Chapter Thirty-Nine: Need
Peredura was bent over at the waist, her head inches from a small shrub, her hands caressing the leaves fondly, expectantly, even a bit impatiently. As Cullen approached from behind—directly behind—he could see the slim curve of her hips within her leggings, the backwards bend of her spine when she took a deep breath before straightening. As she stood up, she shook her head to send her long brown hair back over her shoulder to hang from its ponytail directly down the middle of her jacket. Her hands reluctantly left the bush and dropped to her sides, her shoulders squaring, her head tilting as she studied the newest member of Skyhold's garden.
He coughed as he approached, in part because he did not wish to startle her, but also because he was suddenly having a very hard time controlling himself and not giving in to the sudden impulse to swoop her up from behind, carry her over to the corner of the garden beneath the pergola and…
That had been the normal routine for them as of late, ever since they had returned to Skyhold almost two months ago. Two months of finding excuses to stand next to her. Of brushing the backs of his fingers against hers as they walked. Of saying one thing but meaning so much more. The Inquisition's plans against Corypheus were coming to a head, forcing them to divide their days and hours and minutes amongst their shared—but mostly separate—responsibilities. On occasion, they had managed to slip away, a few stolen moments here and there…
… heading towards the War Room, rounding a corner and slipping inside a broom closet, holding their breaths out of fear of being discovered, pushing aside just enough clothing, his hand over her mouth to muffle her cry, fondling and fumbling in the dark, stepping out afterwards and being seen by Cassandra and Blackwall from the hallway… or Sera and Varric at the Tavern… or Dorian and Iron Bull from behind the Library bookshelf… or Leliana and Vivienne coming up from the blacksmith…
Maker's Breath, but he didn't think there was a single one of their closest companions who hadn't almost caught them—at least once! And for what—inadequate and hurried copulation, just long enough to grope and rut and gasp, certainly not long enough for either of them to truly enjoy it.
He meant to change that. Now.
He cleared his throat again, "No Fear, today?"
Peredura spared only the briefest of glances over her shoulder, and only because it was Cullen. "Oh, um, hi, I mean, no, that is, Abbets was having a rough morning, so I leant him my hound. Fear seems to…" she blushed before hurriedly continuing, "I don't know, have a soothing effect sometimes for some people."
"I've noticed," he admitted, thinking of his own therapeutic experiences with the intuitive Mabari.
"Anyway, have you seen this?" She hurriedly changed the subject, gesturing at the bush, her smile lighting up the sky. And adding heat to a fire already simmering within him.
Keep it formal, he told himself, she's the Inquisitor, it would be inappropriate, not to mention unseemly, for the person commanding her army to tackle her to the ground and rip off her clothing right there in the open…
"Mother Giselle just transplanted this lilac bush," her words thankfully brought his wayward thoughts back under control. Temporarily, at least, as he watched her fondle and caress the young shrub, "Isn't it beautiful? She assures me that its roots are taking hold, so it will grow strong and healthy. It might even bloom next year. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"
She bent over at the waist again, immersing her face in the muted green leaves, tickling her nose. That delectable derrière was once more in the center of his vision. "It's silly, but I can almost smell it. I know, I know, the scent comes from the lilacs themselves, but…" she inhaled deeply, "…ah…" and exhaled deeply. Straightening up once more, she turned her head just far enough to peek one large, brown eye at him from the edge of her overgrown bangs. "I guess I have an overactive imagination."
Focus, he told himself, focus… as he desperately tried not to become lost in her gaze, bowed down with just how badly he needed her. "Excuse me, Madam Inquisitor, but there's a… pressing… matter… I need to speak with you about." Maker's Breath! How lame could he be?! That was the worst… corniest… pathetic cliché that even he had ever spoken. He had to think of a better way to communicate his need.
"Pressing?" she repeated, looking him over again as if that would tell her what was wrong. Shaking her head, she apologized, "I'm sorry, Cullen, I had no idea. I didn't mean to waste your time with baby lilac bushes. Of course we can talk. Anytime." She squeezed his arm, "What is it?"
"It's, ah, private," he looked pointedly around the public garden. No one was near them at the moment, but that could easily change.
A little pink stole across her cheeks, nothing overtly embarrassing, but enough to contrast the paleness of her skin. "Oh, ah, well, if it's so private," she nipped at her lip, no doubt thinking he was making an excuse to find another broom closet or pantry. If only she knew his plans for them… "We should go some place else, then. To the War Room, perhaps? It's nearby and…"
She started for the closest entrance to the Keep, and Cullen quickly fell into step with her, but mostly to steer her in the right direction. "No good, I just came from there. I've spent the morning with Leliana and Morrigan discussing the dispersal of our troops in the Arbor Wilds."
She stopped to stare at him, feigning shock. "And you left them alone, strategizing troop deployment without you? Shocking, Commander," she teased, "Shirking your responsibilities like that."
He was unruffled over her chastisement. "I've already given them the answer. Yet they'll spend the whole day discussing every other option before coming around to what I suggested in the first place—no need for me to suffer through that. Now, Inquisitor," he took her elbow, leaning in closer as he saw Josephine down the hallway. She was walking away from them, but he didn't want to take any chances. "Regarding my request for a private audience, how about some place more… personal." He had tried to think of a word that would get her thoughts moving in the right direction.
"Oh," she sounded a little perplexed and off balance by his choice of words. The pink on her cheeks darkened almost imperceptibly. "Um, well, we could use your chambers…" she nipped her lip again, batting her large, soft brown eyes. "They're not all that further away."
Almost there, he told himself, just one more step. "No good. If you recall, it's directly above my office, accessed via a trap door. Besides, the floor is thin."
"Thin?" she blinked at him, bewildered. Obviously, he was horny and wanting a quickie—she was too. But when he began objecting to every place she suggested, she began to wonder just how badly he wanted sex. She wanted it, very badly; it had been so awkward since they had returned to Skyhold, that the tension was making her frustrated and wanting to snap at everyone. So why the fuck was he…
"Very thin," he continued over her thoughts. "There are even holes going straight through to my office below. If I so much as sneeze, there'd be at least one soldier from down below saying bless you. You do recall, Madam Inquisitor," he leaned in close, his breath low and hot against her cheek as he added softly for her ears only, "Just how much you love to scream."
"Oh, yes, well," it was her turn to swallow, feeling the heat boil up from her loins all the way to her scalp, "That doesn't sound very private at all, does it."
"Especially with all the traffic through my office. Not to mention Abbets has taken up working in there, now that he's my second. No, we need a place that is truly private, secluded, out of the way, where we're not likely to be disturbed." He tilted his head and added menacingly, "A place with a door I can lock and barricade."
She blinked at him. Then she looked over his shoulder to the hallway that led to his office. She looked over her own shoulder to the one that led to the War Room. Obviously, he was looking for something more than a pantry. Yet there really wasn't a place where they would not be disturbed, except… "If, ah," she nipped at her lip, and his gloved thumb pulled it free, "If you truly do not wish to be disturbed," she shrugged and he settled her with the same hand, "We could always try my chambers. There's a lock on the door, and I suppose we can find a way to barricade it, if need be. Would that be acceptable?"
He was a lot taller than her, and shifted his stance, staring down into her, as if trying to intimidate a raw recruit. "That should suffice. I cannot stress how important this matter is to me, to us. Thank you, Madam Inquisitor, for taking this seriously."
Her cheeks were on fire now. "Of course, Commander," she kept the formal tone of address, hearing someone enter the hallway behind her and not wanting to give anyone a clue as to what they were really up to—not that she was overly sure herself. "I do appreciate your counsel and participation in these matters." There, she thought to herself, feeling smug over her subtle insertion of innuendo. Now, to make good their escape before whoever it was could catch them. "Let's, um, go, shall we?" she gestured off to the side and the corridor that led to her tower.
He gestured with an open hand, that dominating look continuing to stain his features. It was intense, purposeful, mysterious, and thrilled her to her core. "After you."
Neither one turned to see who was there, and Varric held in his chuckle until they were out of earshot.
"Just what is so amusing?" Cassandra asked him.
"Those two," he thumbed at the retreating couple. Under Cassandra's stern look, he rolled his eyes and added, "Never mind, Seeker, I know how much gossip bores you."
"It's not that I find the gossip boring," she sniffed. "What I find distasteful is how some people like to put their nose into what doesn't concern them. That Peredura and Cullen have fallen in love is obvious. And I'm actually quite happy for them. I merely don't feel the need to speculate regarding their affair."
She strode off down the hallway, leaving Varic very confused and—for the first time in his life—at a lack for words.
Peredura had no idea of the exchange, which was probably for the best. She led the way, intensely aware of Cullen's closeness to her. Yet she wasn't looking forward to climbing ALL the stairs in her tower. Perhaps she could distract him sooner and avoid the exhausting exercise. He was just looking for a quick tryst, after all, right…? She opened the door to the base of the tower, the dark interior deserted as always, and gave her small plan a try. "Well," she hummed, hearing him shut the door behind them, the only light coming from the torches above, "We are alone now…" She took his hand and tried to pull him into the shadows beneath the stairs.
He would have none of it, however, using her grip to swing her around and propel her up a couple of steps. "Not good enough, Madam Inquisitor," he started up after her, his pace deliberate and steady. "You promised me a locked door," his steps continued, relentlessly, and she found herself scrambling to her feet just trying to keep from getting stepped on. "And a barricade," he pursued her with that same marching rhythm, and she again reacted with haste, trying to stay ahead of him. "I intend to see to it that you keep your word."
"Wait!" she panted, feeling harried and excited, feeling her blood race in her veins, feeling her breath tearing through her lungs. She looked up at all the flights above them to where her bedchamber door was and groped at the wall behind her, her head spinning. "Cullen, please, there are a lot of stairs…"
"Save your breath, Madam Inquisitor," he warned her, "You're going to need it."
The tone of his voice made her snap her head back to look at him. It was menacing, the way he leered at her, the way he stalked her, the way he spoke to her. And it thrilled her, his determination, his focus. She found herself wanting to giggle nervously and could feel her body reacting to the singleminded-ness of his pursuit. She increased her speed, thinking it best to stay ahead of him, but he increased his pace to match hers, his longer legs allowing him to sometimes take two steps at a time.
The cheater.
By the time they reached the last landing she was giddy, her head floating and filled up with the rush of the race, the dizzying heights, and the anticipation of what was to come. She nearly giggled again, and could hear a growl come from him, belatedly remembering how badly it frustrated him whenever girls giggled around him. She couldn't stop the smile, however, as her hand reached the latch and opened the door.
He was right behind her as they entered, daunting, commanding. His hand all but slammed the door shut, spinning around to place her firmly between him and the door, one hand to either side of her shoulders, his eyes boring into hers as he commanded, "Lock it."
Again, the heat exploded inside her like a fireball thrown from a catapult. She turned away from him and had to stretch awkwardly to reach the key from its hook beside the frame. She finished turning to place her back to him, her hands wanting to shake as she locked the door. No sooner had she turned the key when he grabbed her, thick hands all but bruising her upper arms, and slammed their bodies into the stout door. He had been serious about locking the door; evidently, he was serious about the barricade, too, but she hadn't expected him to use their bodies to do it.
His front pressed against her back, pressing her front against the unyielding wood. She gasped, still struggling to catch her breath after the heady chase, and felt his mouth at the base of her neck, lips and tongue hot and wet and sending shivers down her whole body. His groin was hard against her, and she was fairly sure that it wasn't a dagger that was poking her at an awkward angle. He moved back a little, but only far enough so that his hands could squeeze around her front. He groped her breasts through her uniform, somehow managing to make her nipples react despite her layers and layers of clothing. One left off and somehow in the limited space managed to find its way to her groin, to the part of her that was pouring out heat. Surely, he had to feel it, even through her leggings, even through his glove, she was positively dripping with need.
Apparently he did. He leaned back and slipped his hands free, allowing her half a second to catch her breath, before he spun her around by her shoulders. He crushed her yet again, his lips trailing from her lips to her jaw, back towards her earlobe, and finally down to her neck. She practically purred with pleasure, her body turning pliable within his mastery, and he took full advantage of the opportunity. He caressed his hands down her sides, pausing at her waist a moment, before reaching lower. He cupped her ass, one beefy palm for each cheek, and hefted her up off her feet. She gasped, taken unawares by his sudden boldness, but as soon as he settled her groin against his, she reacted by wrapping her legs around his hips, securing her into place.
Maker's Breath, but he loved her legs.
He hummed in approval, his mouth descending on hers, his tongue quickly advancing inside to wrestle. She fought back, her tongue delving and dipping, wrapping and wrangling with his. He increased the intensity, pressing her shoulders back into the door, bruising her lips with passion. He was so focused on his attack that he didn't notice her hands or what they were doing until he felt and heard his mantle fall off his shoulders to the floor. He chuckled to himself, approving of her engagement in their activity, but when he felt her fingers fumbling at his armor, he would have none of it.
He staggered back and away from the stability of the door, now fighting to keep his balance as well as keep their lips together. His armor was expensive, damn it, unique, built specifically for him, to his own body and specifications and fighting style. He was not about to let her bumbling fingers over-stress a strap or bend a buckle. His eyes had stayed open, two hazel slits that pierced the terrain, despite his vision being all but filled with her stunning features. Carefully, using his peripheral vision, he was able to turn them around far enough to face that last flight of stairs, the slightly unsteady movement encouraging her to forego his armor and become more concerned about keeping her perch. Cautiously, one by one, he felt for each step and lifted their entwined bodies up, ascending at a painfully slow pace that only served to fuel their desperation.
When there were no more steps, when the next footfall landed on even floorboards, Peredura let out a soft mewl of desire. He answered, vocal cords thrumming of their own will, not a word so much as a sound, an emotion, basic and animalistic. He only managed a few more steps before his toe found the rug in front of the fire and he staggered. She reacted alarmingly, groping and grasping at him harder, which threatened to throw him off balance even more. He tried to recover, but one of her legs slipped off his hip, impeding his leg, causing another misstep. Despite his best efforts, despite his skill and strength and agility, despite his prowess—they were going to fall. He controlled as much as he could, guiding their entwined bodies to slowly land and gently roll onto the side, protecting her with an arm. When they came to a rest, he pulled back to take stock of the situation. They were on the rug, almost to the very middle, and it was soft and thick and large and spread before the hearth, which was roaring with a well-stacked fire.
Good enough.
Without a single word he commanded her, guided her, molded and shaped and formed her body to exactly what he desired. As he leaned back on his knees he had her kneel as well, facing him, so close they could taste each other's breath. She stared, silent and fascinated, as he quickly and efficiently divested himself of his armor, a process made familiar and effortless after his years of service. Those pieces he placed off to the side, careful and precise. Then, staring at her with that demon-may-care grin, he pulled off his gloves and tossed them haphazardly over his shoulder.
She giggled, a spurt of noise slightly louder than the pop of the fire, and reached up to the ribbon holding her hair, fully intending to follow his lead. Yet he stopped her, his hands on her wrists, forcing them down to her sides.
Apparently, she didn't have permission to move.
Cullen quickly shrugged out of his jacket, having to shake it off as it tried to catch on one of his hands. The coat flew off to the side, Peredura noting that it landed on the floor next to the couch, sliding partially underneath it. Her attention was brought back to him, however, as he moved on to his tunic. She watched as he lifted up his arms, grabbing the neck of the tunic right at the back of his head, and lifting it up and over to come off in front of him. She pouted—just a little—as he held it there, arms covered along with most of his chest. And she so very much wanted to see his chest, the sparse soft blond curls, the massive girth, the musculature that stretched over every inch of him…
When he remained unmoving for too long, she dragged her eyes up to his face and saw him staring at her, his expression inscrutable. She stared back at him, unable to communicate her need. Her hands twitched, his eyes hardened with warning in response, and she became still except for panting. He smiled again, finished pulling his tunic off his arms, balled up the unoffending fabric, and tossed it away.
He might have chuckled to himself, seeing the way she hungrily devoured his chest with her eyes. Her hands twitched yet again, her whole torso swaying slightly, and the pink tip of her tongue peeking out as if to tease his nipples. Yes, she was horny…
…and he was quickly losing control.
He reached over her shoulder and pulled the ribbon from her hair, dropping it somewhere out of sight. Next his fingers trailed to the collar of her coat, dipping inside to caress her warm skin, his other hand joining the first as he worked on the fasteners. In short order he had her jacket open, roughly pushing it off her shoulders, tugging it down her arms, nearly tearing out a few stitches in his haste. It was also flung aside with his clothing, unwanted and unneeded. He gripped the bottom hem of her sweater and swiftly raised it up over her head. She obliged by raising up her arms, fearful he might just rip something if she didn't, and as he pulled free of her he let go of the fabric, the sweater left to sail through the air and out of sight or thought. The long sleeved tunic quickly followed in much the same manner.
He wanted to growl with frustration—damn but she wore a lot of clothing. At long last he got down to the final layer, a sleeveless shift. He pulled it free of her waist, and she raised her arms again, but this time he went slower. His hands caressed her sides, fabric bunched between his fingers, as he lifted it off of her torso. His thumbs came up underneath her breasts and he slowed even more, dragging his hands over the underside of the weighty globes and across sensitive peaks, feeling the bounce as they broke free. She shuddered, almost dropping her arms, but he continued to lift the shift, so she kept her arms above her head. She made the mistake of closing her eyes, so she didn't see the impish glint that crossed his features.
When he got the fabric up to her neck, he shifted his grip, hanging on to only the hem, carrying that to her wrists while leaving her head and arms trapped. He gave the hem a quick and playful twist, nothing too tight, and pushed her down onto the rug. She gasped in protest and cried out his name, muffled under her shift, but he ignored her. His mouth descended on a globe, warm and wet, tongue licking every inch of skin, from beneath to the cleavage to across the tip. Her cries of protest morphed into moans of pleasure, and when she finally got her head and arms free, she buried her fingers deep into his hair.
It felt to him as if she intended to keep his face planted there forever, but there was another one he needed to lavish. She moaned again, arching her back, when his mouth found its new target. He gripped her sides, trying to keep her from writhing away from him, and settled the top of his thigh at the juncture of her legs, pressing her down. She moaned even louder and began rubbing and rutting against him, but at least she wasn't wiggling away.
Of course, all her rubbing was also affecting him, the damnable-mind-of-its-own-organ filling and engorging and growing uncomfortably tight. He wanted to let things be for a time, to focus his attention on her, to let her grind and arouse herself more, but things were coming to a head. He was going to make a mess in his pants if this kept up, and he would rather make a mess of her first!
He tried, he held off for as long as he could, but eventually he gave in to his primal nature. He hissed and pulled his mouth away from her. At the same time, he lifted up and rocked back onto his knees, removing anything sensitive from her over stimulation. She lay there for a moment, confused and shocked by his sudden departure. Some sort of sound erupted from high in her throat, a questioning kind of half-grunt/half-plea. He answered in kind—words seemed to be too bothersome and cumbersome and unnecessary for clear communication—an exasperated guttural moan as he reached down to clutch himself. She propped herself up on her elbows, laid a gentle hand on his arm, and gave a caring sort of hum. He shook his head, dipped it a moment, before looking back up and at her with a cocked eyebrow and a slightly self-deprecating smirk.
She smiled back, unrepentant.
With another growl he moved to hover over her, his lust back in check—at least for the moment. She looked a bit wary of whatever expression was on his face, but he didn't care. He advanced and she shifted backwards, still on her elbows, propelling herself with her heels and rump. He was not about to allow her to escape, however, and took hold of one boot. She let out a noise of surprise laced with a bit of excitement.
He yanked off the boot.
Then he reached for the other one. She tried again to back away, but now it was more of a game, a bit of cat-and-mouse, chase and capture and release and chase again. She rolled over and got to her knees, thinking she might have a better chance on her feet, but took too long. He grabbed again for the other boot, caught her by her calf, and quickly pulled the leather boot from her foot. She lost her balance and fell forwards onto a nearby piece of furniture. It was a low, overstuffed footstool, large enough to sit on, large enough for her torso to sprawl across. She clung to it for a moment, panting with endorphins and passion and anticipation. She looked back over her shoulder at Cullen, wondering once more just what exactly that expression on his face could mean. Then their eyes locked.
He had been pursuing her, stripping off her boots and intending to tackle her leggings next, but when she stumbled and ended up sprawled across the footrest, when she presented that cute and pert rear practically in his face, when she looked over her shoulder at him with one eye half peeking out from behind her bangs…. His need grew too great.
He barely registered her bark of surprise, his thoughts absent as his mind filled with blood and heartbeats and throbbing. He moved into position behind her, kneeling, their bodies bumping as he worked. His nostrils flared, filling with the scent of her arousal. His hands grew thick and clumsy and slow—far too slow!—as he undid her belt, as he pulled the fabric from her waist and off her hips. As he revealed the soft, pale skin. He only got as far as pushing the leggings down to her knees before he could hold back any longer. The scent of her… the heat… the moistness… all made his mouth water. He had to devour her.
Peredura gasped. Whatever she had been expecting, it certainly wasn't for him to suddenly STOP undressing her. But he did, and he shifted, and the next thing she felt was the weight of his head in her leggings, trapping the fabric around her knees, allowing just enough space for him to slip between her legs and…. She cried out, the pleasure too great to express with words. His lips, his tongue, his teeth—his whole mouth was there, licking and stroking and pleasuring and building…. She moaned loudly, her own mouth slack, her fingers gripping the edge of the footstool, as he continued his relentless ministrations.
His hands held on to her ass as she shuddered, fingers splayed, feeling her scars but giving them no special attention—he never noticed the scars, only the woman, the love of his life. His thumbs dug into her hips, all but bruising the flesh as he held her captive and within reach. His nose was burrowed deeply into her, saturated with aroma. He kept at her, his tongue stroking, his saliva mixing with her own secretions as he moved. He pulled back for a little while, turning his attention to that tiny nub of pleasure briefly, before going back to using his tongue.
This was his whole world.
Somewhere deep inside his brain he heard it, the tiny hitch, the suddenly shallow breaths that signaled the nearness of her climax. He held off for as long as he could, prolonging the anticipation, trying to make a moment last forever. He listened to her whine, he felt her muscles tense. Then it happened.
Her body grew taught and coiled before stopping for a moment. Then she let it all free, screaming out her pleasure, throwing her head back, rocking her hips over his face. He held on for dear life, her body clenching rhythmically. He lapped as her waves crested and began to calm, long and strong strokes. He kept at it until he sensed the change in her, from blissful afterglow to oversensitivity. She was finished.
But he was far from being done with her.
Peredura laid spent across the surface of the large footstool. The upholstery was deeply padded and soft, and her limbs were very gooey and lax, and whatever was happening next could certainly wait for a few moments. She sighed contentedly, practically purring, and vaguely registered that Cullen was moving behind her. She didn't pay attention to him, selfishly indulging in the aftermath. It wasn't until she felt the heat from his body, his bare skin, hovering inches from behind her, before she managed enough curiosity to lift her head. She tried to speak his name, a questioning tone suffusing the lone syllable she managed before he entered her. "Cull…!"
He had left her to her sated state while he had finished stripping. Then, completely naked, he approached her. That tempting moon was still there, taunting him, piquing his interest, daring him to try. He wasn't quite that innovative—at least he didn't think he was—but perhaps playing with the thought or implied possibility, that he could but didn't, would be worth trying. And the target was right there, a perfect level, and oh so inviting. Without another thought he knelt behind her, aimed carefully, and slid inside.
He might have heard her say something, maybe his name, but the pounding roar had returned to his brain. All he could manage were slow, steady, deep strokes, all the way in, all the way out, plunging until he was fully sheathed. He knew, somewhere in the back of his head, he knew he was not going to last long like this. Hurriedly, hastily, his arm looped around her hip, fingers searching for and finding the triangle of hair, digging into the tangled mass to reach the tiny core.
She didn't think she could again, not so soon, and not so quickly, but she did.
He held her as she cried out, her body threatening to turn slick with her sweat. She clamped down on him hard before the animalistic drive took over her body. He lost himself within her, spent himself, emptied his very soul as she wrung every last ounce from him. He didn't scream as she did, being more visceral, internalized, needing to be panted out. He never drifted away after as she often tended to do. If anything, he became hypersensitive, aware of every minutiae of everything. Sweat drying on skin. Gooseflesh receding. Nipples reacting to every breath of air. Blood ebbing, allowing their bodies to separate.
Then they were apart, though together.
His hand around her waist, he slid them from the footrest to the rug, allowing her to enjoy herself—for a second time!—while he made a few adjustments. He gently removed her leggings, laying her limbs comfortably on the soft surface. Even though she was now as completely naked as he, she didn't shiver with cold, the warmth of the fire and their lovemaking sustaining her internal heat. She watched him, through slitted eyes, as he indulged himself.
His large, meaty hands, rough and calloused with chipped nails thanks to his years of being a Templar and warrior, were amazingly tender and gentle as he caressed her. He started at her feet, careful not to be tickling, wanting to feel and stroke and impress her form into his memory through touch. He felt for her slim ankles, wrapping his hands around them as if making shackles. Tenderly he pried them apart, far enough to make room for him, before letting go. He didn't linger, however, moving on to stroke first one calf and then the other, a hand to each, all the way up to her knees.
He was kneeling between her legs now, and she shifted them a bit further apart to allow him room. His hands moved up over the tops of her knees before heading to the extra-soft skin of her inner thighs. She purred, closing her eyes and tilting her head back, focusing on his touch, his exploration. When he reached her groin, he stroked downwards across the tops of her thighs, before coming up once more beneath her legs. His hands yet again found and cupped her from behind, kneading the flesh a moment, before moving on to her hips.
She thought he might go to her front but was not disappointed when he got as far as her hips before sliding up her torso. His thumbs dragged over each rib as he continued his trek. When he reached the summits of her breasts, he went around them, teasingly, making her twitch and smile even though her eyes remained closed. She could feel the nearness of his body, the heat of his massive frame, as he moved on to her shoulders. It felt amazing—that she didn't notice her own scars, the places where his touch left her, where his heat faded, was something of a miracle. Only Cullen could make her feel beautiful and whole despite the obvious.
Only Cullen, because he loved her.
His hands, so warm, left her shoulders and traveled down her arms to her wrists, taking hold of them as he had done to her ankles. This time, however, she felt him pull away and lift her arms up. She opened her eyes, questioningly, and saw that he was leaning back, pulling on her arms, inviting her to join him. Not knowing what he had in mind, but after the first two go-arounds she was more than willing to trust him, she sat up with him.
He was kneeling between her legs, and she thought about swinging them around and behind her to kneel as well, but he stopped her with one beefy palm against her thigh. Apparently, he had her exactly where he wanted her, but what that meant for her she could not fathom. She waited, expectantly, watching him simply watching her. It was sort of sweet, endearing, the way his eyes studied her features. Then a hand reached out to cup her cheek, the scarred one. She gave a slow blink, leaning in to his touch, before opening her eyes to see him looming closer and closer. His hand shifted, fingers reaching back to entangle themselves in her hair, thumb caressing her cheek, a subtle bit of pressure here and there and she obediently tilted her head.
Their lips met, not like before when they were both hungry and desperate. This time it was caring, even languid, the muscles of his lips working over hers, savoring, indulging. She closed her eyes, intensifying the experience, enjoying the intimacy of the simple act. When his tongue slipped inside her mouth, she could taste… She could smell… All moist and hot and…
She would like to think the moan came from him, but it was hers. Deep and mellow, it thrummed in the bottom of her chest, vibrating outwards like ripples on a pond. The moan carried with it heat, desire, need, spreading out like a thick blanket, warm and cozy and comforting. It filled her torso, drawing fuel from her heart and gaining in volume. It dropped to that little nub, tingly and wet like being outside during a thunderstorm. Her hands were on his chest, stroking the massive girth. His skin was becoming damp with a light film of sweat, which only aided her stroking.
Cullen pulled back from their kiss, that smirk on his face, but for once she didn't mind it. He was hers and she was his, and for this one moment that was all that mattered. They were together, alone, and had all the time they could need. So she slowed her pace, moving lighter, taking the time as he did to explore his body and feel him. Her thin and light fingers reached out to discover every part, sliding along the ridges between his ribs, counting the vertebrae down his spine, kneading his gluteus maximus, and finally stroking through the course hairs on his thighs.
He hadn't minded her little excursion, after all he had just done something similar to her, so he had tried to sit still and not react when her fingers turned too light and tickled. But when she groped him, when one finger accidentally slid into his… Maker's Breath! His manhood practically jumped to full attention. It didn't help matters when she moved down to his inner thighs, another fingertip coming close enough to brush a sensitive sack. He decided she'd had enough time for fondling and groped her, lifting her up as he did so. She gasped, taken unawares, and steadied herself with her hands on his oh-so-broad shoulders. He stretched out his legs, settled her on his lap with his member between them, and kept her legs back behind him.
Peredura didn't have a lot of leverage to maneuver in this new position, but truthfully she didn't want to move very much. He was before her, his arms around her, his lips within easy reach. She could feel him, pressing lengthwise against her, barely touching that certain place. He'd twitch, and she could feel the tiniest of rubs, annoyingly frustrating and yet incredibly stimulating. They sat there for some time, kissing, holding, twitching, simply being with each other. It was sweet, unhurried, pure… but not quite enough. She did enjoy it, the simplicity, the niceness, but she was horny and he was thick and ready and she was hot and dripping and…
He watched her pull away from their kiss, a rather unnerving little purse to her lips that gave him cause for concern. She put her palms flat against his shoulders and pushed, not hard, but enough to convey her meaning. She wanted him to lie back down. He didn't want to relinquish command, but she did outrank him, so like the dutiful soldier he obeyed and slowly reclined but propped himself up on his elbows, wanting to get a clear view of what she would do next.
Andraste's wedding veil, what a show she gave him.
She brought herself to her hands and knees, hovering over him, her long hair falling from the sides of her head, making a tunnel as she held her face over his. She kissed him, a light little nip to let him know that she was there, before moving off to taste more of him. She felt the stubble peppering his cheeks, the tiny hairs threatening to scratch her lips. It almost tickled, the sensation making her lips feel itchy and buzzy. Quickly she moved on, before one of those inane giggles escaped and ruined the mood.
He did notice her odd reaction when she kissed his jaw, and immediately discerned it was due to his stubble, especially when a few errant strands of her hair caught as she pulled away. He silently vowed to himself that, before the next time he abducted her for an afternoon, he'd make sure to be clean shaven. He touched her shoulder, caressing her upper arm, trying to apologize for the roughness of his face. She turned her head and kissed his palm, hopefully meaning that she accepted his apology.
She didn't linger, after kissing his hand away, and turned her attention to his chest. He watched the top of her head as it bobbed around, side to side, moving all over him as if trying to cover every inch of his torso. Her tongue traced his collarbone, moist and hot, a long stroke that left him feeling as if he had been branded. She didn't stop, using her tongue the whole time, burrowing the wet muscle through the light dusting of hair down the center of his chest. She licked out to one side and spent several moments lavishing him with attention, flicking the tip of her tongue, then a thick wet lick, followed by gentle sucking and nipping with her lips. After she got the one to a hard, pebble state she moved across to the other one, administering the same treatment. He sighed, enjoying the sensation, enjoying the way she enjoyed herself.
Neither of them had a lot of experience in this act—if any—but whatever they lacked in knowledge they made up for, trying and experimenting and learning together. That was one of the things that made their relationship so special, so unique.
So perfect for them both.
Peredura's mouth moved lower, and brought him abruptly back to his senses, to the sensations she was giving him. She lapped at his navel, and he jerked his stomach, slightly ticklish. He watched as she pulled her head back, felt the warmth of her breath as she gave a small chuckle, and exhaled with relief when she did not return to his bellybutton. The reprieve was short lived, however, as she descended instead on that trail of soft, dark gold hair that fell from his navel to his…
Maker's Breath!
He had been semi-hard for a while now, but when he felt her tongue stroke the side of him, when he felt her lips wrap around, when he felt her whole mouth attempt to envelop his entire length… he moaned. He leaned fully back, arms splayed, eyes closed, and moaned. Through the roaring of blood in his ears, he could hear her breathy laugh after she took a moment to swallow before returning to him. Her body was firmly wedged between his legs, her shoulders spreading apart his thighs, her fingers stroking whatever she could reach. He felt her pull off with a 'plop' sound but was given no time to wonder what could be next as her tongue left a long and wet trail all the way down. He panted, making an 'Ah' sort of sound, having never imagined her mouth could do such incredible acts.
He felt the air on his moist skin, but it wasn't cool or unpleasant, simply dry and not her mouth. He opened his eyes to see what was going on, why she had stopped. She was looking at him intently, her poor bottom lip once more imprisoned between her teeth, but he was too far away to pull it free, damn it. He saw her tilt her head to the side, then the other side, before nodding to herself, all the while never taking her eyes off of him. He cradled his head on his arm, propping it up, to watch and see what she was going to do next.
On her hands and knees, she slowly turned herself around, so her back was to him, and straddled his waist, a knee to either side of his thighs and her feet tucked in securely against his chest. He wondered for a moment if she intended somehow to keep him still lest he start to struggle against her, and the thought was laughable. He could easily throw her off of him at least three different ways, but he wasn't going to, more curious now than ever of what she was planning. As if sensing his thoughts, she peeked flirtatiously over her shoulder—he felt his blood turn to lava—and smiled a little nervously.
She very firmly was holding him captive, with that look alone.
She turned away once more, but he didn't immediately seek freedom now that the spell was broken; he was too intrigued. He watched, content, as she lifted herself up and off his waist, as high into the air as her knees would allow. She paused a moment, trying without her hands to line up their bodies. He could feel that she was wet, and hot, and thick, whether from their previous romp or this current foreplay. Being so undeniably tight, it was proving a little too difficult. She finally gave in and used one hand to hold him until he was securely inside. Then she let go, straightened up, threw her head back to shake her long brown hair down her spine, and lowered herself slowly. He wondered if she had enough room in there for all of him. She gave a whimper, shuddering a moment, holding still as if adjusting to something. He worried that this angle might be too much for her—he was human and she elven after all—and started moving a little. She hummed warningly, however, looking over her shoulder at him again and giving her head a little shake. She was okay. He was okay. She just needed a moment.
He relaxed once more, just a little, and waited again for her to take the lead. She did not disappoint. After getting used to his, um, presence, she began to move, rising up and plunging down. Every so often her hips would give a little twist, undulating. It made his head spin, this heretofore unknown talent she had, of manipulating him. At one point she bent backwards, arching her back. She braced her hands to either side of him, her hair falling into his face. His hands reached out to grab her arms, steady her, but she would have none of it. Slapping his hands away, she straightened back up before leaning in the opposite direction.
Now, she was truly torturing him. He stared down at her, at the point where their bodies became one, and watched as her, up and down. Up and down. Her hips continued their gyrations, her hands were braced to either side of his knees, and every time she lifted up he could catch a glimpse of her front, before she came down and blocked his view. Up and down.
Up and down.
Cullen could take a lot of punishment. He had strength, endurance, dedication, and after taking the edge off with their first romp he knew he could definitely last longer this time… But she kept flaunting her rear in his face! He had had enough. With a growl both primal and frustrated, he sat up.
The suddenness of his motion startled her, knocking her off balance literally and sending her crashing to the rug in a mess between his legs. He didn't give her time to recover her wits, sweeping her into his arms and pulling her upright, facing him, once more setting her on his lap. This time, however, he plunged inside her. This time, however, he moved her legs to behind him to limit her mobility. This time, however, he controlled the thrusts. He pressed their bodies close, the heat boiling off of them, the sweat making it harder and harder to hold on. She moaned, whimpered, tried to move, but he would have none of it. He kissed her, stroking her spine, shifting her even closer. He rocked his hips, his thrusts minimal but buried deep inside her, concentrating more on agitating that tiny part of her, wiggle, thrust, bump, rock…
She gasped. "Cullen…?"
He answered with another jiggle.
Her eyes glazed with desire, her lips parted with panted breaths, her legs trembling with immobility, her arms clinging uselessly to his shoulders…
He loved to watch her. There was a pre-twitch followed by complete and utter stillness, the calm before the storm. Then she threw her head back, screaming at the top of her lungs. Her spine arched, hips angling to try to get him in even further. Her body, swollen with passion, squeezed and clenched, the muscles instinctively, even animalistic, acting of their own accord. She shook before the force of it all, rocked to her very soul, wringing every last ounce of strength or will from her limbs. On and on she went, eventually slowing, eventually shuddering, eventually relaxing back into that gooey mess of blissful satisfaction.
He came.
It wasn't as dramatic as hers, it wasn't as vocal, it wasn't as violent, but it was as deep. He gave a little huff of breath after each one, the 'hee' falling softly into the air, brushing past her ears like a summer breeze. He held her, cradling her lovingly, as he spent every last drop he had into her. He nuzzled her neck, feeling her head loll against his, as he waited for their bodies to disengage. Then, gently, he lifted her off of his lap, swinging her legs around, and settled their sated bodies once more on the rug, spooning in close and warmed by the fire.
He allowed her time to savor the experience—they certainly had plenty of time to spend—and watched the shadows of late afternoon stain the floorboards.
A discreet knock sounded from below, a muffled voice called softly, then the latch was tried. The door remained locked, however, and no more was heard of the would-be intruder, which was a good thing. He belatedly realized he had forgotten to barricade the door.
He knew the moment she came back to her senses, a change in her breathing and a subtle shifting closer to the warmth of his body. He didn't try to start a conversation right away, or anything else for that matter. He merely allowed himself to enjoy their closeness. His hand laid heavy and warm on her hip, his other arm pillowing her head. Her breath tickled his skin, and her hand reached out to his, entwining their fingers.
Surely, this is what heaven will feel like.
"Cullen…?"
He wasn't quite in the mood for pillow talk, and used an earlobe to occupy his mouth to make his point.
"Cullen," obviously she wasn't getting the hint, "Do you mind if I ask you something?"
Giving in, a little, he hummed a noncommital noise.
She took it as a 'yes.' "Are you an ass man?"
That got his attention, making him shift up onto his elbow and nearly dumping her to the rug. "An…ass…."
"Do you have a thing for asses?" she clarified. "It's just that, well, we've never done that position on the footrest before, and you seemed to really enjoy it, so I did that backwards straddle just to see, and you… erm… I mean, it was really good, and… um… I was just kinda curious…?"
He laid back down, relieved that she wasn't calling him an ass, and tried to give her question serious consideration. "I don't think I am," his hand moved to caress a cheek, "But you have been presenting this to me all afternoon…"
"I most certainly have not!"
"…bending over the young lilac bush…"
"I was smelling it."
"…bouncing it in my face on the stairs…"
"You were chasing me!"
"…slumped over the footrest…"
"I… um, no, no… you tripped me."
"…sliding up and down on my…"
"Ah, yes, well, that one was on me."
He chuckled, but he wasn't through with teasing her yet. "I guess I wanted to have a little taste, see if I might like it, but I don't think it's really my 'thing,' as you put it." His hand stroked back up to her hip and down her thigh. "There's quite a lot about you I could have a 'thing' for, such as your legs."
"My legs?" she bent her knee so he could reach more of it.
He hummed in agreement. "Then there's your hair. It's soft, silky, smells of lilacs," his fingers now stroked through the thin strands, draping several locks over her cheek, "And the way you peek out from behind your bangs is endearing."
"I seem to remember you mentioning that once or twice." She smiled and playfully blew the hair off her face.
"There's the way your breasts fit perfectly in my hands, or your body in front of mine. The sensitive skin at your neck." He kept demonstrating each point in turn, "The treasure of our love, and our lovemaking."
His fingers strayed to that tiny nub, and her body arched reflexively.
"There you go again," he sighed, "Practically shoving your ass at me. No, my love, I believe I shall have to do some investigating before deciding if I am an ass man, or a leg man, or a breast man…" he toyed with each part in turn.
Now it was her turn to hum. "Then I suggest you get to it, Commander. And make sure it's a thorough investigation." She gripped his head and brought him down for a long, wet, lingering kiss. When she let him up for air, that damnable, cocky smirk was on his lips.
"I am at your command, Madam Inquisitor."
Author's Note: So, um, yeah, apparently the only thing I really needed to break through this horrid writer's block… was to come down with the plague. Plenty of time to sit, and think, and build frustration, and finally break down and begin writing again. I hope I can keep the momentum going. As I've said before, on this and other stories, I am not abandoning this. It may take forever, but I will finish this story as I have my other stories. Thank you, all of you, who continue to read. You guys rock!