It started innocently enough.
In fact that was, arguably, the worst part.
There'd been no place for idle thought, or of any thought at all, other than how to make it through the next day and what to do if they still hadn't reached their destination by then. The party had been traveling north of the Western Approach for the better part of a week.
Though 'traveling' was a generous term for it: they were wandering. Circling. Meandering.
They were lost.
And with no map to reference beyond the rushed scribble of absolutely incomprehensible notes the Inquisitor scrawled in her journal they were surely doomed to stay that way. Every page was written in an impossible mix of misspelled Common, Dalish's bastardized Elvish, cryptic shorthand, and symbols all tied together a scatter of drawings. Effectively, accidentally, creating an unlockable cipher. No one but her could make heads or tails of it - and a few days out even she was having trouble recalling if it was the flat circle or the oblong that meant 'rock'.
If they all died due to Lavellan's inability to differentiate a cairn from a rift on her own map he'd be furious.
Really, he should have been the one assigned note-keeper when they first left the fort five days ago. More than her terrible logs, he was irritated by the fact that it hadn't occurred to him to start a backup until the night before last. By that time they were already off course, low on potions, and weakened after several encounters with the local fauna.
This was only supposed to have taken two days. At the most. Adequate preparations simply weren't made for a journey so long in this environment - they'd expected to be there already. That hubris weighed heavily on them now.
After the Inquisition settled the fort in the Approach, a group of scouts had gone ahead to try and locate the temple mentioned on a scroll bought from auction. The one apparently connected to the shards they kept finding. But after a little over a day of travel they'd encountered a rift, were attacked, and forced to retreat. The intel they'd passed on was valuable, if incomplete, and included a sighting of tall rock formations in the distance - possibly a canyon - and a high chance the oasis mentioned in the text was beyond it. It couldn't be more than a day from where they'd been stopped. Less, if the next group was able to deal with the rift head on.
The Inquisitor chose a party of two warriors and a mage to aid her, gathered enough supplies for more than twice the estimated journey, and they set off from an Inquisition camp on the northernmost edge of the Western Approach. They left hopeful; confident in the knowledge that they would find something valuable - even if the temple rumours were a bust, this push would strengthen their hold in the area.
As the days dragged on it became clear that no one glaring error was to blame for their predicament. Rather it was a series of smaller, well-meaning, but ultimately negligent mistakes.
First, almost immediately out of the fort, they decided that travel by night was safest. This part of the desert was hot by day. Cooler temperatures would reduce the constant threat of sunstroke and dehydration. Unfortunately, travel under darkness also impacted visibility: what few landmarks the scouts referenced in their notes seemed clear enough at the time the decision was made, but proved to be a challenge to locate under cover of night.
Second, the food rations were cut down too late, past the point they were already overdrawn. It led to a game of drawn straws to assign hunters in the dawn's earliest hours. When curious creatures came out of burrows and from beneath rocks to sip the few drops of dew that hung from gnarled, spiny plants before the rising sun vanished them away. Things that were fast, and sneaky, and made for poor eating.
The worst came another two days later when it became apparent that those measures weren't enough: water had run dangerously low. Rationing was more challenging in the desert than in the forest… but more importantly a mixed-race party required a very delicate balance. They were still adjusting to the changing needs of a newly-formed, diverse, Inquisition. As a Qunari, Iron Bull needed twice the amount of food as the average human, and while Solas' meager diet helped the protein situation it did little for the water. They all required several litres a day to stay alert. In the absence of an adequate supply the balance quickly shifted in favour of the warriors… leaving Solas and Lavellan to suffer for it.
No matter, as by the fifth day the entire group was suffering. Irritable. Exhausted. And in serious danger of succumbing to thirst.
In their desperation they'd turned to sourcing the bulk of their water from Solas' ice magic. A bad sign.
The time involved wasn't the problem - it took no more than half an hour to direct a few slow, sustained, blasts into the cooking pot and melt it in the sun - it was the effort. There were good reasons why regulations existed to protect mages from being utilized for water even in dire situations. Repeating the task over and over left Solas perpetually low on energy, and after two days of it he was functioning at total exhaustion virtually all the time. Should they be attacked by one of the roaming packs of wyverns - or Gods forbid, Venatori - there was no way he'd be able to manage offensive spells. Their state of need had made him a liability, and they all knew it.
Finding a clean water source had become the primary goal.
It was almost dawn when the party stopped to rest on the slope of a tall dune. Already out of breath only halfway into the climb; a glaring reminder of their low endurance. In the Hinterlands they'd scale small mountains chasing goats and barely break a sweat.
Bull pulled from his pack a serving of stringy meat stripped from a pair of birds the Inquisitor shot down the night before and passed it around. Warning, "This is it for today. We'll need more traps out once we find a place to set camp. Did you find any more sticks, Seeker?"
Cassandra, breathing hard from the effort of climbing in her armour, brought a hand up to shield her eyes from the rising sun. She scanned the horizon and shook her head. "There is nothing but sand. We should have found something - anything - by now." It was clear she wasn't talking about supplies for traps. "Harding said the scouts saw the rocks two days East from the forward camp, and it's been nearly five."
"It has been five," corrected Solas around a mouthful of gamey, sour, meat. It was terrible, and had no energy to hide his disdain. "This morning marks the sixth."
"We can't keep moving much longer," said the Inquisitor.
They'd had this conversation a dozen times already. It never got them anywhere.
We have to find a place to camp.
"We have to find a place to camp," provided Bull. "The sun is almost up. We can talk again at dusk."
The water.
"Solas - how soon could you start on the water?" the Inquisitor asked, and gestured to his pack where the pot and skins were stored. They had enough for another third of a day at the most.
Potions.
Cassandra cut in, "How many lyrium potions do we have left?"
But before he could answer either of their questions, Bull shifted the script with a sharp click of his tongue. "Look," he said, "there's some rocks over there. Maybe a kilometre off. Let's get to there, at least, and try and park our tents on the shady side."
Lavellan followed his gaze, squinting against the morning light. "Do you think those could be the rocks the scouts had mentioned?" She was already reaching for the scroll tied to her hip. Bull came to stand by her shoulder as she unfurled it, lone eye studying the quick, messy drawings of formations the scouts had glimpsed only briefly a week earlier. Lavellan pointed to a note near the top. "What does this say? '10 to 15 metres than… tan-'"
Kindly, "Tall," he corrected.
"-tall. Then a, 'plate'... a platter… a parchment?"
"Close. This part here-"
"Plateau. It says, 'plateau'," supplied Solas, interrupting. There wasn't time for a teaching moment. He joined the Inquisitor's side, two fingers gliding along the scroll as he read. "A formation 10-15 metres tall with a large plateau. That does not match the description of the rocks ahead."
"Shit," she sighed. "Still, we need the shade. Let's go."
"Wait."
Unexpectedly, it was Cassandra who dissented. Rarely did she raise a voice against the Inquisitor, regardless of the order. Those few arguments she felt important enough to give voice to were generally offered in private.
When the group turned to her it was immediately evident why she spoke up.
The Seeker had already doffed part of her armour while they were talking - having weighed one danger over another - her cuirass and pauldrons were tucked together under an arm as she went to work undoing the buckles on her vambraces. Sweat slick and pale, she leaned heavily upon her sword. The point stuck deep into the sand even at the risk of dulling it. Exhaustion was deeply writ into her ragged breaths, the sweat along her hairline, and in the hollow of her cheeks. She would not last much longer.
"Can we rest here first?"
It was unlike her to ask for leniency.
Lavellan hesitated to reply - unwilling to give her the harsh truth necessary for the good of the group. So Solas took her place.
"No." And he took a step toward her, offering a hand. "If we dally here any longer the sun will rise, and it will only make the journey ahead more difficult. You need to keep moving."
Wearily, she nodded. Took a step, then two, before stumbling. And with her hand in Solas' she almost took them both down before Bull stepped in, catching her.
"I got it."
Before she could offer any protest he'd already picked up his fellow warrior and heaved her over one shoulder. Though unsteady, and slowed by the burden, at least they'd keep pace this way. Thick skin provided him enough natural armour to forego the extra layers, buying him more endurance for the heat.
"This is unnecessary," Cassandra argued, weakly, as she struggled against his grip. "And patronizing."
Bull snorted. "You'll live."
"If you spare me a moment for water, I can walk."
"We're too low to break ration."
"Rationing can begin again once we sleep."
"We can't set that precedent. You know how this works."
"This is ridiculous, put me down."
"When we get there."
"I can-"
"Not going to happen."
"Shut up, both of you," ordered the Inquisitor. Both pointed a look in her direction, best they were able, prepared to turn their argument upon her instead... but held their tongues when she added, "Listen… do you hear that?"
Everyone stopped. Silence fell upon the group for the space of several breaths, held in anticipation. A full minute passed. And when nothing jumped out at him the Qunari shrugged his broad shoulders. "What did you—?"
Then Solas heard it too.
The sound was faint - distant - but unmistakably that of a waterfall.
He could not help but shout: "Water!" He pointed in the direction it came from, somewhere beyond the rocky outcropping they were headed toward. "Over there!"
Energized by the promise of solace, they ran. Lavellan, Solas and Bull with Cassandra weighing on his shoulders. Half-mad and so beaten that they'd surely collapse if they risked stopping again. Across the sand and toward the strange standing stones on the horizon, until salvation was as sure as the sun rising with the dawn. They'd found an oasis at last.
Even at that pace it took 15 minutes to reach the great, deep, gorge and look over its edge into a river of fresh water. Glacial runoff carved a winding path through sandstone until it pooled at the bottom of the canyon. The surface glittered and shifted in the morning light like a trove of coins. A treasure.
There were trees growing down there.
Bushes and weeds. Flowers. Herbs that they could collect for potions. It was nothing short of a miracle. Amid it all were fat, healthy, beasts that capered and played. After days without fresh game their mouths watered at the sight.
Lavellan dropped her pack and gear at her feet and began pulling off her leathers piece by piece. Leaving arm and leg guards in a trail behind her as she walked, blindly, toward the cliff's edge with eyes like saucers. Overcome by the desire to drown herself in the bounty they'd discovered. It was only by Solas' quick reflexes that she avoided dashing her skull upon the rocks. She would have happily plunged to her death in the shallows far below if not for his tight grip on the back of her sweat-soaked shirt, pulling her back to safety at the last second.
They took the long way down.
A series of rickety old ladders and sand-eaten scaffolding lead them into a labyrinth of tunnels. The dozen giant spiders inhabiting them were no match for a group so desperate. They carved through them easily, fighting with reckless disregard for their dwindling strength. All wide swings and clumsy footwork - but it did the job. They reached the bottom an hour past dawn.
That last burst of strength carried them until they finally, mercifully, reached the water's edge.
There Solas fell to his knees. Clothes soaked through, uncaring, as he dipped trembling hands into the pool and brought a cup to his parched lips. Drank deeply - again and again and again - through a chorus gulps and gasps as he filled his stomach. Even while it turned from shock and a more rational part of his mind warned him not to take too much too quickly lest he make himself sick.
The relief - the gratitude - was all he knew. It took every ounce of strength he had not to let slip a moan as he drank his fill. Minutes passed where he was completely unaware of the goings-on around him; the scatter of the animals or the cacophony caused by his party-mates crashing into the water as they too slaked their thirst. A cavalry of armoured soldiers could have entered the basin and he'd be none the wiser. All that existed was the oasis, fresh and cool, and the precious respite it offered.
Maybe it was the lightness of that relief that coloured his perception of what he saw when he lifted his gaze. Maybe it was heat exhaustion. Or the dreamy haze brought on by the tedium of desert travel. Regardless, the sight that greeted him was one he'd not soon forget.
The Inquisitor - Ellana - now stood in nothing more than her loosened leather breeches and the thin cotton chemise she wore beneath her armour to keep it from chafing. She'd removed everything else in her eagerness as she waded into the pool. If Solas been able to tear his eyes away he might have seen it all floating on the water's surface: corset, bracers, quiver and gloves. A bag on the shore. All of it had been cast aside in a moment of desperation as she ran for the waterfall - once denied this chance she eagerly took it now - then turned, arms raised, and backed into it. Allowing the water to cascade over her sand-blown hair and parched skin to nourish her back to health.
Errant strands of hair stuck to her cheeks and neck. Shoulders bowed and lips parted around a sigh of relief. Her eyes closed. Though starved and soaked, she was a vision of glory. Of ecstasy. The slip clinging to her skin was rendered completely transparent once wetted, leaving no mystery of the curve of her breasts nor the subtle ridge of her muscled torso. And while he'd seen her skin before, there was something different about the sight of it this way: as though it were a secret he should not be privy to, and yet couldn't look away from.
For a moment he could do nothing but stare... transfixed by the beauty of the scene. Strength and power before the bounty of nature made her a more perfect vision than any painting could ever hope to capture. At once he felt a sense of pity for the artists who would later deign to try, for no mere brush could ever know her as he did now: collapsed on his knees, a wreck in the water with hands cupped like prayer. Surely it was a blessing gifted to him by the divine themselves to bear witness to it.
Then he was overwhelmed with the desire to touch her.
Later he would think that he might have, were he a weaker man.
Throw out all sense of propriety and stumble to his feet in a daze. Wade through the water and put his hands upon her hips, push her against the carved-out stone behind the waterfall so he might slide his fingers beneath the soaked fabric and find bare skin. Kiss her deeply. Cup her breasts in his palms. Hear the sound she'd make when he teased a nipple between his lips. Taste her skin when he pressed his mouth to her neck.
For the first time, he was caught up in a fantasy of what it would be like to make her toes curl. How he could make her sing.
Then he felt the heat rise on his collar, and looked away.
Fool.
It seemed cruel that in a state so weak his heart still found the strength to thunder.
Against himself he argued: there was nothing was inherently salacious about the sight. No suggestive commentary or sultry looks flashed beneath heavy-lidded eyes to imply an attempt at seduction. No tease. No intent. Additionally, it was a scene he'd viewed a thousand times. Others, if not her… and he'd seen her in near undress. For healing. When she bathed in the river with others. When she changed her armour in camp; she was not shy with her body, and paid no mind to who saw her in a breastband and little else.
He'd seen her. He'd seen her. He'd-
He'd not seen her like this.
The image did not leave him easily.
Try though he might he could not dismiss it for long. Persistently, almost relentlessly, his mind wandered. Even after they'd set camp near the pool and made a hearty meal of the fennecs that had come to drink there. While they took time to make plans and have discussions about how to proceed once they'd recovered. When conversation had settled into an easy banter they'd not enjoyed in days. When the mood was relaxed and peaceful and he should have been enjoying the quiet. Through it all the thought of her kept returning.
Every stray glance he cast in her direction sent his eyes following the same path they'd taken at the waterfall. Taking note of the way her shirt fell off one shoulder, baring it. An edge hanging untucked from her belt like an invitation. The temptation in the line of her neck and the slope of her back. He could so easily imagine running his hands across the expanse of her skin, and how her curves might fit the cup of his hands.
He had long found her intriguing, and surely it was no secret to her now that he found her attractive. That he was attracted to her. They had shared a kiss, twice - three times if he counted dreams - and those moments were ones he thought upon more often than he should. The question of duty a constant companion to the pull between guilt and longing. A battle he was losing. She was a force of nature - her gravity threatening to drown him - and he was helpless to the draw.
But he was careful to keep his thoughts of her chaste.
Relatively.
Mostly.
Even when she regarded his figure with a level of interest that brought warmth to his chest. It had been an eon since he'd been on the receiving end of that sort of affection, and he'd be a liar if he said it did not make his pulse leap when he caught her looking.
He enjoyed the attention, even as he politely pretended not to notice.
It was almost noon, when their companions had already retired to sleep over the day, when it was his wandering eye that was seen.
She'd come to sit at his side under the shade of a tree by the waterfall as she readied for bed. A strip of leather held between her teeth to tie her hair with once she'd finished braiding it. When she raised her arms her shirt was pulled just high enough to bare a line of skin.
His fingers twitched at his side.
It would be such a simple thing to reach out and touch her.
An act so soft and so light that he could raise gooseflesh. Make her breath catch in her throat. Then lean in and kiss her jaw. Run his fingers along the back of her neck and weave them into her hair; undo all that careful work...
When his eyes finally made their way up her body and met hers, she was waiting. Watching. Completely still: holding the ends of her hair between her fingers. If he'd had the wherewithal he might have felt embarrassed, but could not seem to gather the sense for it. Or for any thought other than for how near she was… and the want to kiss her. He very much wanted to kiss her.
But, "I apologize," he blurted instead, to stall.
The look she gave him did little to discourage his heart. An odd mix of wariness and amusement; the apology was startling. She always trusted that he could not possibly hurt her. Not truly. Not the way he knew he could if he pursued this.
"For what?"
For afflicting you with the anchor. For dragging you into conflict. For making you a part of my mistakes. For making that mistake. For the countless lies of omission. For the kiss, both in and out of the Fade. For how much I wanted to kiss you now. For-
"For snapping at you earlier. With the map. I should have been more patient. You are still learning and literacy does not come easily to most."
As good an answer as any.
It only occurred to him after he'd said it aloud that it sounded like an insult. A backhanded compliment, at best.
He backpedalled.
"Not to imply you are behind… only that it's a skill that requires some time to master. You're merely at the start."
That was worse. Now he'd made it worse. She'd already spent months at study. Hard work he'd just failed to recognize.
"Not that there is a set time to measure success. You have done remarkably well for someone of your upbringing."
Worser still; now he'd brought the Dalish into it. Her face twisted with an odd expression.
"That's not what I meant. I-"
And then her mouth was on his. Soft, but insistent. A message well-received through the eager parting of her lips around his own so he might feel the warmth beyond chapped flesh. His shock only lasted an instant before he yielded to the embrace. This was an offering he had no will to deny.
Immediately he forgot all about his excuses. Of what point he'd even been trying to make, or why. Everything around him faded into nothing but a distant echo. Then a buzz, pulse in his ears, once she deepened the kiss with a curious slide of her tongue.
A hand touched upon his thigh. Slid upward. The fire it ignited was a sensation he was wholly unprepared for. He was positively alight.
Too close - far too close - yet not close enough.
One of his hands found a place on her hip and pulled her closer, a wordless plea she did not hesitate to answer. Leaning so close she was all but upon him.
But as wonderful as it was… no, he thought. This was too much. Too tempting. In his present state he was not strong enough to resist the pull of his own body. This world was sharp, heavy, and the draw of desire more real than he'd anticipated. With her fingers edging up the inside of his thigh he could not banish the fantasy of her lying on a bedroll in his tent and how much he needed the relief of touch.
This should stop. He should pull away. He should-
But Ellana broke the kiss first, and the shock of it was like the air had been ripped from his lungs.
It took a moment to remember how to breathe. Or speak.
All he could manage, in a voice terribly strained, was a quiet, "What was that for?"
She smiled - and she was beautiful.
"You looked like you needed it."
But before he had time to ponder the implication she stood and left. Retiring to her tent without even bidding him good evening. Or 'good afternoon', more accurately. It did not occur to him until much later that by doing so she'd given the position of first watch over to him by default. Though he would have gladly volunteered for it… the kiss had left him weak in the knees. And that, among other reasons, made it wiser not to try and stand.
Left alone, Solas smoothed his palms down his legs and tried not to think of how empty the camp felt in her absence.
Or how differently the hours might have passed if she could have climbed into his lap, instead.
It was the most uncomfortable watch he'd ever taken.
When it was finally over he chose to rouse Cassandra. He should have woken Ellana, that was the order they'd kept for days, but when the time came he couldn't bring himself to enter her tent. Instead he lingered outside of it, trying to gather his resolve, before ultimately choosing to keep moving and shake the warrior awake with some poor excuse about forgetting who was next… one the Seeker clearly couldn't be bothered to care about as she stumbled into centre camp and pulled her armour on. She did not question him.
In the safety of his own tent he laid atop his bedroll and listened for the weary sigh that marked the beginning of Cassandra's watch. Grateful she'd not pushed back on the order, as it would have meant he'd have to try to fall asleep to Ellana instead.
Sometimes she sang to herself to pass the time. Muttered as she fletched, or quietly read aloud... it would surely be torment now, to listen to the quiet notes of her voice.
Every hour that passed since their arrival - since the waterfall, since the kiss - left him in a worser state. Taut. Nervous, but married to that tension lest he do something impulsive to relieve it.
Desire had become a distraction. And here in his tent - in quiet and in solitude - he felt it profoundly... Now he yearned.
For the little sigh she let slip when stretching her arms high above her head as she rose with the dawn. For the charming giggle that followed a smile when he flirted with her; paid a compliment to her form or her wit. The furious grunt of effort in a sparring match… like the one they'd had when she trapped him against her body and he'd kissed her. For more kisses like the one she'd given him hours ago.
For her skin beneath his hands and her body in his bed. Together in the drafty room he occupied in Skyhold, or between softer sheets in her tower. Even out here in the middle of the desert. There wasn't much room in these threadbare tents but they'd find a way. They wouldn't need much room in the end.
When his fingers drew across the strained seam of his breeches the shock of his own touch was enough to still his hand. He held his breath. Made a fist against his thigh.
I will not make her the object of the passing fantasy, he told himself. It would debase her, to have her name on his lips if - when - he gave over to the temptation of his own flesh. Hard and hot and driving him to wicked distraction each time he shifted and his clothes drew across sensitive skin.
Yet...
Such hardship was endured to reach the Oasis; relief made a powerful lure. Surely he could argue that it would be no more sinful to slake his lust than his thirst.
Lest he do something impulsive.
No sooner had that thought left his mind that his fingers were pushing beneath the hem of his pants. Into the uncomfortable tent of his smallclothes without even bothering to loosen the laces first. The tight band trapped his wrist against his hip bone, held fast like a final warning against this indulgence.
But it was too late for second thoughts.
Once he allowed himself that first, delicate, touch to linger upon the underside of his cock it was far beyond a point he could deny the ecstasy this act would grant him. His body ached with need. Sore, and ready to shatter.
It had simply been too long. That's all.
So he gave in.
The first firm stroke he gave himself pulled a low groan from deep within his chest. Cut short as he bit his lip, hard, to stifle what other sound he might be tempted to make as his hips lifted to meet his closed fist.
It was immediately, painfully, apparent that this would not be a languid affair.
There was no luxury in this; no restraint to call upon for the patience to slow his hand and draw his pleasure out in stages. He could not even be bothered to remove his clothes. So eager for the embrace of his own palm that he'd endured the tight trappings of his still-laced breeches and the extra effort it required to pump himself within them. Once permission was granted not a second went to waste.
He closed his eyes, and thought of all the things he knew he shouldn't.
Of Ellana standing in the waterfall, free of all her clothes, naked and shining under moonlight in the empty cove. Alone now, far from a camp set deep in the tunnels, to ensure what cries he drew from her here would be for his ears only.
He would worship her as a humble supplicant blessed to bear witness to her beauty. His mouth would pay her truer honour than the collected prayers of every devout who ever followed her. He alone would see her satisfied, brought to ruin for the chance to serve her on bended knee lest his offerings of her pleasure be enough to earn his own.
And she would grant him that - for she was kind, caring; and her smile coy. He imagined she loved the way she fought: confident, assertive, and unselfish. A woman who would not dance around decorum and instead allow herself the indulge of desire. Once he'd drank his fill of her she would lead him to the shallows and lay him down upon the rocks. Put her hands upon his body and spare him from his loneliness. Her mouth was soft and sweet and the precious tastes he'd stolen left him starving for more.
It had been so long since he'd held another. Been held. The thought of her arms around him and his body pressed against hers, even more than the fantasy of his tongue between her thighs, was near enough to break him. It was on that image he was forced to still his hand. Slow his breath. Just for a second. Just to give himself a little more time with this.
He thought of the kiss she gave him hours ago. The touch of her hand, as he slid his own along the inside of his thigh. Following the path hers had taken. As though she'd not stopped, pulled away, and instead thrown a leg across his lap and straddled him. Knees pressed to his sides, tight, so she might grind against him when she discovered that it took little more than a kiss to excite him.
Perhaps they'd have stayed that way: entwined beneath the tree. Still clothed, moving against each other until slick with sweat and helpless to relief that friction offered. Not quite enough to burn, but plenty to stoke the fire.
Perhaps he'd have touched her. Followed the cues on her breath, if she did not speak them, to find the rhythm she needed to reach pleasure. Coax the movement from her hips with the curl of his fingers. Perhaps he'd bring her to the edge only to draw back just before she crested… leave her mad with want. Just to see the fury flash in her eyes before she took what she was owed.
After, she would take hold of his cock and watch him come apart.
If she wasn't careful it would hardly take seconds.
And suddenly the frantic rhythm he'd reached was not built by his own hand, but hers.
His stomach swooped. His free hand grasped for purchase: on his thigh, the sheet beneath him, the straw pillow, anywhere, before clapping over his mouth to catch a moan.
The last thought he had before the throes took him was of burying his face in the crook of her neck while she worked him senseless. Then spilled into his fist. Body curled forward and eyes screwed shut. What quiet sounds he'd not managed to stifle beneath a palm and bitten lip were lost to the roar of the waterfall.
He stroked himself through the last shudders of his climax and then let his body unfurl back upon the bedroll. Dazed, weak, but sated. Gasping like he'd run miles.
Slowly his senses returned. Trembling limbs, shaking breath, the warmth of the sun through the tent, sweat on his back. Relief... followed by the awareness that in his haste to chase his release he had neglected to grab a kerchief. Nor even remove his breeches. A misjudgement that was now uncomfortably apparent.
At the very least it was just his smallclothes he'd ruined.
"Fenedhis," he whispered, and wiped his hand upon the underside of the bedroll.
He cursed his carelessness. His desperation. His fool heart, and how easily he fell to its whims.
Surely, it was the exhaustion - the weakness. The relief of finding this place.
It had been a lifetime since the sight of a shapely figure had reduced him to such a state, and even as the glow of release still had his heart aflutter and his body buzzing he made an oath never to allow himself to act upon those desires again.
A promise he would break over, and over, and over, until he forgot he'd ever made it at all.