He tastes of bitter chocolate. She finds it intoxicating when passed from mouth to mouth, far better than anything ever served to her in a drink. And his kisses are deep and generous, fiercely tender, worshipful and burning all at once. They warm her from the lips down, spreading through her body in shivering fire and taking all the strength from her legs. She falls to the floor before the hearth, landing softened by strong arms looping around her.
His hands are calloused but his touches soft. Fingers more used to gripping a sword make light work of the lacing down the front of her camise and burn her skin at the touch. His caresses are delicate but leave a trail of lightning, coaxing her body into shuddering pleasures that take her breath. She is falling, melting, and feels as if she would be lost completely without his weight to anchor her.
Naked, vulnerable, she surrenders herself to her thundering heart and the heat of his skin against hers. She watches the fire leap in the hearth and he's taking her, gasping her name against her neck, and she feels drunk with happiness as she tangles her hands in his hair, scratches her nails down his scalp and claims him for her own.
"You are my Fury," he whispers into her ear, a few stolen words between sinful, luscious sounds that defy language and courtship. "I'll pledge my life to yours."
She does not answer. She cannot. Her body is overcome with tremors and she forgets to speak for now, being drawn into a tender embrace and slowing kisses that cause her heart to sing. He is her king, she thinks, her comrade, her equal above all others. She has found truth, in his embrace. She has found herself through his touch.
She sleeps. He watches. She wakes to a warm drink and an encouraging smile.
This day, they work as two instead of one. This day, they share an understanding.
This day, the shield breaks.
Her words remain unspoken. Her light, her hope, her truth lie smothered in the snow.
All that remains is her fury.