He woke in the dead of the night, the sky black through the window, decorated with frost. The wind blew hard. But it was her hands that roused him, small and warm on his face.
Eskel opened his eyes, witcher sight quickly adjusting to the dark. The fire had burned to almost nothing, but there was enough of a glow of him to see. She'd turned towards him, still pressed tightly against his chest, her eyes trying to see him in the darkness. Her fingers found his scars by touch, fingertips dancing over the puckered skin with reverence. He would never understand her, understand how she could look at him and want him almost because of the damage instead of in spite of it.
She saw his eyes open; he knew they glittered in the dark like a cat's. Her expression changed, softened, the corners of her mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
"Eskel." She said his name as she always did, with affection and with desire. He clutched at her when she stretched up to kiss him, her little warm tongue flicking over the scars on his mouth. The length of her body against his was almost too hot.
He let her roll him on to his back willingly, one round white thigh draped over him. She was frantic, hands and her mouth everywhere all at once. She rubbed herself against him until he was fully hard and slid him inside of her without a word. She paused, arching her back, her head back and her mouth open as she sat astride him. He didn't even breathe, just watched her in silence.
Maya fell forward against his chest, her hair falling over her shoulder and brushing his face. She dragged her lips over the stubble along the ridge of his jaw, down his throat, resting against his neck as her hips started to move. Neither of them made a sound; just the wind, the fading crackles from the fireplace, ragged and desperate breathing.
Eskel buried his hands in her hair, lifted her face from his neck so her could look at her. If he'd seen her on a street in a city or a village, he might only have noted her bright hair or her pointed ears. He might even have noticed that she was too plump and curvy to be a full blooded elf, but he doubted he would have given her another glance. There were a lot of lovely women in the world. He'd seen and even bedded some of the most beautiful creatures, sorceresses made impossibly attractive with glamor, even a succubus who's entire existence depended on it.
But Maya was more than that, more than just lovely soft flesh under his fingers. He pulled her down to him to kiss her, try to show her what he wasn't built to be able to say. His life was hard, always been hard, and he wasn't meant for soft words and poetry. But she made him want it. She made him want to just stay here, right here with his cock inside her and her lips on his and her heart beating frantically against his chest. He wanted to say all the right things but he didn't know the right words.
Her hips circled against his, seeking pressure, friction. He arched up to meet her, gauging his movement with her reactions; tiny whimpers, gasps. She seemed loathe to pull away even enough to ride him properly, just tiny, short movements so she could clutch at him again. She pressed down hard as he pushed up. She made a sound almost like a sob, exquisitely heartbreaking.
She raised her head, just enough to look at him and even if all she could see was the embers of the fire reflected in his gold eyes, he could see her in perfect detail. Her fair eyebrows were drawn together, palest freckles, nearly transparent eyelashes. Her eyes glittered with tears.
The words just spilled out, unbidden, awkward, painfully honest. "I love you." His voice sounded gruff, thick even to his own ears.
Her mouth trembled. "You shouldn't."
"Too late." Eskel smiled despite himself. He wanted her to say it. He could feel it. He needed to hear it.
"Oh gods," she whimpered. "I didn't mean to. I thought..." Her voice caught. She kissed him once, twice. "I thought I'd be able to just...this wasn't supposed to happen."
He held her against him, his cock still hard and wanting, but stilled, waiting. His heartbeat was too fast. He couldn't control it.
"I shouldn't," she whispered, her lips brushing his scarred, beloved cheek. "But I do. I love you, so much. Too much. I'm sorry."
She started to move again. Hard, fast. She pulled back swiftly, flipping her hair back over her head, riding him hard until he felt her, felt himself come undone. His fingers dug into the soft skin on her hips as he came, sitting up to grab her and hold her tightly against him.
He didn't know why she was sorry, but his heart ached at the pain in her voice.
He said I love you a thousand more times into her neck as she cleaved to him, sobbing, tears running down her face on to his.
In a fairytale, her tears would have healed his scars, changed him, made him a prince. But he was still ragged and broken and old, but his scars stopped aching, even if it was only for now.