Chapter Twenty-Seven: Bon Voyage

"Don't speak," Fenris commanded, feeling like his voice would break beneath the force of his insistence. Damn, he loved Hrodwynn, but she could find the most inappropriate things to say—and the most inopportune moments in which to say them. He knew she had doubts, he had them too, and was struggling to hold them at bay at that very moment, and if she said a single word…

He felt her breath catch in her lungs, felt her shudder before him, felt her fingers grip a little tighter, felt her face turn towards his. Her lips parted, and he prayed, Blessed Andraste he prayed no words would come out. And tonight, for this one night, his prayers were answered. The pink tip of her tongue swung out, slid across her front teeth and hovered in the corner of her lips closest to him. He watched her lift her gaze to his eyes, saw her bright green orbs sparkling in the swaying light of the lantern, and knew she would obey him.

Fasta vass, but she was beautiful, and alluring, and his body was already straining against his leggings. The thought of taking her right then, at that moment, rough and cruel and selfishly, nearly unmade him. His hands gripped a little tighter, forcing the flesh of her palms into the mesh of the hammock until he was sure there'd be indentations left behind in her tender skin. In return, she craned her neck a bit further and kissed him.

He moaned, a gentle sound, almost lost within the creaking of the ship. It was a sound full of hunger and need and longing and dearth. It was the sound of his soul, reaching for heaven, mired in the muck of the void, but unwilling to let go of dreaming, of hope, of faith. His grip lessened, pulling away only slightly, but she made no move to let go of the hammock. She was willing to play along, to follow his lead, to give him what he asked, to do as he commanded. And he would take full advantage of that.

Fenris wrenched his mouth away from hers, letting a gasping sigh escape his chest, registering her answering mewl of disappointment. He didn't give her long to mourn the absence of his lips, clamping down on the back of her neck, brushing aside the short strands of her hair as he felt with his lips up and down the top of her spine. She reacted as he predicted, gasping and wiggling, grinding against him. Maker, but what a wonderful sensation. He could already envision those creamy curves, soft and rounded, rising and falling over and around him.

He clenched his eyes tight, forcing the image from his mind before it drew him close—far too close—to coming. He held himself still, his only movements when he panted away his excess passion. Amazingly she drew still as well, following his lead, submissive—for once! When he was in control of himself again, he pressed a kiss into the corner of her neck in gratitude, and slid his hands up the outside of her arms.

Her tunic was cool and smooth, the midnight blue silky fabric sliding underneath his fingers, allowing him to feel the contours of her toned body beneath. He traced her biceps and triceps, continued on to give her shoulders a brief massage, before curving around her shoulder blades and reaching her sides. His fingers seemed to find every single swell and valley of her ribs as he slowly sank to her waist. She twitched, her breath catching in her throat, but she would not allow herself to give vent to the giggle.

His fingers lingered at her waistband a moment, but decided to hold off a little while longer, wanting to build and build and build the anticipation unit it became an undeniable force, an unstoppable inevitability, until any chance of his ruining it was taken irrevocably from his ability to affect. His fingers started up her torso, stroking her stomach, one tip finding and briefly delving into her navel. They lifted higher, thumbs to the outside while his fingers curved and cupped her breasts. She gave a little moan, leaning against him, laying her head on his shoulder. It exposed her neck, her beautiful creamy white neck, and he found himself staring at her fluttering pulse while his fingers played. The cool fabric of her tunic was thin and did nothing to hide her reaction; the fact that she didn't wear any undergarments beneath only aided his cause. Her skin was overflowing with gooseflesh, her breath deep and husky and fanning the tip of his ear.

Blessed Andraste, but he held heaven in his hands.

Hrodwynn was finding it hard: hard to remain unmoving, hard to remain quiet, hard to remain focused. His hands, with those unbelievably long fingers, knew too damn well where to touch her. And how to touch her. For three years, despite their problems and obstacles, they had managed to have some limited success. All that time he had been studying her body, learning her triggers, exploring her mysteries. And Fenris, if anything, was a studious man.

When everything felt so tight, she feared she was about to burst, he finally let off his torment. One hand stroked upwards, towards her neck, while the other swept downwards to her stomach. The fingers at her neck applied pressure, gently, but enough to let her know she should move her head, tilt it, shift it, follow his suggestions. As soon as she did so, his lips covered hers, laying down like a blanket, warm and soft and comforting. She moaned, all her longing and love and need pouring into that small sound, so inadequate for the task.

Fenris sank his tongue into her mouth, delving past those lips, imagining he was pressing past a different pair. One hand still gripped her neck, holding her to him, while the other dropped lower, ever lower, until he found the juncture of her legs. He could feel her heat and her moisture, even through the fabric of her leggings, growing more pronounced by the heartbeat. His fingers hovered, hesitating only a moment, not out of fear or any anxiety, but because he enjoyed teasing her.

He felt her body tremble before him, ever so slightly, reverberating along the hammock, and his hand pressed down. She gasped, as he expected, her body arcing and jerking and causing the hammock to sway violently. He didn't let go, nor did he let up, his fingers stroking her through the thick fabric of her leggings, his tongue doing to her mouth what his fingers should be doing if only she were unclothed. He felt her breath stagger through her nose and he pressed harder. He felt her face try to pull away, but his hand moved to cup her jaw and hold her fast. He felt her hands let go of the hammock, her fingernails bite into the flesh of his hand, her voice hum with warning into his mouth, yet he would not relent. She gave one final struggle against her fate, one last groan and shove, but his hands held her captive, one keeping her face a prisoner of his mouth, one keeping her womanhood a prisoner of his fingers.

At last she surrendered.

There was always that pause, that moment of stillness, that breath of quiet, like the calm before the storm. And then the storm would strike. Their mouths were pressed to tightly together, that when she gasped with her pleasure, she sucked the air from his lungs. Their bodies, too, were so close there was hardly any room for their clothes. Her only leverage was the hammock which was more a handicap than a help. It swayed beneath the force of her passion, rocking her even harder against him, her bouncing at a perfect level.

If only she was facing the other way around.

But Fenris wouldn't allow it, not yet, not until he was sure there could be no stopping it. Oh, he would show her pleasure tonight, as many times as he could manage, but for himself there would be only that one time, that one last time, when there could be no going back, no denial, no failure.

Her rocking stopped, her spasms slowing to stillness, and he eased back ever so slightly, his mouth allowing her to breathe once more, his fingers allowing her to rest. She sighed, contentedly, perhaps a little selfishly, letting herself enjoy the afterglow, reveling in the last few reverberations before everything faded to quiet. She grew lax in his arms, supported completely by him, trusting completely in him, placing herself wholly within his mercy. And he patiently waited for her to return to him.

While he waited, he studied her, his eyes devouring her features, the dark red brows eased and relaxed, the creamy cheekbones dyed a delicate passion pink, the agreggio pavali lips moist and swollen thanks to his abuse. He watched as her long dark eyelashes, thick and curved like a crescent shaped moon, began to flutter as her lids attempted to open. He saw her eyes, the brilliant emerald orbs, become slowly revealed to him, saw them unfocused and over-bright, saw them grasp onto and then recognize his features. She looked like she was about to say something, but at the last moment she remembered his request. Instead one hand reached up to his face, cupping his cheek, pulling him down for a kiss.

He should have paid attention to the other hand.

Hrodwynn did not like being outdone. What he had done, what she had just experienced, was far too one-sided for her liking. Oh, sure, that hadn't stopped her from enjoying herself, but she wanted him to feel pleasure as well. While she distracted him with a kiss, her other hand reached down and stroked him, from tip to base, through the tough leather of his leggings. He was swollen, swollen and hard and fit to burst. He hissed at her touch, though not out of pain. He hissed and pulled his hips back and broke off their kiss. His dark green eyes stared at her with reproach, with warning, and she stared back unrepentantly. He made a soft snorting sort of sound, gave his head a little shake, but still he did not speak. He did move, however, moved his hands to her hips, speaking with his actions rather than his voice, encouraging her to hop off of the hammock and stand.

As soon as she was on her feet, his hands slipped away. She took the opportunity to quickly duck around the hammock to his side of the cabin. She didn't want any barriers between them tonight—mental or physical. And apparently he was of the same mind, or at least he didn't protest her move, allowing her to come up and stand before him, front to front, toe to toe, eye to eye. That they were so similar in height sometimes made her feel awkward, as if she were a bit small for a human, but not tonight. Tonight, she was the perfect height for him, and he for her, their lips on a level, able to kiss without one of them having to crane their neck or the other to stand on tiptoe. Instead they could stand there, relaxed, comfortable, and simply savor the feel of a kiss.

As they were doing now.

Fenris felt their lips mashed together, the muscles mouthing around and with each other. Their tongues wrestled wetly, a lingual fencing without words, a cooperation for domination between two equals. Yet he wasn't so far lost in their kiss that he didn't notice her fingers when they began tugging lightly at his upper arms. She was trying to undo the fastenings of his armor, working on removing his shoulder spaulders. He pulled off from their kiss, and couldn't help but notice—and love—the little pout that formed over those wine-red, bow-shaped rims surrounding her mouth. He smiled a little, merely a quick twitch or tic at the corner of his own mouth, and held his arms out to his sides, granting her easier access to the straps and their tiny buckles.

She couldn't believe her rotten luck. Hrodwynn prided herself on the quickness of her fingers, the lightness of her touch; that Fenris had discovered her actions so quickly made her want to blush with embarrassment. But at least he didn't dissuade her. Her nimble fingers made quick work of the buckles, not hindered in the least by the smallness of the clasps, or the tightness of the straps, or the closeness of the fittings. In hardly more than a few heartbeats she had the first one loosened enough to guide its sliding off his arm. She set it carefully next to the stool, not wanting to just let it fall to the floor and make a racket. The second spaulder soon joined the first, and she immediately moved on to his chestplate.

He watched her, amused. She was determined, acting with purpose and motive, moving from item to item, from spaulders to chestplate to belt to… He inhaled sharply, his chest rising with the force of his breath, pressing himself further into her touch. She had opened the front of his tunic, opened it and spread it wide, her fingers expanding over his skin. She touched him, touched skin and lyrium alike, uncaring of the markings and wanting only to feel HIS flesh. He hissed from the sting, the ungentle tingle of the markings being touched, and loved her for it, loved her because she didn't purposely seek them out as Danarius had done. She ignored them, ignored the lyrium and instead paid attention to the man.

She felt his reaction to her touch and had to smile a little. Though she was still dubious regarding the whole pleasure-and-pain concept, she could accept that it worked for him. But she had other ideas. She bent her head down and flicked the tip of her tongue across one nub. He hissed again, this time with pure pleasure, his fingers fisting the short strands of her hair to keep her in place. She allowed it, taking her time, toying with the little pip and making it grow harder and smaller, as he had done to her just a few moments prior. She could feel his breathing growing labored as he drew close to that line, that line between holding off and indescribable ecstasy. She moved to the other side, wanting to remain fair and give the other as much attention as she had given the one. She felt him tug on her head, not to bring her away, but in trying to keep up, and she knew. She knew he was losing himself in the sensations, in the moment, in the act.

She didn't want to break off, she didn't want to stop making him feel so good, but his tugging turned insistent. With a wet pop that sounded entirely too loud in the small cabin, she let go and straightened up. The next moment he was kissing her again, hard, his hand still holding her hair, holding her to him. Her hands were still holding his tunic, the fabric bunched between her fingers, halfway pulled off his shoulders. She gave a little shove, and when he didn't acknowledge her, she gave another shove, not quite as little this second time. He gave a sort of huffing acknowledgement through his nose and, without breaking off their kiss, allowed her to push the fabric off of first one shoulder, then the other.

He wanted to keep his fingers in her hair, loving the soft and short strands, the way they curved and tickled the backs of his fingers. But she had him shirtless now, and he wanted to keep them even. He reluctantly let go of her hair, thankful when she didn't pull away, and let his hands drop gently to her shoulders and the back of her neck. He allowed his fingers to linger there a moment, stroking tiny circles into her skin, through her tunic, making her tremble. Then his hands fell lower, the tips of his fingers following the bumps and ridges of her spine, making her tremble turn to a shudder.

At long last his hands found her waistband, but if she thought her torture was over, she was wrong. He ran his fingers slowly around the top of her leggings, from back to side to front. He lingered there a moment, somewhere below her navel, and she moaned into their kiss. He smiled back, just that self-satisfied smirk, but she could feel the tug at the corner of his mouth, even with her eyes closed.

He pulled on the fabric, gently, slightly, not enough to free it of her waistband, but enough to make it bulge and gape down the front. Then his fingers moved around, closer to her sides, nothing further than a fraction of an inch, and gave another little tug.

Oh, Blessed Andraste, she thought to herself, if he drew this out any slower, he'd be coming with her to Minrathous. But that thought did not encourage her to make him quicken his pace. She kept herself still as he continued his deliberate, minuscule, and lethargic undressing of her torso—well, almost still. They did continue to kiss, and her hands were on his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense and bulge beneath her touch he he worked to get her tunic off. It was too tempting, she couldn't help but stroke him a little, shift her fingers to cover the shifting muscles, savoring the play of his long and lean body.

Fenris reached her spine again, but this time he pulled a little harder, and a little more, and the hem of the tunic came free. She gasped, feeling the cool air strike her heated skin for a moment before his hands were there, touching her skin and sharing his warmth with her. He worked around to her front, his hands following the bottom edge of her ribcage, his forearms pulling more and more of her tunic free. By the time he was cupping her front again, the fabric was hanging from his elbows, no longer tucked into her leggings.

She felt his hands slide upwards, and for a moment regretted their leaving off toying with the weighty globes. But he was pulling her tunic off, up and away from her torso until it caught at her shoulders. She giggled a little, having seen this problem coming and his accompanying consternation, but lifted her arms to oblige him. That was a mistake.

Once he had her raising her arms, it didn't take much for him to bunch and twist her tunic, tangling the fabric around her arms, keeping them secured and raised above her head. She gave a startled sort of sound, something like a protest, but he didn't hesitate. The next moment he tipped her backwards, his arms around her to guide her, but she was going to lie down on the hammock. Without much of a fight, he soon had her positioned the way he wanted, lying on her back, her legs towards him, her arms hanging off the other side.

Hrodwynn managed to duck her chin through the neck of the tunic, far enough for her to breathe, at any rate. She shifted and wiggled a bit more, trying to pull the tunic off her arms and free the rest of her face. Suddenly she felt the heat of Fenris' body hovering over her, the hammock swaying as he braced himself with one arm, the other going to her arms and retying the fabric. Apparently, he wanted her restrained. She gasped at the concept, her pulse racing, her mind wondering what it would be like to lie there, unable to use her arms, to touch him, unable to even see what he was doing. Her body instantly hardened at the thought, and heat flooded her face—from her neck to her hairline—over how eagerly her body began to anticipate trying such a thing.

This time, she didn't move when he took his hand away.

She was somewhat thankful for the fabric covering half her face. She could lie there and pretend, pretend it wasn't her body that was growing so hot and tight, and so passive and obedient to another's bidding. Pretend it wasn't Fenris who was removing her boots, or at least that it wasn't the Fenris who had been having so much trouble as of late. No, the man who held her captive, the man who was slowly undressing her, peeling her leggings off like a second skin, this man—this Fenris—was someone new and unknown and had never experienced any failures or difficulties. This Fenris, when he touched her, it was as if he touched her for the first time.

When his lips joined hers, it was as if he tasted her for the first time.

She bucked, not having expected such an intimate touch so quickly, not at the slow rate he had been going. A cry escaped her, not one of alarm but one of… warning? Expectancy? Anticipation? It was hard to narrow down the emotion, so she gave up trying, her mind quickly over inundated with other sensations.

Her arms bound, her eyes covered, even her ears muffled slightly—without anything else to focus on, it was as if the sensation of touch became more heightened, more pronounced, more, well, sensitive. Other things became more sensitive as well. She could feel his tongue, the thick and wet muscle, lapping and stroking up and down the sides where she was still swollen from earlier. When he delved below to tickle the tight ring of muscle, she twitched and pulled away. When he gave long and hard strokes into the tender creases where her thighs met her abdomen, she hummed and pressed against him. When he rose up to circle and tease the tiny bud hidden beneath her dark curly red hair, she felt her whole body turn to goo.

Too quickly he left off, leaving her practically dripping wet, open and exposed and needy and un-sated. Her legs dangled helplessly, her body slowly writhing, undulating like a snake, instinctively seeking that one thing that could fulfill her, complete her, finish and unmake her.

She heard a breathy sort of laugh floating above her head, barely penetrating the muffling around her ears, and she knew he was teasing her. Damn him. Yet she was enjoying it; there was no denying that!

Fenris paused to study his work in progress. That she was becoming aroused was undeniable; it had to be, even to her usual level of stubbornness. Her skin was beginning to coat with a light film of sweat. Her entire torso, topped with a pair of tiny pips, rose and fell beneath forceful breaths. Her lips were swollen and bruised from their passion. And her whole body was malleable beneath his touch.

As if to prove his point, he gripped the underside of her thighs and lifted her legs up, spreading them wide, and then let go. She wavered a moment, so fractional that it might have been more the swaying of the hammock than her immediate rejection of his positioning her. But she kept her pose, as well as she could, despite it leaving her so exposed, so vulnerable. He hummed in approval, gave her a brief and teasing nip with his lips, and pulled away.

Hrodwynn couldn't tell where he'd gone. He had to still be in the cabin, though she couldn't be certain of that as she could no longer feel the heat of his body. Nor could she be sure she could have heard it if the door had opened and closed, trussed up as she was, arms caught in her tunic, legs spread wide and welcoming. She blushed again, unable to believe that she was letting him do this to her, but felt thankful for once that the fabric covered enough of her face—her blush might go unnoticed.

Then she felt him again, the heat from him, at any rate, coming from up near her head and arms, radiating through the silky fabric. She closed her mouth and swallowed, wondering what might happen next. He didn't leave her in limbo for long. His hands touched to either side of her, near her shoulders, and somehow shifted the edge of the hammock, perhaps rolling it up or something, but her head was no longer supported. It lolled back before she caught herself, tucking in her chin and trying to keep her head lifted. Then his hands were on her forehead, his body heat passing through the fabric and almost searing her flesh, pushing her to let her head hang down.

Or, rather, upside-down. Her arms now dangled towards the floor, her head following, her neck stretched and her mouth as open as the rest of her. Something he took advantage of. She immediately knew what it was he pressed against her lips, the musky masculine scent going straight to her head. She opened her mouth even further, taking it in, taking him in, as deep as she could.

At the same time, he bent forwards over her body and settled his face against her flesh.

Oh, Maker! she wanted to moan. She still felt completely vulnerable, completely being taken advantage of, being used, but she was also being rewarded for her passivity. It wasn't fair, making her feel as if she was taking all the enjoyment, all the pleasure, even if she was the one restrained and manipulated…

Oh, fuck it, she let off trying to think, trying to figure it out. She and Fenris were together, they were having incredible sex, and they were both enjoying themselves. What more could she ask for?

Gravity finally took effect, her tunic falling free, first from her face to catch at her elbows, then further to bunch around her wrists, then after an encouraged flick and flex of her hands, the silky tunic settled onto the floor with a soft whisper, a sound easily drowned out by their gentle moans and muffled sighs. She let herself sway there for a moment longer, holding onto the fading memory of her submissiveness, before her arms flexed again and her hands groped him.

Fenris grunted, surprised by her sudden grip—not having noticed the tunic coming off—and reflexively he thrust away from her hands. Unfortunately, such an act almost made her gag. He stopped himself, gave a sound like half a laugh, and lifted himself up onto his elbows. Then slowly he pulled himself away from her mouth, her hands allowing him escape though not easily, spreading his cheeks wide, a happenstance he did not find unpleasant. He drew it out, pausing now and then, letting her readjust her grip if she chose, letting her give him a little payback. But it was time, once again, to change it up. Keep it new. Keep it fresh.

She sucked hard, her fingers pressing into his flesh hard as well, but he eventually popped free of her mouth, the tip bouncing against her nose once for good measure. She snorted at that but didn't comment, remembering her unspoken promise to remain silent. Besides, he was close; she could tell he was close from the salty-tangy taste that lingered on her tongue. She briefly thought about turning tables on him, holding him down and finishing him off, getting him back for making her come in her leggings, but then pushed the thought aside. Yes, it was tempting, and it would serve him right, but she sensed he had—at most—one chance to get this right tonight, and she would much rather have him finish between a different set of lips, than those enclosing her mouth.

Speaking of which, she watched him walk around her, ducking beneath a corner of the hammock, to stand before her still open legs. As if only then noticing her continued vulnerability, she bent her knees and pulled her feet in to brace on the hammock. She remained willing, but not quite so wanton. Then his hands here on her thighs, not forcing her but asking her, asking her to please stay where she was, to let her knees fall to the sides, to allow him unrestricted access of her most inner places.

She also braced herself up on her elbows, the hammock unrolling itself to give her a little more stability and support behind her shoulders. He stood before her, facing her, as naked as she; which she supposed she should have expected, given what they had just been doing. Then again, he might have kept his pants on and just removed himself from the clothing… She mentally shook the silly and irrelevant thought from her mind, to find him staring at her, watching her, studying her. As he stood there, she returned his stare, attempting to speak with her eyes, to let him know how close and ready and needy and putty-in-his-hands-but-he-better-not-wait-too-long-because-she-was-so-needy…

She threw her head back, wanting to cry out the pleasure was so intense, but caught her voice in her throat and choked it into silence. Oh, Blessed Andraste, how she loved this sensation, the feel of his length, plunging deeply into her, exposing her and sealing her to him, all at the same time. His first thrust was hard, forceful, penetrating, burying himself balls-deep, rocking the hammock back and bouncing her with the pressure. But he didn't continue the movement, he didn't pull away, holding himself as far inside her as he could manage.

For a moment, she feared. For a moment, she questioned. They had rarely made it this far; either he only managed a thrust or two before growing limp, or he suffered one of his memory episodes. She lifted her head to look up at him, curious and anxious as to what she would find. But written on the features of his face was not the humiliation of flagging, something she should have been able to confirm if she had only taken a moment to consider matters. Neither was "the other Fenris"—as she called him—there on his face, the Fenris from before the lyrium, the Fenris that seemed to only exist in some sort of trance or semi-somnolent state. No, tonight, in this cabin, with her departure looming near…

Tonight, Fenris stood there, eyes closed, face composed even if slightly strained and sweaty, simply enjoying the sensations he was experiencing, the fact that he was fully entwined with the woman he loved.

She eased the worry and questions from her own features, lest he should see her concerns once he opened his eyes and it made everything spiral out of control…

She bit her lip and dropped her head back again, letting go of any negative thoughts, of any thoughts of negative thoughts. She was one with the man she loved; everything was right with the world.

Fenris was unaware of Hrodwynn's thoughts, struggling with his own. He was amazed, to put it simply. He had feared, he had planned, he had practiced, he had anticipated… but no matter how much preparation one does beforehand, one never truly knows what one will encounter in any situation until one, well, experiences that situation. And here, now, in this situation, he was experiencing far less difficulty than he had anticipated. And he wasn't sure how to handle that.

He had thought to distract himself with pushing the boundaries of Hrodwynn's personal comfort; they had never tried anything remotely like even the lightest bondage before, after all, and he had no idea how—or if—she would enjoy it. He had paid attention to her, focused on her sounds and movements, ready to stop at the first sign of her distress, and had done that so keenly that he had managed to avoid any of his usual pitfalls or discomforts.

Right up to this point. And past it, apparently. He amazed himself, standing there, feeling the entire length of him enveloped within her, both tight and soft at the same time. He wallowed in it, reveled in it, savored and lingered and relished it. Selfishly he didn't want it to end. But he knew, they couldn't stay like this forever. He'd had to move, eventually.

He opened his eyes, a minimal movement, but he told himself it was movement nonetheless. He saw her just as he had left her, fingers gripping the netting, toes curled on nothing but air, her head thrown back with her own bliss. He smiled and leaned forwards, rocking the hammock a little, his hands landing inches from hers. She sensed the movement and lifted her head just in time to meet his lips. They kissed, like before, slow and equal and sharing, neither one sensing any sort of distress or nervousness in the other. Then he broke off the kiss and leaned back up.

If she was going to wonder what he might be up to next, she wasn't given enough time. He stood there straight and tall and, with that tug at the corner of his mouth, he thrust his hips. And she bounced. It made her gasp, a tiny sound, the thrust forcing her off of him just a little before the hammock swung her back down onto him. She was surprised, though not by the fact that he was watching her closely to see if she liked or disliked it. She was surprised at herself, at her reaction, at the way she tightened and tingled. At the way she bounced.

He was surprised at the way she bounced, too, or perhaps fascinated was a better term. Though not as lush as some women, say like Isabela, Hrodwynn was fairly well proportioned, an easy handful for him. And her young body was so healthy and toned, her breasts gave a very interesting countermovement to his thrust. He lifted his eyes from them to briefly study her face, wondering what she might be thinking, wondering if he could continue this bouncing, perhaps try to syncopate his thrusts to it. She must have had the same thought, because she began shaking her head and pulling one hand free of the netting. Before she could voice her protest, however, he gave another thrust.

All thought fled from her head, his thrust this time sending her a little further away from him, and subsequently swinging back a little harder. And then, of course, there was the delayed bounce as part of her body played catch-up. She moaned, part pleasure, part surprise, part embarrassment, and saw for an answer a twinkling in his eye and heard a brief rumble of a chuckle in his chest. She rolled her eyes, gasping again the next moment when he thrust. Again. And again.

He took hold of the edge of the hammock closest to him, adjusting it, making the angle and the height a little easier for him. Then he began in earnest. Hrodwynn found herself unable to do much more than hang on for dear life, lest he pound her right off the far edge. Her fingers turned red and white, entangled as they were in the netting. Her breath staggered and stumbled beneath the force of his thrusts. Yet he wasn't going to stop, not now that he found his rhythm, not now that he was having so much success. And, quite honestly, she didn't want him to. She knew he was going to push it, for as far as he could, as long as he could, and the longer he kept this going, well, something quite interesting was building up inside her.

Fenris found himself easily distracted. All parts of her seemed to be moving at different places and different paces, a fluidity of motion that he found fascinating. Even though every single pore of his body was sweating, even though his muscles began to tremble with the exertion, even though the hot knot of heat was beginning to build, somewhere between his spine and his groin, he couldn't stop. Her breathy little whimpers of pleasure. Her body tight and moist. The easy way he slid in and out, she slid up and down.

He felt her first tremble, and it was almost too much. He pulled himself out, standing back and away from her so suddenly she felt a chill, her juices cooling almost instantly on her swollen and reddened flesh. She convulsed, her stomach contracting, trying to curl in on herself, on him, but he was no longer inside her. As she fell back against the hammock, a sound tore itself out of her throat, angry and hurt and desperate and empty and…

Then his lips were there, lips and tongue and teeth, where that other part of him had been just a moment before. She moaned, a hand finding his head, nearly ripping out the roots of his hair as she gripped him and held him fast. He didn't protest, he didn't resist, he used his tongue where a moment before he had used his shaft. He heard a sound, a strangled sort of moan, as she struggled to keep quiet. Then it happened. For the second time that night.

He rode out this storm as well, held fast against her thanks to her hand in his hair. He managed to turn his face far enough so he could gasp a breath through his nose. Other than that, he remained where she needed him, tasting her flowing into his mouth, spilling down his chin, sweet and clear like nectar. When at last her legs grew lax, when at last her fingers released him, when at last the final tremble had faded away, he pulled back, a very satisfied smile on his face.

Lucky for him, Hrodwynn didn't see or she might have had a very nasty name to call him.

By the time she came back to herself, by the time she found her breath, by the time she could focus her eyes, he had wiped off his chin and regained his feet. He hovered over her, checking her from head to toe to see that she was alright, to see that she hadn't hurt her fingers twisting them in the netting, or strained her neck dangling off the edge, or anything of the sort. She seemed fine, a little flushed, which was to be expected, and a determined sort of light in her eyes, which was also to be expected. He sighed, knowing he'd have to give in eventually, but also knowing the longer he could hold it off…

She reached out, caught his shoulders, pulling him down towards her. No, there was no more waiting, no more holding off, no more stalling. The night was passing, the time coming soon when the ship would set sail; there was always that deadline hanging over his head, adding pressure he didn't need. He deliberately put that thought out of his mind and answered her with a kiss. Then, with one of his arms snaking beneath her shoulders, he pivoted her on the hammock so that she lay lengthwise.

She didn't resist, following his nudges and prompts as she had before, until she was positioned the way he wanted her. She watched him, her eyes full of the questions she didn't voice, but he no longer seemed to be stalling. Instead he joined her on the hammock, sending it swinging, making their bodies rock and sway in a calming and soothing sort of motion.

He lined himself up, and then bent down to kiss her.

Hrodwynn gave in to the kiss, tasting herself on his tongue and blushing again. But this time his intent didn't appear to be to embarrass her or put her at a disadvantage. His kiss was thorough, descending into her mouth with the intent of exploring it, claiming it, keeping it for his own. She knew then that this would be the last time, that when he entered her again it would be to finish, that he wanted to remember this for the whole time she was gone.

That he wanted this to work.

She answered him, the only way she could without using words. She kissed him back, as thoroughly and as intimately as she could. She ran her fingers over his body, heedless of the lyrium, her fingers mapping and memorizing each swell of flexed muscle, each valley between. She traced lines in the sweat she found on his skin, seeming to brand him with her touch as Danarius had branded him with the lyrium. When he bent down to suckle at her breast, she arched her back. When he lifted one of her legs over his hip, she lifted the other to match. When he pulled back, when he held himself just outside, when he looked down at her with such a longing, such a haunted expression—she entwined her fingers in his hair and pulled him down for another kiss.

His penetration was almost too smooth, too well lubricated, too quick and easy. He exhaled sharply, a warning sort of sound, and kept himself very still. It was hard for her, so very hard, her body already wanting to thrum with sensation, but she remained quiet and still with him. And when his breath was steady once more, when he began to move, she matched his rhythm.

It was slow, building, nothing like the forceful thrusts before. This might have been considered timid, something very out of character for Fenris, but also something very tender and special and just between them. The hammock swayed with them, making for a somewhat slantways kind of movement, or illusion of movement, but it wasn't unpleasant. She kept her eyes open this time and watched his face, watched him sink deeper into arousal, watched him shudder and moan as his passion built.

Her own passion built, too, yet again—much to her surprise. Something about the angle, about the way their bodies rubbed and caught against each other, was also rubbing and catching against that tiny little bud. It still amazed her how one fairly minuscule part of her anatomy could so completely, and so quickly, take control of her entire self, body and soul. Her breath grew staggered, her eyes began to glaze, and she knew if this went on for much longer…

He heard the change in her breathing, recognized it for what it was, and couldn't help the smirk, knowing it was he and he alone who did this to her, who made her feel this way, who brought her to such infinite heights. That prideful line of thought proved too dangerous for him to follow.

Now it was his turn for his breath to change, becoming panting, voiceless little moans. He felt that white hot knot tighten up inside him again, and fought to hold it at bay, savoring the denial, making it build to tsunami levels. A growl started somewhere deep inside his lungs, something feral and dangerous, but directed at himself, intimidating himself to hold it back just a little longer. He looked down, his eyes focusing on the face beneath him, watching her move under the force of his thrusts, feeling her tighten almost painfully around him. She gasped, becoming very still, and then…

As soon as he felt her first shudder, as soon as her back arched and allowed him even deeper access, as soon as she let go of that heavy sigh, he too was lost. He fell against her face, his mouth trying to cover hers, spilling a kiss into her mouth as he spilled his seed into her belly. His thrusts were hard and quick and pounding and mindless and animalistic and unstoppable. He rode it out, far longer than he should have probably, until he felt the sting of sensitivity along his length, until he felt her tense with her own tenderness. Only then did he slow his pace to a halt. Only then did he lift his face far enough to allow them breath. Only then did he wring the final drop of pleasure from this shared moment.

A shared moment. The thought was staggering. He'd done it. They'd done it. From beginning to end, they'd made it through, just once, just this once, but that proved it possible. He opened his eyes, wondering when he had closed them, and lifted his head off of her chest.

Hrodwynn was beautiful. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. In all his years. In all his travels. And she belonged to him. She must have sensed his eyes on her, or felt his head lift, because her own eyes began to flutter open.

"No," he whispered, reaching up to kiss first one eye lid, then the other, closed. "No, do not move. Do not open your eyes."

His voice was velvet against her ears, warm and soft, making her want to curl up in those husky tones and doze. And she may have, for a moment or more, it was hard to tell. Yet the time did come, the time she feared, he feared, the time that they could not avoid.

It was when his body pulled away, when the hammock swayed, when she sensed he was standing up, that she made a small sound and reached for him.

"No," he repeated, breathing the words into the air, "Stay still. Stay asleep. Let me remember you, just like this, while you are away."

With her eyes closed, she didn't anticipate his fingers would touch her cheek. They did, however, and her lids fluttered with her startled feeling. But she did not open them. She feigned sleep, however badly she longed to open her eyes and drink in the sight of him and sear his form into her memories…

Noises reached her ears, and she risked a peek to see him bent over trying to quickly shimmy into his leggings. She closed her eyes again, satisfied with that sight, a tiny and private smile playing on her lips at her indiscretion. She continued to listen to the sounds of him getting dressed, the creaking of his belt as he wrapped it around his waist, the clacking of his spaulders as he settled them on his shoulders. Then all too soon it grew quiet.

His fingers on her cheek one last time, stroking the still flushed skin, his breath fanning her lips before he placed a kiss on them. Then he was moving away. The floor creaked beneath his bare feet, the hinges on the door also with rust from the sea air. She found herself holding her breath, wondering if he would at the last moment change his mind and come with her. But that was not to be. He spoke one last word into the cabin, just loud enough to reach her ears.

"Amatus."

"Fen."

She had answered just as softly, and almost immediately, but the door closed so swiftly behind his profession of love, she couldn't be sure he had heard her.