Every hour.
Midnight.
He rolls onto his back, sleeping curled up on his side does nothing for the unintentional swelling in his groin. He rubs his hands over his face tiredly. Just go to sleep. Fall asleep. He orders himself tiredly a million instructions, but the faint memory of her shakes him free of it as a teasing distraction. Over the handful of times he accidentally saw a bit of her bare skin in the past few years, he curses himself for turning away with a blush to match one of hers. She must be beautiful. Better than beautiful. Untouched. Pure. He drifts off to sleep, guiltily thinking of her smile and her laugh. It's not the nastiest thing he's thought about her, by far, but he still feels guilty when he wakes from a less-than-clean dream of her.
Still, there's a weight on his chest. Something like guilt, but more like regret.
One O'clock
He wakes up hard, and while she never did it on purpose, it's her fault. He curses her under his breath, and on the same breath carries a sigh at the sound of her name. Alina. And thus begins his nightly routine of lusting over his best friend. He adjusts himself under his pants, tentative to stroke himself because the cause of the erection. Sure, any other girl he wouldn't think twice in fantasizing about. Yet she's different. He can't… use her in that way. It's Alina. Sure, he'd had his moments of exploration as a younger teen, she was the only available girl and marriage to her was an absolute until he realized she had a say in the matter as well. Figuring out he couldn't just point to her and bring her home, as he pictured it as a boy. The way she rolled her eyes when he brought up marriage, growing tense and defensive of the subject. Clearly it wasn't for her.
So he only lets fuzzy, faded memories come to him, piece by piece.
A laugh.
A grimace hiding a smile.
The smell of her hair.
Brushing crumbs off her face once, a few weeks ago.
He soaks lazily in little memories.
Looking back at a few specific jibes back and forth proves too much, leaving his head reeling and an ache in his chest. He'd surrender those words, those stupid little jokes, for that moment back and to use that time wasted to just kiss her.
And the guilt settles back in. Why was he ruining them with this? This…corruption. She was like his sister. Yes. His sister. That properly backed him away from her.
Two o'clock
No it didn't.
He has to think of someone else. Someone with more reason to be obsessed over in such away. The redheaded beauty from a few weeks ago. The wild one, with biting fingernails against the skin of his back. She had a wicked, shameless screech of pleasure about her. Yes, her. Picture her.
He does so, and that wild shriek that sounded whenever he was inside her full hilt. Saints, that felt good. He wraps his hand around his cock, keeping his huffing breathing silent. He tried to arrange his lust around the howling ginger, pouring himself into explicit memory. The wetness of her mouth and between her thighs. The rough movements of her limbs and hips. And the sounds, the cries and gasps and pants.
Yes. She was a noisy one. He grins to himself, lost as he fucks his hand over the memory. The sounds ring true through his mind.
Yet they fade in volume and intensity. Instead, the sounds in his ear grow breathy. Like all the times when Alina had to tread up a hill beside him and grew breathless. Her shallow panting, flushed cheeks, cloudy eyes. Sweaty hair stuck to her brow. He could smooth it out of her face while he plunged into her, kissing her temple as she writhed…
Damn it…
With a grunt, much to his shame, he cums. He didn't mean for this to happen, the relief of orgasm eclipsed by regret.
He is back to where he started, shame coiling in his stomach.
Three O'clock
Alina's breasts must be only a palmful, he muses. He doesn't remember fooling around with anyone of that type. Hmm. He knew if they were half as soft as her hands, forearms, or cheeks, he'd want to die with them pressed on his skin. Just a peek at them, he longs for. To unbutton her, lie her down and look. Alina would never let him. She'd just about die, he knew her. Cover herself up with a tiny, weak gasp, trying to hide her peaked little nipples. He dreamed to run his tongue along them until she didn't blush anymore. Until she went limp underneath him, moaning and whimpering like he prayed she would
Saints, this was his best friend. What was wrong with him? He couldn't want her. He didn't want her. He was just frustrated and bored and…cold. He did not want Alina. He wanted to warm up. He wanted a body next to his. He wanted to see his friend again.
And then fuck her senseless.
He flinches at the tired, razored, honest voice in his head, flatly stating the obvious. Sleep deprivation made him honest, for once.
No. he responded to the voice. That's ridiculous. She is my best friend and I don't see her that way. I can't want her. I don't want her.
Four O'clock
Fuck, he wanted her. This is going to be a long journey. The faster he found that damn stag…the faster he could go back to her. Tell her the truth. Live these dirty little fantasies. Make her blush. Make her cry out. Making her scream louder than that nameless redhead. Warm himself up on her soft, pale skin. Alina. Every hour, he longed for Alina.
Five O'clock
He dreams of sleeping beside her, the dream satisfying all the things he wants. A warm bed. Soft sheets. Comfort. Alina.
A giggle rings true in his ears, prompted by his lips on her cheek. He can feel the softness of her skin, the warmth blooming between her thighs, the shaky breath as he strokes his fingers along her wet slit until she cums. Saints, he wants to touch her like that, to make her gasp and moan and even someday cry out wildly. Maybe he'll even tell her, that he waited for this, freezing on his back in the dead of winter, longing to feel her come.
Every hour, until he finds his way back to her, is going to be torture. He makes a solemn vow to himself, to cut short these wasted hours. Alina. He finally lets himself sigh her name out loud, as he hoped to someday when she could hear. Hear what she does to him.
Part of him knows how she looks at him. Part of him is ridden with guilt over how he just didn't see her until she was gone.
And a bigger part of him, bubbling and nauseous, is certain that he's full of it and this is something better left unsaid. He'd simply scare her away.
Guilty and worn, he rolls onto his side once again, not satisfied and not relieved. It's like this every night, this battle. There is no victory in sight.
Dawn.
She wakes. She dreamed of Mal again. Of his raised brow. Of an amused glint in his eyes. Of the curve of his mouth. Of lusty, flirty grins over drinks. How one night, something clever she said is also daring, also hinting at… more.
And he'd want it to. To kiss her up against a wall, to tumble her about in a loft of hay. To do all the things she'd heard had been done with him, by other girls. She'd see their satisfied smiles the next day, talking too loudly about it to remind her what was not fully hers.
If it could be. If only it could be. His touch, not hers, not anyone else's. Just the two of them; hands and lips and bodies entwined and grasping.
Shyly, her hand dips between her thighs at the unfamiliar feeling there. Her fingers come back damp, and she blushes crimson despite her privacy. Her thighs rub together in need of a touch. His touch, preferably.
Mal wouldn't think twice, if he was in my position. He would just do it. So do it. It's okay.
A tentative hand rubs over her own groin, and the friction makes her lose her breath.
Would Mal someday do this to her? She clenches her eyes shut. Saints, please, give me someday.
Her feet kick absently under the sheets as her legs spasm. Her fingers search around, knowing the pleasure exists but not sure how to find it. She's not sure how it's supposed to feel. Ana Kuya could talk incessantly of the pain of birthing babies, the first blood of maidenhead, lying back and thinking of Mother Ravka…
Oh. Her search is successful, finding her clit. Curiously, she outlines it with her fingers. Her eyes flutter shut and her jaw clenches. The speed in which she brushes her fingers over it increases.
Alina continues to figure herself out, so to speak, thinking of Mal for a while. First she thinks of the things he might be whispering; coaxing her to come. Then she just pictures his body over hers and his eyes watching her. Then, after her imagination made him silent, it makes him gone. His fingers are actually hers. Then, as she finds the right speed and pressure, her own hands are the only thing she can think of. No more romantic fantasies, just her own touch and her own body. Just her pleasure.
And it feels good, this little selfish act of knowing her own body. Figuring things out. Her hips seem to move on their own, grinding her hand as her fingers work, throwing away their hesitance and caution. She bites her lip hard to keep from being heard as she experiences a small but satisfying orgasm. Her longing for Mal isn't sated, but something in her feels gratified.
No wonder she never explored this. All this talk of pain and discomfort and duty. No wonder she bristled at the topic. No wonder she never wanted to trust anyone with her body, let alone herself.
She just didn't know.