Chapter Twenty-Nine: Impulse
The sound of the door closing behind her made her heart give a little nervous flip-flop.
Not that she didn't want this—Maker's breath, as he would say, but for how long had she wanted this, the two of them, alone and about to…
Peredura swallowed, feeling more nervous than ever. It had been one thing, to be feeling so frustrated with the man that she had to track him down and corner him in his office. It had been another thing, to feel that mind-numbing-elation when he finally said those words—oh, blessed Andraste, he loved her! And then still another thing, to be so caught up in the moment, swept along by all her emotions, like when he swept his desk off so they could have a place to lay down…
But this was different. This wasn't impulsive, spur of the moment, caught off guard, swept along by emotion. This was deliberate. This was with purpose and intent. And, though she couldn't know how nervous and itchy he had felt before telling her of his love, she was feeling the same way now, as if she were about to crawl out of her skin and run away. Her skin…
"Pere?" his light, tenor voice caressed her ears as his hands held her upper arms, the nearness of his body behind hers a comfort and security. "Are you alright? Is anything wrong?"
"I, erm, no, I mean, yes, I'm fine, but…" When her words paused, and without looking, somehow he knew she was masticating her lower lip. One of his hands left her shoulder to press his thumb against her chin and pull her lip from her teeth. She smiled at that, feeling a little silly, a little embarrassed, and even a little relieved for some reason. She took his hand in hers and turned to face him. "Would you mind it at all if, um, the lamp was turned down?"
"The… lamp?" Cullen questioned, not sure what she could mean. Why would she want it dark in here, unless… "Is it this room? The bed? Of course, you must have unpleasant memories of last night. We could go elsewhere, to your chambers, or…"
"No, no, it's not the room, or the bed, it's… ah…" Once again, as ever, when words would failed her, when the emotions would grow too strong to communicate, when she would have no idea what else she could or should do, she gripped her lip between her teeth. Immediately she felt his hand tug in hers as if he would reach up and free her lip as he had just done, but she didn't want him to let go. She consciously let go of her lip, trying hard to keep her mouth opened, as she racked her brain for words—any words—that could fill her empty mouth and bare the secrets she kept buried within her soul. "I'd just feel more comfortable if it were, um, a little softer lighting."
Cullen gave her a hard stare, not that she was looking up at him, turning her face side-to-side as if casting about for some sort of inspiration of what to say or do, something—anything—other than what she should be saying. There was something more going on than her wanting mood lighting. But, as he could see no reason not to and he did want her to be at ease tonight, he obeyed. He let go of her to walk over to the lamp near the balcony doors; someone, probably a servant, had replaced it and the table sometime earlier that day. He turned it down until it was a dull glow, until the light of the fire in the hearth outshone the lamp. As he leaned back up his eyes fell on her, standing next to his bed, her face lifted towards him, one soft brown eye peeking at him from behind a curtain of overgrown bangs, and he quite suddenly heard himself say, "You are so beautiful."
His voice was tender, full of a deep emotion, wrapping around her like a warm blanket, soothing and comforting and safe. When he stepped back before her, when he stared down into her eyes, when he touched her shoulders, she lost herself and melted against him, giving in to the moment, the man, the emotion.
It started with a kiss, a pressing of lips, a meeting of their mouths that at first seemed unsure of where to go or what to do next. Even though they had kissed countless times before, somehow tonight it seemed new and fresh, like that first time all over again. Another nervous twitter fluttered her stomach, making her wonder, if they were both so inexperienced, would they end up botching this night? But the thought was quickly dismissed. This felt too good to go wrong, as simple and chaste as it was—a mere kiss that was making her blood race through her veins, that was heating her from within, fueling some secret furnace while weakening her knees. Her arms wrapped around him for support, her fingers burrowing into the long and soft fur mantle that draped his shoulders and back. Then her knees gave a twitch, threatening again to buckle, and her mouth opened with a sudden gasp.
Cullen felt the same apprehension as she did, the same doubts, and the same heat—though his blood raced to fill a slightly different area. But when her lips moved against his, when her mouth opened, instinct took over. His lips parted, his tongue darting forward to touch her lips, to slip between her teeth, to find her tongue and taste. Oh, Maker, the taste of her. Warm and hearty like a beef stew, simmering in a dark gravy, fresh baked bread smothered with butter, and topped off with a dry red wine. It had probably been her supper, but the taste made him realize he'd missed his, and suddenly he was hungry for more.
More Peredura.
He felt her arms behind him, sliding up and down, her fingers burrowing like claws into his mantle and tapping through it against his armor. He smiled, the corner of his mouth pulling back and allowing a small break to form in their kiss, and she gasped for air. He decided it was as good a time as any, and pulled his mouth away, almost laughing when she tried to follow him and keep the kiss going. No, whatever their respective pasts, whatever the level of their experience—or lack thereof—tonight was definitely NOT going to be a disaster.
Unless he couldn't get his armor off.
He had left for his office without his armor that morning, but once Peredura and Dorian had vacated his chambers, he had gone back inside long enough to claim his armor and cloak and finish dressing. It was routine, a habit, his normal mode of dress, so of course he had wanted to wear his armor. Now, however, he was regretting his decision; it would be so much easier to shrug out of a coat than to have to first untie the straps and unbuckle the fastenings and…
While he'd been lamenting his poor planning and foresight, Peredura had been busy. Her quick and roguish fingers had already sought out and loosened the outer knots. He almost chuckled when he heard her little breath of triumph after she unclasped the wide belt, allowing the edges of the mantle to fall free. He did smile, or at the very least gave her a smirk and shrugged obligingly when she reached up to push the heavy fabric off his shoulders.
Then he really did laugh when the mantle caught on his shoulder spaulders. She gave a grunt of frustration, trying to shove it off and over the bits of metal that stuck out, but she was too short. He calmly took hold of her hands, catching her eye and making her stop. "It's easier to take the armor off first, before the cloak."
"I don't see why you have to wear such complicated clothing," she pouted, dropping her hands and allowing him to remove the metal obstacles covering his arms, "Or why so many layers."
"It's habit," he shrugged. "Why, how many layers of clothing do you have on? It was a fairly chilly day today, warmer than Skyhold, but still a lot cooler than what you're used to. You must have on more than just the coat and leggings,"
She caught the guard covering his forearm before it could fall to the floor. "Maybe, well, yes, but just a tunic, though a really thick one, and a single tunic is a lot less than all these…" she waggled her fingers at the small yet growing pile of fabric and metal,"…hunks of junk."
Cullen held out one of the spaulders, his finger tapping along a gouge, "This particular 'hunk of junk' saved my life. Remember that dragon?"
She wanted to retort, 'Which dragon?', but knew he had only fought that one with her, while she had already fought several. She did indulge in rolling her eyes. "Well, sure, if we're fighting a dragon, I could see why you would want to wear armor," she allowed, taking the item from him and adding it to the pile. "But there are no dragons here, not in Val Royeaux, are there? Why wear all this?"
He pulled his gloves off his fingers, handing them over while he at long last got out from beneath the mantle. "Habit. I've been a templar for most of my life; I feel, well, naked, without some sort of armor weighing my shoulders."
She helped him remove the breastplate, exposing the coat and tunic that lay beneath. Her eyes traveled suggestively up and down the length of him, such a long way to travel, and she snarked, "So you're telling me, you feel naked, right now?"
He held his arms in front of him, one wrapped across his chest, the other hanging down towards his groin. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do feel very exposed at the moment."
She stared at him, wide-eyed, almost believing him… almost. That corner of his mouth twitched, moving the scar on his upper lip, and she realized he was teasing her. It was hard for her not to laugh, and she tried punching him on the arm—now that it was without armor and wouldn't break her hand—to keep from doing so. But he caught her hand, his reflexes far too quick and well-trained. They stood there for a moment, looking at each other, and suddenly found themselves on the verge of something other than humor. His fingers grew gentle, shifting from cupping her fist to sliding his digits between hers, moving their entwined hands down to their side. His other hand came up, his calloused fingers rough against the unscarred side of her face as he now burrowed his fingers in her hair. Once in place, the pressure of his hand adjusted, his thumb beneath her chin lifting her up while his fingers against her skull making her head tilt.
Then his lips were there once more, warm against hers, moving and encouraging her to move as well. She remembered their last kiss, how his tongue had broached the battlements of her teeth and found her own tongue, how it had tasted of stale bread and cheese and cold meats—no doubt the half-forgotten remnants of his lunch that had sat for hours before he finally managed the time to take a bite or two. She'd have to take matters into her own hands she decided, whenever they were together whether at Skyhold or traveling abroad, to make sure he remembered to eat and drink and take care of himself. He could get so focused on work, that the simple tasks that kept one healthy and alive were often missed by him. No wonder he had a rough morning.
Her tongue lifted up timidly, the tip moving just far enough to reach the edge of her teeth, to run along the enamel sentries, wondering where he could be. As if in answer, his tongue was there, acting like it had been waiting for her, tempting her and teasing her until she ventured from the safety of her mouth… and discovered his.
It became a cross between a battle and a dance, the moves choreographed to compliment one another, to war for dominance and possession of the other while sharing in the victory over their union. But she did have ulterior motives. While he kissed her, while her eyes were closed so she could focus on enjoying the warm wrestling of wet muscles, her free hand was not idle. She reached in between them, her fingers moving as deftly as if she were picking a lock, unfastening the toggles of his coat, starting at the bottom and working her way up. At one point, while she hovered near his abdomen, she felt him laugh breathily into her mouth. She thought at first that she had discovered he was ticklish, but much to her chagrin she learned something else.
Opening her eyes, she found he had been looking at her the whole time they had been kissing, staring at her and watching her and seeing exactly what she was doing, what she was trying to be so discreet about. She leaned back, breaking off their kiss, feeling his hand fall away from the back of her head. "You've been peeking."
"And you've been busy," he countered, letting go of her other hand. Shamelessly she returned to his buttons, moving faster now that she could use both hands and didn't have to try to be sly about it.
"I'm impatient. I've waited a long time for this," she finished the last closure, immediately shoving the material to the sides and exposing his chest to her hungry eyes. There was a tunic beneath, of course, but that was all that remained to hide his body from her.
"How long?" he wondered, trying not to get in her way as she pulled and yanked his sleeves off his arms, lest she grow frustrated and tear his favorite coat.
She paused, giving the question serious thought. "Ages, it seems," she admitted, tossing the coat after the rest. She wanted to pull off his tunic next, but his hands on hers kept her from reaching his waist.
"No, I think you've done enough for now. It's my turn. Let's see what you have under your coat, shall we?"
He spun her around, so her back was to his front. She gasped, surprised, but he didn't leave her long to wonder what he could be about. His hands started at her throat, finding the metal clasps of her coat and, slowly, one-by-one, his fumbling so natural she couldn't believe he was doing this on purpose and drawing out the suspense—for both of them—he undid the fastenings. When he got halfway, his hand appeared to accidentally slip inside, a movement so unpracticed and jerky, as his other movements had been, that she began to suspect the slip—all of the clumsiness—had to be deliberate.
"Cullen."
He didn't answer, not right away, other than to hum into her ear, the stubble on his cheek catching her hair, his other hand continuing to work the buttons while his first hand remained firmly in place. However, his fingers kept moving as if they were still trying to open her coat.
"Cullen," she repeated, a little more forceful.
"Yes." His hand moved further inside, spreading out over the whole globe.
"Um, Cullen," her tone changed again, almost pleading now, her breath becoming erratic, short and deep, slow and fast. "That's not a button."
"Are you sure?" His fingers twitched, the tips moving around and finding something hard, albeit beneath her tunic and not over it.
"Ah…" she sighed, excited and fearful and amazed and aroused—all at the same time! "Yes, yes I'm sure, I am very sure." Somehow, his other hand had managed the rest of the buttons on its own, and now the front of her coat fell apart. Both his hands were there, stroking her, his long and thick fingers sliding up and down, across her skin. She could feel the pressure of each and every finger, and the release as the little pebbles popped out between them, only to be pushed back by the next finger.
"Do you know something?" His voice was hot against her ear, the sound trumpeting despite his whispering.
"…what…?" she whimpered, overwhelmed by the sensations, meaning to pull away if only to catch her breath, but instead molding her body against his. Her head, growing light and dreamy, fell back across his shoulder, exposing her neck to his lips.
"I don't think you have anything on beneath your tunic," he mouthed over the vein in her throat.
"I… don't…" she agreed.
"Truly," he paused in his lathing, his hands pausing as well, "Not a single, er, piece?"
"Not even knickers." Her statement was so matter-of-fact, so immediate, and so without embarrassment, that he had to stop completely and spin her around to face him.
"Don't you… I mean, erm… isn't it… doesn't it get cold… and, you know… falling about and bouncing and… um…"
Her head was still fuzzy, and she found herself really wishing his hands would go back to what they had been doing, even if it had caught her unawares at first, she had quickly discovered that she really liked it, and why oh why was the idiot just standing there like he'd been turned to stone! "What? Why? Is something wrong?"
"You really don't wear underclothes?" he seemed to need to clarify, remembering that one morning he had, erm, given her a very chaste sponge bath and discovered she had nothing beneath her tunic, and only now wondering if that hadn't been an oversight but a… habit. "Not just today, for some reason, or some other particular day, but, ah, never?"
She shrugged. "I'm not used to them, I suppose. I might have had them when I was little, but that's not the sort of thing one remembers from their childhood. And, well, I really didn't have much in the way of clothing while I was a slave, so…" she shrugged again. "I've got a few sets of those things now, but they seem so complicated, and I haven't decided if they'd do any good at all, my armor does a good enough—or better—job of keeping things in place, and when I'm in a fight is really the only time I need the support, so I haven't bothered trying to figure them out, how to put them on and arrange my bits into them and stuff like that. What? Cullen, what is it? Why are you looking at me like that? Is it wrong, what I'm doing, going around without any knickers on?"
He was still for a heartbeat longer. Then a sudden breath whooshed from his lungs, a strong blink broke his trance, and he gripped her shoulders as if to steady himself. "I honestly cannot answer that," he stated, but before she could wonder what he meant, he was kissing her. Kissing her and leaning against her, his arms around her while his hands stroked up and down her back. He spun them around, continuing to lean against her, until she gave under his weight, his force propelling them across the floor. The heel of her boot caught on something and she felt herself falling, falling and dragging him with her, until they landed with a heavy creak onto the bed.
He let her go as they landed, both of them bouncing, both of them letting loose nervous little bursts of laughter. Peredura rolled to her side so she could face him, her face alive and shining, her hair falling back out of the way, her lips parted and panting, her eyes bright and warm. Never to Cullen's eyes had she looked so beautiful. And to think that she was there, in his chambers, on his bed. That she was HIS love.
"What?" she asked again, "Why are you staring at me like that? Is it still having to do with my lack of undergarments?"
He rolled over to face her fully, his hand cupping the back of her head, stroking through her long brown hair. "Yes," he leaned forward and kissed her, wet though brief. "And no," his hand moved from her hair to her shoulder, and lower down her side, to where her tunic was tucked into her leggings just above her hips. "And so much more."
He grabbed a fistful of fabric and yanked. She gasped, mostly from surprise, though her breath did grow a little heavier as he began lifting, pulling the fabric from her waistband as he brought it up towards her head. Her lower lip went of its own volition in between her teeth and she closed her eyes. He stopped, sensing her apprehension, her nervousness, her lack of self-confidence. "Pere," he chided, gently, letting go of her shirt so that it covered her once more, but leaving his hand beneath it where he could touch her, where she could feel his touch.
"It's alright," she answered, lifting her soft brown eyes up to his disbelieving and hard-as-steel hazel eyes. Her face was flushed, from embarrassment, from passion, from his gentle scolding, it was too hard to tell. "I'm nervous, that's all," she confessed, her expression so honest and open and so easily read by him that he found himself beginning to believe her. "I've never… I mean, sure, I have… others have seen them… but this is the first time I've… well… I've had any say in the matter… that's it's been my choice… but I'm still a little nervous… what you'll think of… my scars."
"I've seen them before, you know," he reminded her, softly, as softly as his hand was moving up from her hip to her waist.
She was nodding, closing her eyes briefly, but then making herself open them and meet his gaze. "At Haven, in the back room of the Chantry, when I told you all of my past."
"After that," he countered, his hand now a little higher, his fingers dipping in and out of the furrows between her ribs. She shuddered, obviously feeling what he was doing, but also not stopping him. "During your withdrawal. You had that one bad morning, when you sicked up, and then talked about a bath and clean clothes…"
"I knew it!" she breathily exclaimed. His thumb was in the warm crevice beneath while his fingers fanned back and forth across the whole globe, but she remained distracted from the plight of her tunic by the sudden revelation. "You… I knew it was you. You did say you would see to my bath personally."
"That's not what I meant," he allowed the blush to flush his cheeks, but only to make her feel more comfortable. "I mean, yes, I did, very chastely of course, wash the mess from your hair and, um, wipe down your torso a bit, put a fresh tunic on you, those sorts of things. But my point is that I've already seen your scars. They didn't put me off then; I doubt I'll feel any differently now." He lifted his hand to her armpit, her tunic stretched diagonally, exposing over half of her torso, her scars.
But she didn't stop him. She didn't close her eyes out of slave-like obedience.
She did, however, shrug her shoulder to slip her arm out though the sleeve. Eyes shining impulsively, she took the fabric from his hand and popped her head free, then bunched it beneath her other armpit. She held his gaze the whole time, daring him to break off to look, and begging him to ignore the ugly marks she could never erase. It had taken courage, so much courage, to believe and trust and allow this, that if he failed her now, at this point…
Cullen knew how pivotal this step had been for her and didn't let the momentum die. He pushed her onto her back, following to hover over her, keeping them face-to-face, before tugging her other arm free. Oh, he could easily see her emotions, she was nervous, she was insecure, but she was trusting—of him, of their relationship, of their love. He would not betray that. Rather, he would reinforce it.
He ducked his head, shifting downwards, until his lips pressed against the throbbing pulse in her neck. He placed one of her hands at his waist, and she eagerly took the hint, all but ripping his tunic from his body. He moved lower, half to help her lift the fabric off of him, and half to position himself better for his next attack. As she tugged off and tossed his tunic aside, he bent his neck and descended on her bosom.
She moaned, loudly, and he had a momentary bout of nervousness himself, wondering what someone might think if they overheard that. But he knew the doors on this room were thick. He knew, though his men were allowed to freely enter his office at any time, day or night, should they need him—they were to never bother him once he left for his bedchamber. Not that it happened all that often, of course, that he would leave his desk for his bed, but when it did happen he was never disturbed. And he and Peredura would not be disturbed tonight—no matter how loudly she moaned.
She was positively thrumming from pleasure within his embrace, lost in the moment, the sensation, of his lips and tongue teasing her flesh into such a tiny little nub he was sure it must hurt. But she didn't protest, she didn't push him away; if anything, once she had gotten rid of his tunic, her fingers entrenched themselves in his hair, holding his head—his mouth—in place. He gladly obeyed her nonvocal command, one hand reaching across to tease the other side.
Gooseflesh erupted across her skin, making her gasp, making her writhe, but he didn't let up. He really didn't have too many ideas of what he should be doing, most of his inspiration coming from barracks-talk and the exaggerated bragging of fellow recruits comparing conquests. Yet it was plain to see she was enjoying this, and if she was enjoying something so much, he didn't see a good reason yet to move on to the one or two other things he was planning to do. Another bout of nervousness gripped his heart, of wondering what he was doing and would it be enough and could he actually follow through and Maker-what-would-she-think-of-him-after?! He swallowed, fighting off tonight's anxiety the same way he would fight off his lyrium-induced hallucinations, and focused on what was real, what was tangible, what was right there in front of him.
Peredura, his love.
She felt his body shift and feared he might leave off what he was doing to her—Blessed Andraste but it was heavenly! His fingers… his lips… his tongue… his teeth! She could barely think, overwhelmed with how her body was reacting, overloaded with the amount of sensational input. She dug her fingers in even tighter, refusing to let his hair go, never wanting this to end. She could feel the heat building up inside her, down between her legs, an aching emptiness that she wanted him to fill, that she knew he would fit… and it was all so new, so unexpected, so RIGHT!
He shifted again, but not to pull away, rather to settle his mouth over the other one, leaving the first exposed to the cool air of the bedchamber. Peredura gasped, arching her back, pushing the one further into his warmth while the other was left bare, the skin still wet with his saliva, cooling it even more. There she hung in limbo, between the heat and the cold, between cover and exposure. Her legs shifted and opened beneath him, moving of their own accord, answering to something other than her brain, something primal and instinctual and oh-so-very-needy…
Her pants were loose. She could feel the fabric move as her legs wrapped around his chest. That's why Cullen had left half of her out in the cold, so his hand could be free to undo her buckle and start to tug off her leggings. Oh, he was devious too, and she knew it after all the times he would suggestively tease her in front of others without their catching on. But even so, he had managed to pull this one over on her. She groaned, a little frustrated, a little annoyed, and gave his head a little tussle.
Cullen felt the tug and knew he had been found out. He laughed, hot and breathy and fanning her wet skin, making the little pebble tighten just like the first. Maker's breath! but she was responsive. And… so was he. He could feel it, feel himself, thicken and harden to the point where he was becoming a bit pinched inside his own leggings. He wanted to take this slow, he wanted to make this special for her, he wanted their first time to be perfect.
And he wanted to get their leggings off so he could…
He snarled at himself, almost out loud, his lips baring his teeth as sweat erupted all over his body. He was NOT going to lose control of himself right there inside his own pants. He WAS going to pay attention to her, her reactions, her readiness. He wanted her to enjoy this so much… to be first to enjoy this… to get those fucking leggings off!
"Bah… bah…" she tried to speak, her breaths heavy, halfway between a pant and a laugh, "…boo …boots…"
Boots! Yes! He should have thought of that! Damn, but that was his problem in a nutshell: he wasn't thinking. He was acting. Reacting. Losing himself in the moment. In the passion. He was…
He took a deep breath, settling his mind, dropping his head to press his forehead against her flesh. She was cool to the touch, either that or he was burning up, but the coolness helped to clear his thoughts, and he felt he could continue. He opened his eyes, intending to move to where he could reach her boots; opening his eyes, however, turned out to be a bad idea. He was directly above the small triangular patch of soft brown hair, already starting to dampen with her moisture. One of those barracks-talk stories came to mind, well, several actually, of what could be found hidden within those precious curls, something mysterious and tiny and—if the stories could be believed, which was highly doubtful, then something that, though the thought of doing such a thing seemed awkward, but for the woman supposedly it would…
Curious, unable to help himself, he lightly stroked a finger over the area, starting from below were she was so hot and wet, feeling her breath catch in her throat, then moving higher, to the base of that upside-down triangle, burrowing inside it, going so slowly, wondering if he would miss it or if it even existed, his shoulders casting the area in darkness so he had to go by touch, and then he did touch it, that had to be the spot as Peredura jerked and moaned so suddenly…
Boots, he reminded himself. Both hers and his. Then their leggings. Then… well, best not to think too far ahead, he decided. He made himself move lower, further than her groin, to where her feet were shifting, heels against the rounded edges of the bed, as she tried to kick off her own boots. He helped her, easily tugging the high-heeled footwear off and tossing them over towards the pile of his armor. Then he grabbed the bottoms of her leggings and pulled, hard, nearly pulling her off the bed before she could grab the comforter and brace herself.
"Cullen!" she gasped, but he didn't answer, not verbally, no longer able to trust himself to speak. There was a monster growing inside him, an animal, something strong and primitive and… both scary and exciting at the same time. To let go… to surrender control to it… Maker's breath, not yet! Though Peredura was now sprawled over the bedclothes, her hair mussed, her front bobbing with each heaving gasp of air, her torso braced on her elbows, her legs splayed, her mystery open to his gaze,… He stared at her, hungrily, knowing it would be easy, like when he gave in earlier that evening and swept off his desk and laid her on top of it… that animal had been in control then… he had surrendered to it… it was so easy… and she was so ready…
Not yet! he growled silently in his mind. He knew it to be inevitable, the compulsion undeniable, the conclusion unavoidable… But. Not. Yet. Still staring at her, at her wide and doe-like eyes, staring back glazed over with desire and a hunger of her own, he very slowly and very deliberate began to unfasten his own belt. He moved at this pace not to tease her, not to draw it out, not to give her a show, but because it was the only way he could remain in control of himself. He feared, he knew, once he rejoined her on that bed, it would be the end of him.
Yet as in all things, the time came when he had to, when he could no longer stall, when the last stitch of clothing between them was removed and he stood there staring down at her staring up at him, when the lack of movement began to appear awkward. He knew there was no hiding it, his reaction to her, how proud and eager his member stood at the ready. And the way her legs were parted, if he moved to the bed, he would be able to do nothing else but slide home. Yet he had to move, he had to rejoin her, lest she begin to wonder or—even worse—suspect there was something about her scars and lose her fledgling self-confidence and end this night awkwardly…
Yup, that did it, worrying about her anxieties cooled his ardor just enough to allow him to return safely to her. Not that he didn't remain hard, but at least he was no longer on the verge of bursting just by standing before her hungry eyes. He stepped back to the bed, his gaze steady, his voice calm, as he commanded, "Shift up a little." Maker's breath, he was actually going to try this?!
She understood the words, but the reasoning behind them confused her, he could tell as she gave her lip a nip. Yet she was under his spell, fully beneath his command, her arms flexing and her ass sliding backwards across the bed, until her head was up near the headboard.
Then he joined her, his weight making the mattress depress and the covers pull. He hovered over her on all fours, bending down to kiss that tortured lip, moving to the hollow of her throat, swaying left and right to revisit her bosom. He went lower, low enough that he had to use his hands to spread her legs apart, one hand on either side of her inner thighs, her flesh soft and yielding, pale and smooth. Then further still, his chest spreading her even wider, his hands on the backs of her knees and encouraging her to hitch her legs up over his shoulders.
Dipping his tongue into her navel almost undid them both. It had been an impulsive move, and he should have known better; he was too close to the edge himself to give in to any impulses no matter how innocent. But Peredura quite suddenly burst into giggles, her hands quickly moving to protect her stomach lest he get any ideas. It was too late, however, as he very clearly reached the conclusion that she was ticklish. Oh, he would use against her someday, but not that day. He allowed her the reprieve, squashed down any other demon-like impulses, and resumed his course.
His arms now beneath her, his hands cupping her cheeks, he tilted her hips upwards just a bit more. And then he was there, that precious patch of soft curls, a darker brown than the hair on her head, smaller and not as coarse thanks to her being elven, but effective nonetheless at protecting that most desired of secrets. Oh, he had seen similar sights before, a couple at least, though he hadn't truly been all that interested. But those times were long ago, before Kinloch, when he was still a recruit and had been acting on the dares of his peers. There had never been passion involved before. Intimacy. Love.
Love. That was the main difference. He loved this woman, this woman who lay beneath him, open and willing and wanton and wholly enthralled by him. This woman who bared to him her self, her scars, her soul, her secrets. This woman who sacrificed for him, protected and remained loyal to him, shared and kept his confidences.
Peredura felt his hesitation, wondered at the reason behind it, and pushed herself up on her elbows to see if something was wrong, her voice quavering as she hummed, "Cullen?"
He answered her, but with a kiss. Well, not exactly a kiss. She supposed it could be considered a kiss, like when he kissed her not-on-the-lips, but this was so much more, felt like so much more, deeper and tender and HOTTER. She didn't think she could feel any hotter down there, or tighter, or tinglier, or wetter, but as he continued to, erm, kiss her, there, a spot she had never known existed before this night, she felt something else. It was as if there was something deep inside her and yet not actually a part of her, as if that tiny bud was tied directly to her soul, and her soul was dancing on the end of that string with each tender kiss.
She felt his tongue dart out, just the tip, to flicker over that little nub. She gasped, her whole body jerking, the sensation over being touched there in that way was too hard to define, or deny. When he flickered again, she was a bit more prepared yet still jumped, her body repeatedly slipping out of her control, over and over as he continued those light, butterfly-like kisses.
She wanted… Blessed Andraste she wanted… more… more Cullen… more of him… that certain part of him… fitting inside her so neatly… that… that one thing… she knew that and only that would finish this… could finish this… finish her…
She was panting between each staggered and stuttering thought. No longer able to keep herself up on her elbows, she had collapsed back against the mattress, completely at his mercy. Yet it seemed he held no mercy, not for her, not tonight. While his tongue continued its lingual torture, his fingers joined in, touching her flushed and heavily swollen sides, stroking them before pressing them apart. She gasped, over and over, as his tongue joined in, licking to either side before sliding in. She moaned, loudly, her reaction pure and untutored. Simply put, she felt bliss, and she wordlessly voiced her elation.
When he shifted upwards again, when he returned to that tiny bud of sensitivity, she could barely contain herself. "Ahhhhhhh…." she cried, feeling something building inside her, some sort of anticipation, some sort of urgency, some sort of emptiness, of dearth, that she knew he could fill, must fill… "Ahhhhhhh!"
Apparently the barracks-talk was true.
Cullen pulled back, difficult with how tightly her thighs pressed against his ears but he managed it, to see how she was doing. Judging by her reactions, her flushed cheeks and closed eyes and heaving chest, he could see she was getting close, too close, and though he wanted her to cum, he wanted their first time to happen with both of them joined together for it. If he could get her close, if he could keep her there, and then get himself close…
His fingers stroked her again, feeling the thickness, the wetness, the trembling…
Uh-oh.
He bent his head, cursing his inexperience, his inability to get the timing just right, but setting aside his self-chastisement for the moment. She needed his full attention, and he gave it. His tongue went back to its torment of her, circling around that little nub, suckling and trying to draw it back out. His fingers, two of them, easily slid inside. She jerked, crying out again, but not in pain or displeasure. Indeed, she was moving on her own, dancing to an elemental rhythm of lust and passion. He allowed her to set her pace, to control the penetration, as he continued to lick and nibble and…
There was that moment, that hiccough of eternity, when everything in the world seemed to pause. She gave a little tremble, like the foreshock of an earthquake, then held still, as if wondering if that was all or if the real earthquake was about to start. Suddenly her body tensed, curling in on itself, almost to the point of pulling off of him. Her breathing stopped, possibly even her heartbeat, and he waited with baited breath wondering if he should also stop but deciding to continue anyway because something was working right tonight…
She cried out. Peredura all but screamed her pleasure as her hips slammed down, her thighs clamping onto his head, her fingers threatening to tear the comforter, her toes curling on nothing but air. She convulsed, over and over, needy and desperate, giving a little moan or huff with each thrust. He rode out the fit or seizure or whatever she was having, sure that this sort of thing could not be common among women and wondering if he might have hurt her somehow. The seizure seemed to go on forever, his fingers growing thoroughly soaked with her juices, but at long last her movements changed, the rhythm broke down, and she began to twitch and jerk away from his lips and tongue. He let her go, moving instead to lathe up the excess coating them both. There was still the occasional tremble from deep within her, making her whole body rumble, but the main attacked appeared to be over at last.
Her legs went lax, her fingers unclenched, and he lifted his head to see if she was alright. She looked almost at peace, her chest lifting with breaths that panted out her parted lips, her eyes closed beneath brows curved with bliss, Another impulse swept through him, and this time he was unable to resist. He moved, crawling up the length of her until he hovered over her mouth, then he descended like a hawk in slow motion down onto his target: her lips. His eyes remained open, watching her as she came back around, first her eyelids flickering, then her lips responding to his kiss, then a mumbled moan spilling upwards into his mouth. She at last opened her eyes to find him kissing her, watching her, and she pulled back to see him a little more clearly. There was a very satisfied, sated, dopey grin on her face.
"Wow."
"Wow," he agreed, giving a little chuckle. His thumb came up to her chin, but not because she was chewing her lip this time. There was a spot of moisture on it, no doubt transferred from his chin during the kiss, and he wiped her chin before wiping his own.
"That was… I… I don't… wait, was that…?"
"A climax," he answered, "A very good one, if you had a little spell after." He looked satisfied himself, very proud in fact, cocky, that damnable smirk drawn across his mouth. She wanted to punch him again, she wanted to blush, too, but there really wasn't any denying it.
She came. Hard. And it was all on him.
It really was on him, she giggled to herself, seeing there was still some glistening wetness on his chin just to the side. "What?" he asked, noticing her expression change, wondering what she found so amusing, but she didn't answer him, other than to reach up and finish wiping his face clean.
"Cullen?"
"Hmm?" he hummed, bending down to nuzzle at her neck. She giggled again—damn, he loved that sound—but stubbornly worked to get the words out.
"Cullen, did you, I mean, I know I was, um, well, I didn't really notice if much else was going on, it was kinda hard to focus, but I think I would have noticed THAT."
"What?" he asked, slightly confused, leaving off kissing her collarbone to try to figure out what she was asking.
"Did you, erm, you know…"
"Cum?" he supplied the word for her, watching her cheeks burst into a very fetching deep red. Maker, but she was hot! "No, not yet," he admitted, returning to kissing her, but now moving to the hollow of her throat.
"Um," she gave her lip a brief nip, more out of habit, her fingers drumming his shoulders. "Don't you want to?"
"Yes," he breathed, his voice deep and husky, barely leaving off his kisses.
"Then, ah, I mean, why didn't you, or don't you, I mean…"
He stopped, and she feared she might have said something wrong or awkward or embarrassing—something that would cool his ardor. But when he lifted his face, when his eyes met hers, she could see the smoldering lust lurking within, feel the determined deliberateness as one of his legs slid between her thighs. "I'm not going to satisfy myself and not have you enjoy it, too. You do want to enjoy it, don't you?"
She nodded.
"Then I shall continue." He bent his neck once more, laying kisses over her weighty globes of flesh.
"Did you, um," her fingers burrowed into his hair, playing with the loosened and frizzy curls, "Did you enjoy it? When I came, I mean? I'd imagine it would be fairly one-sided, just me cumming, and you not. So I have to wonder…"
"I did enjoy it," he admitted, not having realized it until just then, but, "I really did. Just knowing that you experienced something so… incredible… so blissful, and I caused it. I gave you that sensation. I made you cum so hard you passed out. Yes," he moved to her other side, "Yes, I enjoyed it very much."
Men were so weird, she thought to herself, so hard to understand.
"So, what now?" she queried, though she was fairly sure of the answer.
"Now," he spoke around a mouthful of her, trying to stay in control. "Now we go again." The sex talk was not helping him, or rather it was helping him too much. He was dripping, sure that it would only take a thrust or two before he came, but he didn't want to yet. What he wanted was to find out… if some of the stories he'd heard about a women were true… maybe this other story was true, too…
"Again? You mean, me again?"
Maker, this was hard. He was hard. He put a hand down there, pinching himself, trying to pull back from that edge. "Yes. Why not? It could be possible. Some women can. Wouldn't you like to find out?"
"Yes," selfishly she answered, unthinking, but then her conscience kicked in, "But don't you want to?"
"I will," he panted, "This time I will. Maybe sooner than expected."
"Cullen…?" Something was wrong, something new to her, so she had no idea the level of concern she should be feeling about it. But hearing his breathy chuckle, feeling it fall across her stomach, was reassuring.
"It's… alright, just… give me a moment."
"Are you…"
"I'm close," he answered quickly, really wishing they could change the subject. Damn, but this was embarrassing. "But I don't want to, not just yet. I'd like for you to cum again, or at least get you close, and see if we can't time it just right."
"Just right? You mean, both of us at the same exact moment? That would be kind of… difficult… wouldn't it?"
"I do love a challenge." He dropped his hand away, the immediate danger passing, though he was still very much aroused. "What do you say? Are you up for it?"
She looked at him. He was lying on his side, a leg cocked over one of hers, his hand not too far away from his member, the other bent to hold his head above hers. She reached up a hand and, in answer, pulled his face down for another kiss.
It was strange. She thought she could almost taste herself on him, or at least should be able to, but all she could really taste was him. Strong. Loyal. Protective. Masculine. Leather and steel and horses. And, as ever, far in the background and tickling teasingly at her senses, the very subtle scent of lilacs.
In a word: Cullen.
It was hard to tell, if she was still damp from earlier, or if that was new wetness pooling between her legs. Briefly she wondered if she could become dehydrated, from all the damp and the sweat. And she was sweaty, had been since she'd recovered from her, erm, spell. But so was Cullen, she noted his skin slick with it as she ran her fingers over his biceps. She could feel scars pass beneath her caress, some thicker, some barely visible, but her sensitive touch could discern them. She thought about those scars, and her own, and imagined what they must look like, two scarred lovers, their stripes running counter to each other. And she wondered if her touch, featherlight, disappeared whenever she passed over one of his marks, just as his touch would fade whenever he passed over her own.
"Peredura," he breathed, and she almost gave a guilty starting, fearing he must have somehow known what she was thinking. But he didn't scold her, didn't reprimand her for her wayward mind. Instead he grabbed one of her hands, brought it to his lips and kissed the palm, panting afterwards. "Pere…"
He must be getting close again, she deduced, and her caress was not helping matters. Impishly, rebelliously, the impulse came into her mind to continue, to push him over that edge, to make him cum as he had made her cum, but she squelched the idea, far more intrigued with his suggestion that not only could she cum again, but that they could time it to cum together. She held herself still, didn't even let her other hand play with the curls of his hair, and waited until it was 'safe' to continue.
He opened his eyes, not sure when he had closed them, to find her watching him this time, watching and gauging and waiting. Well, that was a bit of a change, her following his lead, rather than he always having to adjust the plan to follow her spontaneous changing of her mind. Like the time she jumped off the tower at Adamant to fall into the Fade. Or even all the way back at Haven when she'd stayed behind to fire the catapults. Maker's breath, but this woman could cause him stress.
He kissed her hand again, entwined within his, and suggested, "Let's try this."
He brought their joined hand down, pressing her palm against her skin. Slowly, he moved their touch around, stroking her neck, her collarbone, tracing her sternum, cupping around a mound. Her breath caught, her eyes flashed, her cheeks deepened, and a fresh flash of heat poured out to fall against his thigh pressed up tight against her. He shifted his leg a little, and in answer she started moving, rubbing up and down his muscular leg.
That gave him another idea. If having her touch her own body was making her this horny, what would it do to her if he made her touch herself down there? He didn't notice the smirk on his lips, how it shifted into something predatory and anticipatory, while his hand moved hers lower. And lower. And lower.
Peredura moaned, fearing she knew what he was doing, and though he hardly held her captive, she didn't even attempt to pull her hand away. Not knowing if she wanted to do it, not knowing a reason she shouldn't do it, she passively obeyed his bidding and dropped her fingers, side-by-side with his, to that small patch of hair.
She gasped when she felt it, when she touched it, her self, her core, amazed that something so small could be so sensitive, could control her so effortlessly, could unmake her so completely. He moved their fingers around, back and forth, up and down, circling and light and hard and fast and slow and…
She moaned, heavily, throatily, her eyes closing and her head tilting back as far as her neck would bend. Cullen dropped his lips to her neck, savoring the pulse throbbing forcefully there, while his fingers eased back. Not that he didn't continue to touch her, to move with her, but he allowed her to set the pace, the pressure, the pattern, storing every bit of information in the back of his mind for later study and reflection. He heard every gasp from her lips, felt every shudder rake her body, tasted every drop of sweat, saw every flushed patch of her skin, smelled every drop of pheromones from her pores. It didn't take long, not long at all, before she pushed his hand away and made a grab for his hips.
"Cullen!"
He didn't wait for a second invitation. Easily he rolled himself in between her legs, sensing where she was the hottest, the wettest, and aiming himself unerringly for the exact center. Still he held himself just outside, between but not yet inside her. He took a moment to look down at her, at his love, at his precious Pere. Her cheeks were bright red with passion, her eyes glazed and hungry. Her long brown hair was strewn across the pillow, spreading out around her like a cloud. He ran his fingers through it, savoring the feel, long and lean, like strands of silk. He took a lock of it, weaving it back and forth across his fingers, holding her head in gentle captivity. As if in answer, one of her hands was at the back of his neck, encouraging him down towards her. The other hand, still damp, roguishly worked its way into his hair. The minx.
It didn't matter, though, as he had run out of time. He fell onto her, into her, claiming her mouth in a kiss while he claimed her honor for his own possessing. One of her legs cocked around his hips, holding him inside, while the other wrapped around his leg and pinned him to the bed. She needn't have bothered, however; he wasn't going anywhere.
Maker, but it was bliss. Pure pleasure. A heaven on earth. He pushed slowly, as slowly as he could manage at any rate, and felt her, so tight, so thick, allow him passage almost without resistance. And inside… Maker… the heat, the velvet smoothness, the wetness… He could feel her clamping down on him, around him, as he pulled almost all the way out before returning to that glorious palace. The thrust elicited a moan from her, guttural and primal and filling his lungs with her. He fisted the bedclothes, feeling himself build up too soon, too fast, thinking she'd need a little more time, wanting himself a little more time to slide back and forth, to enjoy the feel of her.
He fought, he fought with every ounce of his being. Sweat coated his body from scalp to toes, making their movements that much less frictionless. His breath staggered in and out of his lungs, part through his nose and part through his mouth to force its way inside her lungs. Oh, Maker, this wasn't going to take long, but he didn't want to give in. He didn't want to lose control. He wanted to savor this and her and continue.
And he feared that moment, that loss of control, what it would feel like to not be able to help himself… and what it would bring.
Something must have been working right for her, too, because Peredura suddenly gave that funny little hiccough, that tense hesitation, and he knew she was about to cum. He groaned, the sound full of a strange mixture of frustration and anticipation, knowing the end was nigh. The next moment it happened for her. Just like before, she convulsed, almost violently, arching her back and cocking her hips and giving him an angle that allowed him just that much more depth, as if she needed him to impale her, to fill her, to complete her. His breath ceased as he planted himself deep while she pulsed and throbbed around him.
She was making noises, too, he was fairly sure of it, little grunts and pants as she started to gyrate out of control. But he was making his own sound, a single sound, long and low, bursting out of his chest and exploding past his throat. It was a sound somewhere between a moaning triumph and a screaming sigh, and overwhelming with joyous pain, "Aaaaaaahhhhh," as he fired his first shot.
Suddenly he had to move, unable to keep himself so deep, needing the friction, needing to feel her milking him for every last drop. Each one of his thrusts was punctuated by an exhale, a soft "heeeee" sound, as he arrhythmically pounded and poured himself inside her. Their movements were syncopated, at odds and yet in concert, grinding and grabbing and mixing and messing.
And all of it… all so glorious.
When the last drop was wrung out of him, and he felt exactly like that, he gave up his claim on her mouth and fell to the bed, still sprawled over half her body, clutching at her hair and at the bedclothes. He was spent, in more ways than one. It had been a long day, after all, at the end of a long and stressful week, full of days of hard travel, not to mention last night spent in edgy vigilance—he was exhausted. Muscles trembling, limbs lax and half-unresponsive, he barely managed to pull his thick and heavy body off of hers before he suffocated her.
Peredura was almost out of it again, lying still on the bed, her eyes nearly closed in tiny slits that were framed by her long lashes curving above and below. Nearly her entire body was flushed and glistening with their mingled sweat, one hand flung off to her side, the fingers slightly curved. Her chest rose and fell with labored breaths, those half pants-half sighs that spoke mightily of her ecstasy. Seeing the aftermath of their lovemaking, seeing what he could reduce her to, made his own unmanning seem a little less embarrassing. Besides…
There was a pant, like a little laugh, puffing out of his chest, rocking his shoulders, and drying her sweaty skin. It was something relaxed and sated, maybe even directed a little bit at himself because… despite all his efforts, despite his fears, despite his intentions—he had lost control.
And he liked it.
"Pere."
She was barely aware, her body continuing to thrum with past passion, the sound of his voice barely able to penetrate her thoughts. This time… so much better than that first time… the two of them… so close… She smiled, feeling lazy and sated and more than a little like closing her eyes for just a moment. But his nearness kept her with her senses, his musky sweat filling her nostrils and soaking into her pores, his breath hot and light across the vein in her neck.
"Peredura?"
She felt his lips against her skin, starting again in that sensitive bit, right in the corner of her neck. She shrugged her shoulder, but hadn't the strength to dislodge him. He kept kissing her, soft and light, and he seemed intent on covering her entire body in those little puffs of love.
Until he reached her navel. Impulsively he flicked his tongue out, quick and light, flittering back and forth so fast that it tickled. She came to fully then, her hands going to her stomach trying to both cover herself and push him away at the same time, and ending up only flailing ineffectively.
"Cullen!" she scolded, bunching her abdominals and trying to roll to her side. He wouldn't let her go, one hand on her arm and the other across her hips. Though he did leave off kissing her, and even managed to get most of the silly, boyish grin off his face before he lifted his head up to look at her.
"Yes, my love?"
"What… what are you doing?" she panted, from the laughter, from the sudden exertion, and in part from the lingering satiation. She looked down at him with narrowed eyes, full of suspicion and distrust.
"I think you can figure that out by now."
She blinked at him, her lips parted alluringly. He lunged upwards to give them a kiss, easing her back against the pillows.
"A-a-ah-again?" she stuttered when she finally managed to pull herself free for a gasping breath.
"Why not?" he pressed, sensing her hesitation, her indecision. He straddled her, his knees at her hips, his hands next to her shoulders, and stared down at her in a very dominating manner. Yet the next words he spoke were so tender, so compassionate, and overflowing with heartbreaking truth. "I love you."
"I love you, too," she answered, her fingers burrowing into the soft curls at the base of his head and pulling him down for another kiss.