved to her ears and she could hear him softly humming a strange, wild tune, the vibrations making her shiver.
Cat gave in then, though it was difficult for her. She was so used to being in charge, making decisions, leading their little band of adventurers, that she had trouble at first with trusting him for direction. But his hold was firm and certain, and little by little she found herself relaxing, leaning into him, taking her cues from his minute signals, his hip pushing against hers, his hand softly pulling her to him, his head motioning for hers to turn.
Zevran whispered softly in her ear. "Relax, my sweet, and move as if you were a cat stalking her prey. First you sneak up on it, then," he led her into a sudden sharp turn, "you pounce!" Cat looked down for a moment, watching his feet move, imitating his steps and the way he placed his feet. It was a controlled graceful movement, with a hint of danger in it that made it all the more exciting.
She felt almost hypnotized by the soft tune, by his musky scent of leather and spice, the heat of his body so close to hers. Their bodies ground against each other in a tantalizingly slow caress. As they became bolder, he led her into turns and walks, making her twirl in his arms, but always keeping her close, so close, her breasts brushing against his chest, his lips touching the soft skin of her neck, right below her ear. She could feel his growing arousal as he slowly bent her backwards in his arms, planting kisses on her neck and collarbone, breathing in her scent, his lips scorching hot on her exposed skin.
Zevran watched her, felt her breath quicken, her heart beating faster against his chest, and he nearly lost himself in her large green eyes. When she began to moan softly, he kissed her again, deep and hard, his tongue capturing hers, dominating the kiss as he had the dance. He felt her knees go weak and took a more determined hold of her, pushing her back against the bedpost. He quickly shrugged off his clothes, then his hands were on her breasts, tearing off the remnants of her bodice. Her nipples were hard like pebbles under his touch, and she ground against him like an animal in heat, her lips half-open, her eyes veiled with desire.
He pushed up her skirt, exposing her long, white legs, his hands making short work of her soaked smallclothes, then hooked his right arm under her left leg, pulling it up, steadying her with his other arm against the bedpost. She felt him pushing against her wet heat, so hard, so forceful. He still kept up the rhythm of the dance as he slowly, inch by inch, moved inside her, deeper and more assured with each thrust, until their bodies were joined with barely a hair's breadth between them.
She heard him pant, his breath coming in quick, hard gasps as he increased the tempo. As a wave of lust hit her, she threw back her head in ecstasy, hitting it hard against the post. He cursed at this and took hold of her other leg, wrapping her thighs around his waist, moving her over to the edge of the bed. She felt his familiar weight on top of her and sighed with pleasure, pulling him in closer, but he shook his head and propped himself up above her, still firmly in charge of the rhythm of their coupling.
He hadn't dominated her so completely since their very first night together, and some small part of her resented it, but every attempt at conscious thought was doomed now as she was gripped by the overwhelming sensation of him inside her, thrusting, pounding, making her whimper helplessly. She gazed up at him, her face open and vulnerable, and Zevran felt a surge of pride. She was his, this proud, independent woman, and he knew he could ask anything of her now, he could make her beg for more, but he was wise enough not to push it. Feeling her tremble, watching her mute appeals, hearing her soft sighs - that was enough for him.
He focussed on her pleasure, firmly suppressing his own urges, watching for the little telltale signs that would show him what to do, how to take her even higher. When he finally felt her muscles clamp down hard around him, her nails raking his back, her legs almost rigid with tension, he brought his body down on her in a single, hard thrust before he let go, taking her, possessing her, with no further thought or plan. He hardly heard her cry of pleasure over the rushing of the blood in his own ears as he finally spilled himself inside her, shaking, groaning, utterly spent.
Later, when they'd cleaned up themselves and settled down for the night, she looked up at his relaxed, sated face. "You never told me what this dance is called."
He smiled. "It doesn't have a name, cara. It doesn't need one. They simply call it the dance of love."