"I don't like this forest," Rìona announced to no one in particular. At her feet lay the quickly disintegrating remains of a shade.
"I told you not to meddle with that sarcophagus." Yes. Yes, he did. Alistair's self-satisfied tone made her waver with indecision as to whether or not she should snarl at him, or stick her tongue out peevishly.
It didn't help that he was right. The mystery of those ancient gravesites had become a fixation for her, compelling her to investigate, which had in turn caused a number of delays for their company. If one positive thing had come from it, it was that they had acquired a new set of armor in the process, in case Sten's or Alistair's should be damaged.
Disgusted, she kicked the root of a tree that had, over the ages, pushed its way through the stone wall of the ruins and begun to creep across the ancient tiled floor.
Her toe protested. The tree, thankfully, did not.
"You know, next time we get attacked by one of those angry trees, I'm gonna tell it you did that," Alistair drawled. He looked weary; it seemed as though they'd been in these ruins forever, seeking the werewolves. They'd run into a dragon, a vast number of undead, and now several shades, but no werewolves.
Irritated, she ordered their company to prepare to camp. It would be their second night—or so she assumed—in the underground ruins. They'd been forced to camp after the dragon, as well, to bind their wounds and clean their weapons and armor.
"I don't like this forest," she said again, flopping wearily down on the floor and leaning against the root she had kicked, as though it were now suddenly a best friend upon whom she could hang during a drunken evening in a tavern.
"Yes, I'm getting that impression." Alistair said calmly. "Any particular reason why?"
Rìona frowned. "Where should I begin? Talking trees? Angry trees? Talking werewolves who are intelligent enough to set ambushes? Hypnotic campsites that try to kill us? And, of course, another distraction from our business of actually gathering our army to fight the Blight. Every day we linger here is one day we're not moving toward Orzammar, and another day the Blight continues to spread unchecked while Loghain plays tinpot tyrant."
"All right, you have a point," Alistair conceded.
"We need to move on," she fretted, rolling her head against the crumbling masonry of the wall. "Alistair... I don't have many more months left to get this done."
Inevitably, his gaze dropped to her abdomen, where her armor hung half-open at the sides, giving her a slovenly appearance. She caught him looking at her often, these days, in just such a manner, and wondered what it was he was thinking. It must be strange for him, courting a woman who carried his own brother's child. She wondered if it posed an obstacle; perhaps he found it repellent. Perhaps it was the reason he insisted on this chaste courtship. Maybe he couldn't bring himself to press further in these circumstances.
Rìona had thought, after the morning she had awakened beside him following their encounter with the shade, that things were going to be different, that Alistair had decided to advance their courtship to something less... proper. But once he was assured that she was going to recover, he resumed his gentlemanly comportment and courtly overtures, or at least a rough approximation of such things in their travels. It had been all she could do to talk him out of insisting on carrying her pack, despite the fact that it would have been one more thing he would have to lay down in order to take up his sword and shield in the event of an attack.
Frankly, it was beginning to get a bit frustrating. She was accustomed to thinking in terms of passion and seduction, not chastity and restraint. Her bedroll felt emptier than ever, these days, and her mind returned over and over to the two soul-shaking kisses they had shared so many months ago. She wasn't certain she knew how to be virtuous, not really, but she was determined to make an effort for his sake. If he wanted a courtship, she wasn't going to deny him the opportunity to conduct it.
That resolve wasn't making her lonely tent any less lonely, however. Nor was it doing any favors for her self-confidence, which had taken a number of blows since she'd learned of Morrigan's betrayal.
Alistair lifted his gaze and discovered her watching him. He looked quickly away, as though embarrassed to have been caught staring.
"We'll do what we have to do," he said absently, and went to oversee the distribution of their rations.
Discontented with his lack of concern, and his apparent unwillingness to discuss her child as anything more than a political abstract, Rìona laid out her bedroll and wandered out into the antechamber to the wing of the ruins wherein they had battled the spirit.
Her gaze chanced upon the pristine, spring-fed well from which she had drawn water earlier. Although the earthenware ewer that had sat beside it had shattered, after she used it, the water was still flowing, clean and clear. Seizing upon an idea, she hurried back to the chamber in which they were spreading out their bedrolls and sharing their rations. Since the cookpot was going unused, Rìona claimed it and filled it from the spring.
"Wynne, would you heat this for me?"
Moments later, she was seeking out the privacy of another small chamber off the corridor they had cleared of its undead inhabitants earlier. Like so many other rooms in the underground ruins, it had been partially reclaimed by the forest. The roots of great trees had broken through the stone walls, creating impassible barriers in places, and hidden nooks in others. It was in one of these Rìona settled with her pot of steaming water and a linen cloth. She shed herself of her armor, and was in the process of drawing her ragged shirt over her head when she heard a masculine throat clearing behind her.
"There you are." When she looked over her shoulder, Alistair was staring at the wall, refusing to glance at her. He'd removed his armor, which seemed to indicate things were well underway with regards to setting up camp for the night. "Um, Leliana said you came this way. I thought I'd check on you, in case some of our undead friends from earlier decided to reanimate. But... I can see you just wanted some privacy, so I'll, um... leave you to it."
"Alistair." Rìona forced herself to sound lighthearted and amused, when in truth she felt anything but. She didn't know how to cope with his reticence. If he was trying to make her into a vestal creature because he could not bring himself to accept her passions, this entire courtship was doomed. She would never be that sort of woman. "You're welcome to stay. It's not as though you've never seen me in a bath before."
"Yes, well... that was different." Rìona turned to find he had turned his back to her, offering her privacy without actually leaving. "I wasn't courting you then. It wouldn't be..."
"Proper?" Rìona laughed and finished discarding her shirt. Her breast bindings itched, damp with sweat, but she decided to leave them for the moment. "If you're waiting for me to be 'proper' you're going to be in for a sad disappointment."
"Is that what you think I'm doing?"
"Honestly, Alistair, I couldn't begin to say what you're doing." She heard the frustration beginning to color her tone and grappled for a more neutral approach, one that wouldn't seem to be an indictment of his gallantry. "I certainly have no objection to being courted, especially since it means so much to you. But if you're doing this so that you can pretend I'm some unsullied maiden, it's never going to work."
"Maker, no! It's not that!" Though he still didn't turn to face her, his hand slapped down on a fallen block of masonry by which he stood. "Rìona, I just... I wanted to let you know I see you as something more. More than just... a body. More than just pleasure. Maker's breath, you don't hear the way you talk about yourself sometimes; as though that's all you are. As though that's all that matters about you. I just wanted you to know I want all of you, not just... flesh."
Tears stung her eyes and her voice was unsteady as she asked, "Are you certain? Are you certain you're not trying to deny the part of me that is rooted in flesh and pleasure?"
"Yes, I'm certain."
"Then why can't you bring yourself to look at me?"
He whipped his head around and when she met his eyes, Rìona began to understand just how very much her assumptions had erred.
His amber eyes were molten gold. Hot. Dangerous. Fierce. They spoke of need and of primal things that knew absolutely nothing of courtly romance.
"Because if I look at you, I don't know if I'm going to be able to stop at just looking."
Just like that, she couldn't catch her breath. Her heart pounded, her pulse raced. Everything within her tightened, leaving her aching with arousal and desperate to be touched.
Andraste's mercy. How long had he been feeling this way? How long had he been holding himself in check? Since that frustrated embrace all those months ago in Denerim?
"Would that be so bad?" she somehow found the breath to ask.
With visible effort, he turned away again. "It would, if I want to carry my point."
"And precisely how long do you think it's going to take you to carry your point?"
"As long as it takes you to realize you've got more to offer than just pleasure."
That sent a stab of... something... through her. Something she didn't particularly want to investigate.
"I can't abandon what my parents taught me, Alistair. It's part of who I am. It's part of the legacy they imparted."
As she watched, he bowed his head for a moment, then his shoulders rose as he drew a deep breath. "I don't want to disparage your parents. I know you loved them, and that you were close to them. But did you ever think that maybe they had some of the right ideas, but they applied them wrong, or carried them too far?"
Indignation welled up within Rìona in a furious rush, but before she could even put her argument into words, he said quickly, "Just hear me out, please! I've changed enough of my ways of thinking because of you, maybe you could just listen, just once?"
She folded her arms over her bound breasts, suddenly wishing she still had her shirt on. "All right," she said tightly. "I'm listening. Please, do tell me how everything my parents taught me was wrong."
"Oh, Maker's blood! That's not what I said at all!" Alistair snapped back, turning an irritated look on her. He met her eyes, apparently forgetting to stare elsewhere as he readied himself to argue.
"Then what are you saying?"
"I went to the monastery quite young. A lot of the other templar initiates—second sons and the like—didn't come until they were older, until they were nearly men. And I'd hear them talking about the girls or women they had... known, before they came to the monastery. Bragging. They talked about them as though they were things, rather than people. And I always felt badly for those women, for being regarded that way. And then, a while back, I realized I'd done some of the same thing to you. Once I cataloged you in my mind as a... loose woman, I guess... that became the only thing about you that mattered. Who you slept with, and whether you did it for a purpose or just because. It overshadowed everything else you were doing, everything you had already done. And I was... ashamed of myself, for thinking of you that way, but then I realized you also think of yourself that way."
Rìona stared at him, her anger and defensiveness forgotten. His thoughts so closely echoed her own musings, these last several weeks, that it left no room for anything other than astonishment.
"I confess, I've thought much the same things recently myself." She cleared her throat, her words coming with effort. "Perhaps at least part of why I've been so out of sorts lately is because I'm trying to learn to think of myself, and my approach to things, in a way I never have before. I've always wielded pleasure like a weapon, the only weapon I really knew how to use, and I can't continue to do that anymore. I'm going to be a mother soon, for Andraste's sake. When I realized how I was changing—physically, that is—" His ears reddened at the mention, and Rìona couldn't help but smile. "—my first concern was for my appeal. That it would prove an impediment, if I decided a seduction was the best way to get something done. And then I thought, surely that can't be right, that of all things, that would be my greatest concern."
Alistair nodded. "I just... I sometimes wonder if maybe your parents didn't... deny you something, when they taught you to see yourself that way. As I said, I don't mean to treat their memories disrespectfully," he said quickly. "From the love you bear for them, I'm sure they were wonderful people. And I think some of what they taught you, some of the things I'm learning through you, are good things. I think you're right, perhaps, about desire and pleasure being the greatest of the Maker's gifts to us, and that the Chantry is wrong when they try to suppress that, or make us ashamed of it. But are the Maker's gifts meant to be weapons? Should we be using them cynically—like Morrigan did with her magic—rather than celebrating them?"
Rìona sighed, smiling sadly. "If that's what my parents did—and I don't necessarily concede that it is—that wasn't their intent. They thought they were liberating me from the repression of society and the Chantry. They thought they were teaching me to lay claim to a marvelous gift this world would strip from me, if it could. They had seen the way sex could be used to destroy. My mother saw it in the brothel, and my father in the war against the Orlesians. They didn't want me to become a victim of that. They wanted the balance of power to favor me in whatever I chose to do, and so they taught me to take something which might have been used as a weapon against me and wield it, in order to protect myself. They taught me to take a weapon and turn it into a tool, to use it to build, to form bonds and alliances and offset hostility, rather than destroy."
It ached, to speak of them. But, she realized with a touch of surprise, that ache was less keen than once it had been, and her instinctive protectiveness of their memories was not so blinding that she couldn't concede a possible fault in their logic.
"The truth is," Rìona confessed, "they were scarred by the experiences of their youth, by what happened during the Orlesian occupation. Much as Loghain himself clearly is, I imagine. My father used pleasure as a balm, which on the whole is not a bad thing, for it can certainly be used to heal. But he did so excessively, perhaps, as a sot might use strong spirits. It was less about pleasure and more about escaping his evil memories, I think. The only mercy was that he was discreet about it, or else our family reputation would be in tatters. And my mother was taught to regard pleasure as a commodity, rather than a gift. She was taught her value lay in her body. They struggled with that all their lives, to take those damaging events and use them as a foundation for building something positive. Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I took away from their teachings the wrong lessons. Or perhaps the bitterness of those early experiences was simply too pervasive, so that it tainted the lessons they taught in ways they never actually intended."
A melancholy silence settled after her admission, and Rìona turned her attention to her pot of water, which was slowly cooling. She bent to soak her wash rag in it, finding it still pleasantly warm. Suddenly reminded of her partial nudity, Alistair flushed and turned away again.
Rìona frowned. Enough was enough.
"Alistair, look at me."
"Rìona..."
"You've carried your point. Now I have one of my own to carry."
Slowly, he turned. He didn't just peer at her over his shoulder, but actually turned to face her fully. His eyes, however, remained on her face.
"This body may not be all I have to offer, but it's certainly a significant portion. Allowing yourself to acknowledge it won't diminish me. Ignoring it will."
Alistair smiled self-consciously, ducking his head, slightly. When he looked up again, she was pleased to note that his eyes weren't quite so determinedly fixed on her face.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Absolutely nothing," Rìona said calmly, wringing her rag out and beginning to wash her face and neck. "Just... see all of me. Acknowledge all of me."
He sat there calmly, watching as she washed with a reserve that gave no indication of that flash of heat and desire she'd seen in his eyes earlier. Rìona wasn't sure whether or not to be disappointed by that fact.
She bent to rinse her cloth again, and that was when he moved. Approaching her, Alistair took the cloth from her hand and wrung it out. Rìona turned around at his gesture and closed her eyes with a sigh as he drew the warm cloth across the back of her shoulders.
When his other hand came to rest carefully upon her upper arm, it shook slightly.
She understood the feeling all too well.
How strange that she should respond to him like this. With her penchant for aggressive lovers, she never would have imagined that a bashful virgin who'd nearly had all the initiative beaten out of him would have been the one she'd fall in love with. And yet...
...She could feel it within him, that potential for aggression, carefully leashed, waiting. But on top of it all, there was his goodness, his tenderness, his caring. The fact that he regarded sex as being more significant that just an opportunity for casual pleasure meant that when he did give himself, he would be giving much more than just his body. And, though he was taking his time about it, it was undeniable that he was offering it all to her.
The strokes of the cloth were maddeningly sensual as he washed her shoulders and back, quickly reducing Rìona to a breathless mass of longing. Maker, she wanted him to touch her, actually touch her. She whimpered slightly when she felt him press closer to her and his breath brushed her ear as he murmured, "Is this more the sort of courtship you had in mind?"
"Something along these lines, yes."
She felt him press his face into her hair and shuddered. So close! Why wouldn't he just—? "I think I've kept my distance because when you're too close, I can't think straight. Being near you drives me mad. I'm afraid I'll suddenly become... all hands, each and every one of them groping."
"I don't necessarily object to groping. Honestly."
"So you say now." His hands landed on her shoulders and began to stroke down her arms, raising goose-flesh over the entire surface of her body.
She turned her head to meet his eyes as he hovered there over her shoulder. "Maker's blood, Alistair, please!"
And then his lips were upon hers and she was turning in his arms, and she understood that whatever memory she'd possessed of that long-ago embrace in Denerim was but a pale facsimile of what it actually felt like to kiss him. Rìona closed her eyes and shivered, sinking into him. This was it, then. They were really doing this, consequences and complications and potential for heartbreak and devastation be damned. It felt like jumping blindfolded off a ledge, with no idea how far she would fall.
With nothing left to do but wait for the impact of landing, she opened to Alistair's lips and knew she wasn't falling alone.
Hunger. Maker, he was so hungry! She could feel that craving in the trembling of his hand as it engulfed the back of her head, fingers splaying over her scalp. There was a coiled tension in his frame when her arms wound about his neck, as though he'd turn feral and ravenous if he just allowed himself to let go. And she wanted him to. Sweet Andraste, yes, she wanted him to.
"Rìona..." he groaned, breaking away to press his lips to her brow, his breath heavy against her hair. With a long sigh, Rìona sagged against him, clinging to his shoulders and letting him bear her weight. His other arm came about her waist, drawing her close. His body shook against hers and at length, he pulled away.
"There's... werewolves... to consider."
His fingers, however, didn't seem to be giving a great deal of thought to the danger of attack. They slid heedlessly up her ribs to come to rest at the bottom edge of her frayed breast bindings at the side. Rìona sucked in her breath, arching slightly, silently willing his hand to continue.
Instead, it moved lower, caressing over the gentle curve of her abdomen.
Rìona flinched, suddenly overwhelmed by insecurity. She made herself stay still, refusing by sheer dint of will not to retreat as his other hand joined the first to circumscribe the small mound there, his fingers spreading across her skin.
When he drew back and looked down, she'd never felt more exposed and vulnerable in her life.
She couldn't read his expression, as he solemnly studied her gravid belly. And then he lifted his eyes to hers, and they were full of tenderness and wonder. He swooped forward to kiss her again, claiming her lips with an urgency that spoke more of desperate emotion than desire.
Again his hands moved up her ribs, his fingers moving restlessly against her skin, and Rìona waited breathlessly. He hesitated, long enough for her to brace herself for the inevitable disappointment of his withdrawal, and then his hands met between her breasts and began pulling on the knots of her bindings.
"I just... need to see you. All of you," Alistair whispered, his shaking hands fumbling with the knot. Nodding her acquiescence, Rìona lent her aid to the endeavor, taking over and unwinding the bindings, gritting her teeth against the inevitable stab of pain that came with the sudden lack of support.
His eyes were most assuredly not upon her face as she let the linen strip fall away. She might have been amused, had she not been so utterly enraptured.
"Sweet Andraste..." he sighed. When his trembling fingers brushed the side-swell of her breast, she shivered, and when his palm cupped its weight and his thumb brushed the peak, she gasped. Her nipple hardened instantly and his fingertips grazed wonderingly over the small knot it formed. She arched, pressing into his hand as his lips sought hers again.
The more he touched her, the more she became aware of the fact that her skin was gritty with several days worth of dirt acquired traveling and fighting. Despite the pleasure, she pulled away, once again unaccountably self-conscious.
"I... need to bathe," she murmured as his eyes searched hers. "And... there are werewolves to consider, still."
After a moment, Alistair nodded, stepping away from her. "I, um..." He cleared his throat roughly. "I'll go see about setting up a watch rotation."
When she returned to the large chamber wherein they had chosen to make their camp, she found camp had been set up perfectly well without her. There were no tents, of course, nor any campfire. The underground chamber was illuminated only by the torches they had made and Wynne's wisp of light as she sat upon her bedroll, reading. Leliana was strumming her lute softly, careful not to render it impossible to hear an approaching attack. Zevran was already in his bedroll, for his was second watch, and Sten and Shale were positioned by the entrances at opposite ends of the chamber.
With a self-satisfied smile, Alistair strode toward Rìona and took the pot of water and cleaning rag from her hands, disappearing with both back the way Rìona had come. She was left alone to locate her bedroll amongst those scattered throughout the large chamber. They couldn't position themselves in a marginally more secure cluster, for the fallen masonry and encroaching roots that sprawled across the ruins made it impossible to find sufficient floor space. But with the entrances both guarded, it was safe enough for them to spread out around the huge chamber, and so they had laid out their bedrolls wherever they had found sufficient space.
The reason for Alistair's smug expression became apparent when Rìona located hers in a far corner, for he'd laid his beside it.
Her pulse tripped for a moment before her heart remembered its proper function and resumed beating. Maker's breath, he was being bold, wasn't he? she thought wonderingly. A more unequivocal statement he couldn't possibly have made, under the circumstances.
Again, she felt that strange sense of self-consciousness, so foreign to her purportedly shameless nature. It felt as if all eyes were upon her, which she knew they were not. Shale was out of sight at the opposite end of the chamber, Sten was polishing his sword, Wynne was immersed in her book and Leliana's back was toward Rìona as she tuned her lute. She turned to look at Zevran again, but his eyes were closed, and his face relaxed in repose.
No one seemed to think it at all odd that Alistair had just staked his place at her side and in her bed. And so, with a smile flitting about her lips, Rìona shrugged off the unaccustomed touch of bashfulness and lay down on her bedroll, awaiting him.
When Alistair returned, his skin was damp from washing and beads of water still dappled his neck and the edges of his hair from where he had splashed his face. Despite the forwardness of his arrangements, his posture was cautious as he approached. Rìona watched him calmly as he set aside the empty pot and positioned his sword and shield where he could grab them quickly if need be. It did not escape her notice that he'd positioned his own bedroll between hers and the rest of the chamber, where he could shield her from anything that managed to get past Shale or Sten.
The he doused his torch and settled upon his bedroll—not touching her, but merely watching her, that slight edge of caution still in his eyes.
Finally, he spoke. "I hope you don't mind—"
"I don't."
"I, um, figure it's safe enough. I'm not likely to forget myself with so little privacy."
"I'm not sure I'd mind if you did."
He gave her his shy, self-effacing smile. "I suppose with the dangers of werewolves and angry trees, and all that, now isn't the time to leave the ruins and run off into the woods alone?"
She laughed softly. "Inadvisable, as well as downright conspicuous."
"Oh, now you develop a sense of modesty!"
"It's your modesty I'm trying to consider," she shot back quietly. "I don't know if it's possible to actually die of blushing, but I'm certain we'd find out when you strolled back in and had to deal with all the knowing looks and smirking."
"You raise a very good point," he chuckled. And then laughter fled as he reached out to lightly caress the side of her face with his fingertips. She wasn't quite certain how they moved, but the next moment they were pressed together, mouths eagerly seeking one another. The kiss deepened as Rìona rolled onto her back and drew Alistair down to her and his fingers threaded through her hair, his hand seeming impossibly large as it cupped the back of her head. Her lips opened and her tongue slid along his as it advanced.
It was a long moment before Alistair drew away with a shuddering sigh. His mouth traveled across her cheek and down the line of her jaw. Her awareness of their lack of privacy lessened in direct proportion with the weakening of her resolve, particularly when his tongue darted out to taste her neck. All the arousal that she had damped down earlier surged back to life, leaving her aching, yearning. Her thighs parted, bracketing his own thigh as he lay half-above her. Her breath caught in a gasp when he shifted, adjusting his position slightly, and putting pressure firmly upon her sex in the process.
"What?" Alistair breathed, lifting his head at her reaction. Meeting his eyes, Rìona deliberately rocked against him. She let him see her pleasure, watched his pupils dilate in response. He wedged his thigh more firmly between hers, ground it against her, and she mewled softly in pleasure.
"Is that good?" he whispered, transfixed, as her eyes drifted shut and she lifted her hips again, seeking more.
"Dear Maker, yes..." she sighed. She could feel hardness pressing against her as he gave another push with his thigh. There was something deliciously naughty about their lack of privacy, and the struggle to remain silent enough that she could not be heard over the soft strumming of Leliana's lute and the grating sound of Sten honing his sword on a whetstone.
His hand slid under her linen shirt to cup her unbound breast, his thumb stroking across her nipple. Rìona bit her lip to keep from moaning too loudly, pressing hard against him, seeking more.
"How do I—?" Alistair's soft murmur faltered, and she opened her eyes to see his head bowed. Drawing a nervous breath, he began again. "How do I give you pleasure?"
His eyes gleamed golden in the faint torchlight from across the chamber, at once sober and voracious. Drawing a deep breath, she untied the knotted drawstring of her breeches and took his hand, guiding it down her belly. Then she buried her face in his shoulder to prevent crying out as his fingers began to explore her slick folds.
This was no time or place to teach him all the nuances and intricacies involved in pleasuring her, and so she settled for the basics.
"Here," she whispered, guiding his fingers, urging them into a slow, circling motion. After a moment of faltering, he picked up her rhythm. A moment or two beyond that was all it took, before her thighs clamped together and her body seized and shuddered. Her throat arched and strained with the effort of remaining silent.
Slowly her eyes opened and Alistair was staring at her in the semi-darkness.
"That was..." he gazed at her in wonder, his mouth working as though to find words.
Her fingers covered his lips. "That's only the beginning," she vowed. He kissed her fingertips, and then her palm, and finally his head dipped down to kiss her again, and Rìona opened to him, welcomed his probing tongue as he grew bolder, more demanding. She could feel him, hard and insistent against her hip, and her hand slipped down to cup him through his breeches.
"Oh, dear Maker..." Alistair tore his mouth from hers as he nudged urgently against her palm, shyness and reserve losing ground to need.
Watching his eyes, she began to pull at the laces of his breeches, slowly and deliberately, giving him a chance to tell her to stop. Instead, he lay there waiting, tense and trembling in anticipation. They sighed together when her fingers slipped inside his braies and curled around his erection. Without hesitation, he pumped into her hand.
"Sweet Andraste..." he growled softly into her hair.
"Let go," Rìona whispered, watching him as intently as he'd watched her moments before. "Just let go."
Groaning, he surged into the sheath formed by the ring of her fingers and palm. She squeezed hard, feeling the wide ridge pull back through her hand before pushing out again, the loose sheath of skin aiding the glide of his shaft through her palm.
"Rìona..." Alistair breathed her name. Gradually the tempo of his hips increased, became less controlled. And still she watched him. She felt the moment when he gave himself over to his need completely, when control was lost. His hand shot down and captured the head of his cock and he made a strangled sound as he gave a few more quick thrusts and shuddered.
"Maker's breath, what you do to me..." he panted, slowly opening his eyes. He withdrew his hand from within his breeches and glanced around, clearly looking for someplace to wipe his palm.
Rìona caught his hand and brought it to her mouth. Only the presence of the others stifled Alistair's surprised squeak when her tongue darted out to capture the seed that was leaking between his fingers. But he opened his palm to her, and she cleaned it with slow, sensual strokes of her tongue. She made love to his hand, drew his fingers into her mouth one by one and sucked them clean. She smiled when she made him flinch ticklishly when her tongue delved deep between his fingers.
All the while, he watched her, enraptured. There was no hint of revulsion on his face, and it wasn't until she realized that such a thing was exactly what she was watching for that Rìona realized she'd been testing him. She still hadn't let go of her fear that someday he would discover he found her shamelessness repulsive.
When she caught herself doing it, she made herself stop. Not here, not now, not with him. With Alistair, she vowed, she would not look for the angle, the catch, the hidden trap or secret advantage. For once, she would relinquish the lessons her parents had taught her about power and how to use pleasure to her advantage. If he still had reservations, that was a risk she would have to take, but she would allow nothing but pleasure in their intimacies. No games. No gambits.
Releasing his hand, she smiled tremulously, once again feeling self-conscious. But Alistair merely kissed her, tasting himself on her lips and tongue and sighing agreeably.
Feeling once more that exhilarating sense of falling, she rolled away, nestled her backside against him, and fell asleep in his arms.