Thirst
by Trisana McGraw
Author's Note: Written for the livejournal community 31days, May 13: love passed into the house of lust.
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Raoul didn't know how or when it happened, but he became aware that his heart was beating faster and his breathing was shallow; beneath his clothing he was sweating, though the enormous gilded doors of the Great Hall had been forced open to admit as much of the cool summer breeze as possible. He briefly wondered if he were suffering a heart attack – his eyes darted around the room, searching for Alanna – they alighted on her fiery hair, which framed a flushed and smiling face. This wasn't right; the King's Champion hardly ever danced, and she never looked happy about it.
Raoul blinked several times, struggling to concentrate. The minstrels' music pulsing through his body, the whirl and color of courtiers dancing by, the laughter on Jon's face, all seemed to melt into an indistinct blur from which he felt strangely detached. All he could focus on was the searing heat of Buri's hand on his leg and the growing tightness of his tunic. He barely recalled bidding their good-nights; the smile grew on Jon's face, but it could have been an effect of the honeyed drink (not mead, he remembered, there had been no alcohol) served. He knew nothing of how they made it to his rooms, only that they were laughing breathlessly like teenagers and when, safely inside, he pressed Buri against the wall and she let out a long moan simply from the graze of his hand against her chest, he thanked Mithros that Kel no longer shared the rooms with him.
Cold panic gripped his chest with the realization that maybe he was drunk. There was no way he couldn't recognize the loss of control spurred on by overpowering thirst. But liquor had always clouded his senses; here they were heightened nearly to the breaking point. Buri's mouth was hot and insistent on his neck, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He cradled her head with one hand, tugging her face to his. Her kiss dissolved the tenuous hold he had on his inhibitions.
He braced one hand against the wood of the wall and the other on her hip, grunting curses against her skin. The fingers of one of her hands gripped his curls, and the others fisted in his shirt, stretching the material. If she tore it, he didn't know; whatever sound it made was swallowed by her cry as she arched against him.
He knew that they ended up on the bed only from the brush of cool sheets on his back. His calloused hands stroked her damp skin and pulled her down to him, with the same ravenous need, he had to admit, of an alcoholic desperate for that sweet acid to wet his dry throat. After that moment, all sensations melted into heated skin and pulsating heartbeats, and he wondered how the fire didn't swallow them up.
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Raoul awoke feeling parched, with Buri lying against him. Her golden-brown skin was flushed, her black hair mussed adorably. He figured that he looked much the same. An echo of the previous night's desire lanced through his gut, and he cupped her head and kissed her firmly.
When he pulled away, her lips were curved in a smile. She rolled over so that her cheek was pressed against his warm chest; her fingers tapped idly against his stomach.
He pressed a kiss to a darkening mark on her shoulder, causing her to groan softly. "What was that?" he whispered, surprised by the huskiness of his voice.
She grinned up at him sleepily. "That was Jon's idea of how to set off the Beltane festivities." At his blank look, she clarified, "An aphrodisiac. This –" She nipped at his neck – "was you not being such a knight for once."