AN: Note the change in rating. Noted? Good.
Wherever they were, the bed was miles too hard and the room stunk. This was all Serkan's fault; she knew it. The wily, filthy bastard hardly cared that she was one ill-timed word away from killing him for dragging her about to every damn hovel of a tavern between Montsimmard and Jader, sniffing about for any trickling rumours about this Blight that was brewing to the east. Her back ached, her head was pounding, and she hated him so much—
She could feel his hands stroking her head, still broad and rough even when they moved with the lightest of touches, and without even opening her strangely heavy eyes, she was able to work up a decent snarl.
"What in Andraste's name do you think you're doing?" She could smell the familiar blend of blood and magic that clung to the man like a thick cloak, but it was stronger than usual— no, he wouldn't. "You son of a whore," she hissed, but the more she tried to struggle the tighter she was held, and the more she realised her muscles felt odd, weak and watery. "I told you before I'd gut you if you did this again—"
She heard a man's voice, but it was not Serkan, and somehow that made her slightly less afraid. What it said for the complicated relationship she and her mentor shared that she was more at ease awaking in the unexplained grip of a stranger, well, that was something she had stopped considering long ago. It took her a moment to understand the words being said, but something about the foreign voice gave her pause.
"Safe," the man was saying, in the common tongue she realised. "You're safe, Magali. Calm yourself."
"Maker's breath, woman." Another voice, another man, and she fought to keep her breathing even. There was something wrong with her body, some injury that made more than the slightest movement feel impossible, but if these men meant her harm she would maintain the element of surprise. She wouldn't need to move very much to knock them back with a blast of willpower. "Do you have any idea what she said, Nathaniel?"
"No," the man called Nathaniel answered sharply, and it was his hands that held her in place, with one arm wrapped around her chest and the other cradling her cheek. Now that her thoughts were clearing, she became aware that it was not a pillow, but a pair of firm thighs upon which her head rested. There was no mattress under her back, but some cold, wet surface that smelt of rotting vegetation. "Just finish healing her."
"Right." She was being healed? For what? Where in the blighted pit was she?
The cool tingle of magic that skated along her nerves made her gasp, and why hadn't she realised how very much her back hurt until just then?
"Maker have mercy," she whimpered, unable to stop the desperate plea from escaping her lips. Something had been terribly wrong, and she could feel every pull and scrape as bones knit back together and torn muscles mended. Whoever this second man was, his healing ability was extremely impressive.
Finally, after what felt like years, the magic faded and she had the strength to open her eyes. The strong-featured face that hovered above her was drawn with concern, framed by a drape of dark hair, and she knew him.
"Nathaniel," she said, and it meant something to her again. Her mind was clearing, fuzzy memories returning like bubbles breaking on the surface of a pond. The Blackmarsh, darkspawn, the Fade… that wretched bitch of a baroness. With some effort, she found the words she needed. "What happened?"
There was a harsh, exhausted laugh from the direction of her feet— Anders. "You got crushed by a demon," the mage explained, and she felt fingers rub her knee cheekily. "Can you feel that?"
Well-meaning concern and a bit of lechery: she recalled Anders quite well. "Yes."
"Excellent." There was a pained groan, then a muffled thump. "Try not to move about too much quite yet; bits and bobs still patching together, you know how it is. I'm just going to pass out here for a minute, but we'll both be good to go shortly, all right?"
Nathaniel's hand was warm against her face, and the touch stopped her from nodding unthinkingly. "I— yes, Anders. Thank you."
"Mmhm," came the reply, already beginning to mumble with sleep. "Ah, think nothing of it."
Then there was only Nathaniel, still staring down at her with obvious concern. She blinked at him, remembering something else. "Where is the Spirit of Justice?"
"Just over there." Nathaniel tilted his head to the right, and she hadn't realised how rough his voice sounded, as if he'd been shouting. "Contemplating his hands, I think. Seeing you injured apparently drove home some of the more… unpleasant realities of his current condition." He paused, very purposefully catching her eyes again. "Ça va?"
Laughing hurt, but not nearly as much as it would have a short while before, she was certain. She would ask Anders as soon as they were underway, but it felt as though the demon had broken many of her ribs, and perhaps done some significant damage to her neck or her spine. She could taste blood, but only slightly.
"Tres bien," she murmured, suddenly feeling stupidly giddy. That had been close, too close, but she was still alive. "If I look even half so good as I feel, I am shocked you can contain yourself, dear man."
The strong scent of evergreens wafted from his bare fingers, and she did not object when they caressed her brow gently. How she had confused this man with Serkan, she would never know.
"It is a tempting thing," he replied quietly, with only a hint of relieved humour. "And it's dear now, is it? How hard did you hit your head?"
The lingering pain was receding, slowly but surely, and she wiggled her toes experimentally. She was reminded exactly how damp the Blackmarsh was when the discomfort of wet buttocks and sodden robes quickly moved to the fore of her mind.
"Not hard enough to bear this mire much longer." She tried to shift around, perhaps to sit up a bit, but the arm looped under her bosom held her like iron.
"I believe you're meant to stay still, my lady."
"I am fine—"
"Then you're fine to stay just where you are." Nathaniel's tone was firm, almost harsh, and it raised her hackles even as it made something ridiculous and girlish flutter in her stomach. "And you can snarl and snap, and order me about all you like, but I am not moving until I know it's safe."
A pained groan nearby interrupted her before she could bite out a suitable retort. "Andraste's arse— get a bloody room, you two." Anders sounded irritated, and she could keenly imagine his exhaustion. "There truly is no rest for the wicked. Come on, then; let's see how you're doing, since I'm obviously not going to be allowed a proper quiet lie-down."
It was incredibly uncomfortable to submit to such an examination, but she bore it in stoic silence. Anders poked and prodded, bending her legs carefully and digging his fingers into her hips, and all the while she glared defiantly up at Nathaniel's coolly composed face. It was a testament to Anders' fatigued state that he didn't say more than a few cursory words as his hands slid slowly up her sides, squeezing gently here and there, then very cautiously turned her neck. When she didn't feel more than a few twinges, a tension bled from her of which she'd only been partially aware.
Grinning wanly, Anders sat back on his heels in his crouch beside her elbow. "Good as new, more or less. Could we get out of this blasted cesspit and go home now? Thanks."
She wasn't steady on her feet quite yet, they discovered, but that was hardly surprising given the grievous nature of her injuries. Ignorance never did anyone any good, and so it was that they'd not even made it out of sight of the abandoned town before she'd gotten answers out of her fellow mage.
"I'm not sure what you expected," Anders was muttering, dragging his feet along the winding, overgrown path. Ser Pounce-a-lot was peering intently out of the weathered bag hanging from his shoulder, swatting ineffectually at the few buzzing insects that darted about the marsh. "When a big, nasty monster grabs you and tosses you about like a doll, things get broken— important things. You're lucky you didn't get ripped in half, and wait, why am I not getting carried too? I did an incredibly good job piecing you back together, and I think I've got a blister on my heel."
"I am not being carried," she snapped, even as Nathaniel's arm tightened around her waist. The man was a solid support at her side, and she leaned heavily against him with every wobbly step. "And if you are suffering so, perhaps Justice would indulge you."
"I could attempt it, if you wished." The spirit sounded wary, but not at all sarcastic in the offer. He was already very graciously carrying her staff strapped to his back. "I am not yet sure of the limitations of this body, but the mage did an honourable thing by saving another's life. That is to be commended."
Anders was peering over at the reanimated corpse, likely taking in the flaking skin and stench of death that emanated from the spirit's encasement of putrid flesh. "Ah, no— you know what? I'm good."
"You're sure?" Nathaniel inquired with mock sincerity, pausing long enough for her to step cautiously around a fallen log. "You've got a blister, after all."
Shooting the man a dark look, Anders readjusted his pack with a huff, and the little cat meowed a sharp, startled sound. "Yeah, ha-ha. See who comes running the next time you've got a sword poking out of your belly, you smarmy bastard."
She seemed very delicate, even though he knew she was not, and Nathaniel did his level best not to behave as if he thought otherwise. Having her cling to his side, tucked under the edge of his cloak to help keep her warm in her soggy, soiled robes, was agreeable enough that he was loath to do anything that might make her pull away. She might still have been swaying and staggering on weakened legs, but she was mulish enough to refuse his help should the very winds shift.
They were out of the marsh now, nearly back to the tiny campsite where the rest of their party waited. Velanna and Sigrun had likely been rather surprised to see Oghren stumbling back alone some time before, probably yammering on nonsensically about the Fade and talking corpses. Nathaniel was looking forward to introducing their newest companion, for he had little doubt the women would assume the drink-addled dwarf was suffering from some manner of hallucination.
He was not looking forward to giving up his willing cargo, but that could hardly be helped.
"Thank you for your help," she murmured eventually, just as their circle of tents came into view over the next knoll. If either Anders or Justice heard the unanticipated expression of gratitude, neither reacted. "You know, I have, ah… considered."
Suddenly all legs and little grace, Nathaniel tripped over absolutely nothing, but managed to right himself before any harm was done. She was able to slip safely out of his hold during the lurching, and now stood barely a step away, watching with obvious amusement sparkling behind her eyes. Her milky skin retained a sickly pallor, however, and sweat beaded along her hairline.
"Have you indeed," he said too curtly, trying to ignore the knowing wink Anders graced him with over one shoulder as both mage and spirit continued on towards the nearby camp. "Just now, or have you been mulling for the past fortnight?"
She crossed her arms, and her pained wince nearly made him rush to her side again. Her next words, however, stamped out any thought of chivalry. "Do you think me so very fickle, that I would not have given your question any thought?"
"I—" He wasn't entirely certain whether she sounded angry or hurt. Either, really, was problematic. "No. No, I don't— but I think if you had absolutely no interest, you would have told me so before now."
"Interest does not come before duty, Nathaniel."
"Ah." It was as he'd feared, of course. "And I suppose your duty does not include… caring for me."
He had meant to say it that time— since their discussion in her study, he had come to better terms with the concept that he did feel something rather serious for this woman. She had a strength of will about her, a fire that drew him like an ill-fated moth; if she were going to refuse him, let her understand his sincerity first.
She shook her head slowly, frowning. "My only duty is to seek out darkspawn and destroy them. As is yours, Warden." His flat of course, Commander died on his lips when she continued, stepping impossibly closer. "So you must know that anything between us can never interfere with that duty, no matter what. Can you promise me that?"
For a moment, he thought she must have switched to Orlesian. Then, abruptly, her words registered.
"I can," he replied roughly, his throat having gone dry. When she touched his cheek with the cool pads of her fingers, he swallowed painfully. "I do promise you that, Magali."
"Good." She looked ashen, nearly ready to faint away, but that was not the only reason he curled one arm around her back and drew her near. The others could see them clearly from camp, he knew, and this was hardly the time, but her thumb was brushing against his bottom lip, and he could not bring himself to care about anything else.
The kiss was a battle, when he had intended merely a taste. Nevertheless, he retained enough of his mind not to squeeze her soft, lithe body even as she opened her mouth to him with a long, captivating moan. One of her hands was gripping tight in his hair, holding his head still as she slid her sinuous little tongue along his, while the other kneaded the muscle of his upper arm. He had expected the sweetness, but it was mingled with the sharp, metallic tang of blood, and when he pushed back, attempting to take more control, she whimpered.
Breathing hard, he pulled away with wavering reluctance, apprehension about her injuries blooming. "Are, are you all right?"
"Oh yes," she whispered throatily, sending a bolt of heat directly to his groin. He could feel that most of her weight was propped up on his frame, even as she looked up at him with such raw, devastatingly tempting want. "If I did not feel so miserably frail, oh mon grand, the things I would do to you."
It was unfair, and he felt like a slavering lecher, but the images such a declaration evoked made him growl harshly. Her answering shiver was almost more than he could bear, but with a great, heaving sigh he leaned down and rested his forehead chastely against her shoulder.
"You did this intentionally." The usually smooth knot of her hair was coming loose, still tangled with a few small sticks and leaves, and dried flecks of mud darkened the coppery red. He remembered, quite vividly, the unnatural, twisted position of her hips when they'd finally been able to approach her motionless body, after that raging demon was put down. "You would choose now to tell me this, you insufferable nymph."
"Surely—" He could feel her fingers tug at his braids, her lips nuzzling against his ear, but he could not bring himself to move away. "I am not testing the great restraint of the Howe, am I? You are a man of such stoic manners—"
"You are wicked," he rumbled, and risked pressing his mouth to her throat if only to shut her up, feeling her quickened heartbeat as he scraped his teeth lightly along her collar.
She cried out softly, words he did not understand, and sagged heavily in his arms. "Maker damn it! My legs, Nathaniel, I'm going to fall—"
"You're not going to fall," he interrupted, tightening his grip around her just slightly for emphasis. "But you do need to get to camp and rest. We will… continue this later, if my lady wishes."
Whatever strength had allowed her to stay upright for as long as she had seemed about ready to desert, and she did not object to being carried for the final short hike to camp. Her arms were looped about his neck, her knees tucked against his chest, but she kept her head as high and proud as he'd expected when they approached the others.
"Everything all right?" Anders glanced up from his exhausted sprawl near the smouldering fire, his tone thick with suggestion. "Didn't overexert yourself, did you Commander?"
"Not yet," Nathaniel said very quietly, earning himself a heated look from the woman cradled in his arms. Sigrun was already in the process of laying out a blanket across the grass, and he nodded his thanks to the dwarf as he set Magali down gently on the dark grey wool.
"I am filthy and sore," she groaned, squeezing his hand briefly as he extracted himself and made to stand. It was not an invitation to sit, but it felt almost like an expression of affection. "But I am in one relatively whole piece."
"I would've been really upset if you died before me, Commander." Sigrun was grinning from her nearby squat, with elbows resting casually on her knees, but her tone held an undercurrent of real concern. Magali could be a hard woman, but she had managed to earn no small amount of admiration and even friendliness from the Wardens under her command. It was certainly nothing like what Nathaniel had expected when she'd first studied him appraisingly, condescendingly, through the bars of his cell.
Velanna was leaning over a large pot at the edge of the fire, simmering away with something that smelled faintly of fish and onion, while Oghren was sitting close by with his greaves and boots off, picking at his toenails and leering at the elf's posterior. Grubby dwarven feet did not smell nearly as appetising as their impending supper, but at least Oghren was not attempting to help with the cooking again.
The Spirit of Justice was standing some distance away from the rest of them, staring at the campsite of living beings with a mournful expression twisting his grisly features— it was a sentiment Nathaniel was nearly convinced the spirit did not realise he was projecting. A fade spirit trapped in the body of a dead Grey Warden… their band was growing stranger by the day, truly.
Magali rolled her shoulders slowly, tugging uncomfortably at her filthy robes. "I will do my very best never to upset you so," she said, sending Sigrun a flicker of a smile. "When will supper be ready, Velanna?"
"The roots will not take much longer to soften," came the answer, and Velanna only glanced up for a moment before pulling some small, dark leaves from her belt pouch and tossing them in the steaming, brownish liquid in the pot. "Less than a half-hour, but it will keep if you're anxious to clean yourself up."
He had no inkling of the dangerous direction Magali's thoughts had travelled until she spoke, with enflaming words that belied her matter-of-fact tone. "Ah, there is a river nearby, as I recall, and if I do not go soon I know I will fall asleep first. You are not averse to assisting me again, are you Nathaniel?"
The tittering and wolf-whistles that followed were barely audible over the blood pounding in his ears. Only a short while before, that request would have stirred something hot in his gut, but he would not have truly assumed it was more than an innocent call for for aid; the Commander was still unsteady, after all. Now, however…
She was staring up at him, waiting, and there was a definite challenge crackling the air between them. The knowledge that she did want him, the memory of her needy cry quivering under his lips— these things made him keen to meet such a challenge head on.
"As you wish, Commander." She was still healing, he knew, but that did not stop his fingers from itching to explore every inch of her. Instead, he extended one hand in offer.
Very delicately, she curled her hand around his, allowing him to pull her carefully back to her feet. Had he not been wearing his leathers, her bosom brushing against his chest would have been agonizing— as it was, he was simply left to imagine the sensation.
Her arm came around his shoulders, and it was with little obvious strain that he scooped her up once again. Her eyes were gleaming mischievously. "I would hate to survive being mauled by a manifested pride demon just to drown in some trickling stream." She pointed in the direction of her tent. "My bag, if you please."
He wasn't about to speak any more than necessary, especially while still in camp. All he needed was for the others to have more fodder for vexing him, especially Anders and the dwarves. With a nod, he retrieved the bag with some haste, then strode off in the direction of the river without further discussion.
It was evening, with the sky beginning to darken to orange and crimson near the western horizon, and this close to the coast he knew that any river they found would likely be quite chilly. Nonetheless, if the lady wished to bathe he would indulge her.
"Did I embarrass you, Nathaniel?" Her abrupt question startled him, in part because his mind was wandering traitorously to thoughts of wet, glistening skin.
"You know you did," he muttered almost crossly, and he could already hear the sound of water running close by. "And you're thrilled about it, as well."
She laughed— a soft, tinkling thing against the stillness of the trees and babbling stream. "I will be thrilled to wash the mud out of my smallclothes, and you will enjoy washing my hair, I think."
To his credit, Nathanial did not stumble. "I'm— what?" Smallclothes, washing, and lovely long hair… she was trying to kill him, he realised suddenly. Only a few hours before she laid broken and barely clinging to life, and now she was pressing him for such intimacy when she knew her health was still fragile.
"My hair. Only if you wish it, I suppose." They had arrived at the bank of the clear, slow-moving river, and by the rich greenery and the slightly salty tang Nathaniel guessed it was part of a delta not far removed from the sea. He lowered her carefully into standing, incredibly unsure of what would be an appropriate step. He knew what he wanted, but also knew he could rein himself in and wait.
She didn't continue with her teasing words, but neither did she ask him to leave or even to turn as she began deftly undoing her robes. She was standing close enough that her hands brushed against him as she slipped free of her belt, but he was hardly about to step back when she was swaying so dangerously.
With a long-suffering sigh, he reached out and rested one hand on her hip. "I told you, you are not going to fall. Do try not to make a liar of me so soon, if you please."
"Then help," she murmured, and before he could protest she caught up his free hand and guided it to the tiny button that kept her collar closed. He hesitated only briefly before doing as he was bid, but after flicking open that bit of metal, there were no other fasteners or laces that he could see.
His thoughts were preoccupied, certainly, but no so much that he didn't notice the hands stealing up to unfasten the clasp of his cloak. When the heavy wool puddled on the grass at his feet, Nathaniel was struck by a pang of doubt.
"You're pushing yourself too hard," he chided, grabbing the questing fingers that had moved on to the buckles of his quiver. "And you're driving me to distraction."
"Take my robes off." It was if he hadn't spoken, and now his leggings were beginning to feel uncomfortably tight. "Quite simple; up and over."
Black, foul mud had indeed seeped down to her skin, smeared across the backs of her smooth thighs and up over her bottom. The generous curve of her hip, something he'd only imagined when wrapped up under the layers of her close-fitted robes, led his foolishly wandering eye up over the soft, feminine line of her belly, her ribs, oh Maker her breasts—
"I will need you to help me to the water." She was smiling impishly; he could see that now. "And stop that." Her hands moved with surprising strength, prying apart his painfully tight fists, and he did not resist when she brought his slack palms up to rest lightly on her bare sides. With only the ends of his fingers exposed in his gloves, Nathaniel was still struck dumb by the velvety suppleness of her skin.
She was touching his bracers now, running her hands along the hardened leather as she leaned forward and pressed her nearly naked form flush against him, and Nathaniel could feel the knife's edge he teetered upon quite keenly. Her expression was much too serene for a woman stoking such a fire in him.
"Here—" When she reached carefully behind her head, arching her back just slightly, Nathaniel forced his gaze to stay steady on her face. A moment later, and her hair spilled free with a small shake. "Will you keep my hairpins in your belt pouch, please?"
"Yes," he rasped, but before he could reach for the items, her arm was snaking down between their bodies, and he couldn't stop the moan from shuddering out of him. He needed to kiss her again, to take possession of her sweet, smirking mouth, but then he would be truly lost. Instead, he clenched his jaw so hard his teeth nearly creaked.
Her hand was still wrapped around his belt, and with an insistent tug she stepped back towards the river. "Come, then."
And of course he went willingly— there were a vast number of reasons why he would not leave her then, no matter how incredibly perilous it might be to stay. There were a few large, relatively flat rocks peeking up out of the water near the bank, and it was with great care that he eased her down to sit upon one.
Years before, through a rather convoluted series of events, he, the knights, and the other squires he travelled with in the Free Marches had found themselves at a squalid dockside tavern in Wyeome. He'd been barely more than a boy, just turned sixteen, and some Rivaini sailors were telling wild, enthralling tales in return for flagons of cheap ale. Stories of pirates, treasures, and bawdy women mostly, but there'd been one man, quieter than the rest, who told tales of fabled creatures that supposedly lurked about the strange, northern waters. With his deep, rumbling voice he spoke of vicious watersnakes, longer than a galleon and able to swallow a man whole; the strange ghost-lights that lured foolish ships into rocky shoals; and of the beautiful, deadly sirens of the Nocen Sea.
He'd been a sombre enough lad that he hadn't let the depths of his fascination show at the time, but seeing this woman now, reclining so enticingly on her stone perch with a cascade of tangled hair falling loosely over her bare skin— Nathaniel finally understood why sailors feared such creatures.
"My soap?" The question startled him out of his dangerous reflections, but he was able to keep his hands steady as he passed her the small canvas bag that had hung forgotten from his shoulder. After a moment of rummaging, the bag was set safely upon another rock, and Magali dipped one foot into the water with a quiet hiss. "Cold," she murmured, but then the scrap of cloth barely covering her breasts fell away, and Nathaniel shifted his focus very firmly to the cloudless sky.
She would make a commotion if she began to drown, he was sure.
Some time later, though not nearly long enough for the pressure between his legs to subside, he heard a splash loud enough to draw his gaze back. The water was lapping teasingly at her collarbone, and it was clear enough in the rich evening sunlight that it did very little to obscure the fair form beneath. She slapped the river's surface again, and Nathaniel was pleased to see that at least some the unhealthy strain around her eyes and mouth had relaxed.
"Bring me my robes, if you would," she asked, motioning to the garment still lying discarded in the grass. "I'll have nothing to wear tomorrow if I do not wash them now." Her smallclothes, top and bottom, were already scrubbed clean and spread out beside her bag and the utter nakedness that image implied was incredibly enticing.
He didn't speak, but he did retrieve the robes, crouching on the stony bank as he held them out to her. When she grabbed hold of his wrist rather than fabric, he tensed, preparing himself to be tumbled unceremoniously into the water, but she merely held him there.
"I've already washed my hair, so you need not worry." Disappointment settled unexpectedly in his chest, but then she was reaching up to touch his jaw, and her breasts rose free from the water, pert and glistening, and stiff from the cold.
His resolve was slipping away like grains of sand, and without conscious thought he was leaning down to meet her, catching her mouth hard with his own. The robes were forgotten, dropping onto the shore with a soft, wet thud, and her flesh was slick and willing under his hands. His grip on her waist was too hard, but she still scrambled for a grip on his shoulders to pull herself closer. With a harsh groan, he lifted her towards him while simultaneously shifting to fall back on his arse, bringing her dripping, chilled body onto his lap.
He fought to keep his touches gentle, but she was already arching so wantonly, straddling his hips and scraping her nails across his scalp—
His cloak was not so very far away, and with more presence of mind than he thought he still possessed, Nathaniel dragged them both across the grass towards it. She gasped when he tumbled her onto the rough wool, but it was better than river rocks and grass, and now he had her body laid out before him like a feast.
Leathers could not unbuckle quickly enough, not with such a woman waiting and touching her own bosom like that while she watched him struggle. He nearly wrenched his arm yanking himself free of his cuirass, and his leggings barely made it down past his knees before he was upon her again, but he did not go so far as to plunge into her like some kind of animal. His mouth replaced her fingers, suckling desperately at her breasts, and she keened sharply at the contact, drawing out his name like a prayer.
He had wanted to taste every inch of her, but to attempt such a thing at the moment would have killed him, he was sure. There would, Maker willing, be other opportunities for such thorough explorations.
There were certain pleasures that would not wait, however, and with eagerness burning through his muscles, Nathaniel began to trail kisses down her stomach. Her hips jerked with shocked delight when he reached his destination, and her sweet cries became louder and more frantically broken as he indulged himself, revelling in the pressure of her heels digging into his back.
They were both trembling by the time he crawled back up to her flushed face, but Nathaniel was drawn taut with need. She kissed him, whispering delicious sounds he thought might be words against his mouth, then sighed with quiet satisfaction as he finally slipped smoothly inside her waiting heat.
He was at the very end of his tether, clinging to the last vestiges of control, but the rhythm he set was not as fierce as the fire in his veins demanded. He felt feverish, with his head cradled in the curve of her throat, and every small sound of pleasure she made sizzled across his skin. Then, when they were sliding together with mingled sweat and lingering traces of river water, she began to roll her hips just so, and he was lost.
He couldn't have stopped the snapping of his own hips if a horde of darkspawn descended upon them, and it was exactly that sort of sentiment he had promised her he would not allow to overcome him. He hardly thought she would have reacted much better, regardless, not with the way her hands were digging so hard into his neck and shoulders, urging him on with desperate pleas that only very occasionally formed into faster, more, and please.
Then she was stiffening, clamping around him like paradise, and he felt his own release scorching through him only a few moments later.
The cloak was wet and grass was cool against his back when he rolled over, panting hard, but the woman curling herself against his side was gloriously warm and pliant. She was nuzzling his neck, nibbling under his ear, and Nathaniel was utterly captivated even in his languor.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, but the twist of shame he felt at his lapse in self-control did not seem strong enough to latch on. Her answering chuckle, soft and sleepy, ghosted across his throat.
"Perfect." Some minor shifting about, and she had her arm slung across his chest, with her chin propped up upon it. Having so recently seen her twisted about in bliss, Nathaniel did not resist the urge to stroke his fingers along her cheek, brushing a few strands of hair aside. She was striking, indeed. "Other than the rustic accommodations, I am not sure I have ever been better."
"Is that so?" It was pathetic how such an off-hand comment could make his heart swell in his chest. "You may need another bath, you know."
"A nap first, I think." The feel of her body sliding atop his stirred things in his belly that made him feel like an especially lewd youth, but then she pulled the edge of the cloak up over her naked back with a sigh. "And perhaps you might wash my hair next time, hm?"
Still-damp tendrils already wound around his fingers, and he was careful to avoid snagging tangles as he caressed the loose curls affectionately. "As my lady wishes," he replied softly, pressing a gentle kiss against her forehead even as her eyes drifted slowly closed.
END
AN: Oh man, Nathaniel is so hot that Word kept crashing. I am completely and hilariously serious about that, as well.
I really like Magali, and the interesting POV of writing as an Orlesian Warden. This is probably not the last story I'll write that will feature her (and maybe one day I'll write something with Serkan— he had sex with a desire demon once, you know). It's certainly not the last Nathaniel piece I'll do, I imagine.
