The want was present on Astrid’s face in the concerned furrow of her brow.
“What would you like me to do?” Freya asked finally. “Should I leave?”
“Please don’t,” Astrid said. “I feel trapped in here, Freya. I do. Is there any other way to keep me safe where I can have a window and walk around?”
“This is safest.” Varin had arranged the accommodations, and Freya trusted his wisdom after his many years of serving Astrid. He’d served the previous ruler, too, and helped Torden through its civil war. “I can bring something comforting in here to make you feel less trapped?”
Astrid did not look pleased at the prospect. Of course, Astrid’s usual rooms were already austere. Stripped down to the essentials, like Astrid was stripped down to the essentials of what it meant to be a queen.
“Don’t leave,” Astrid said, because she did not need to say what Freya already knew. “But don’t touch me. And I won’t touch you.”
Freya’s gaze dropped to Astrid’s hands in her lap, fidgeting, one of them rubbing the inside of Astrid’s thigh.
Almost as if…
Something light and buoyant simmered through Freya’s fingertips. Her original assumption about not knowing Astrid enough in this aspect was wrong.
Freya dropped the books on the floor and sat rigid in the stool, setting her feet apart ever so slightly. “Of course. We won’t touch each other,” she said carefully.
“Yes,” Astrid said. Her fingers found the waist of her trousers, and she nudged them down an inch at a time. Freya merely watched as the fabric passed over Astrid’s knees, then her calves, pleasantly toned, and finally past her ankles and onto the floor.
The hem of Astrid’s tunic lifted as she rolled it up with her fingers. A slow reveal, like pulling back a curtain.
Her brown skin reflected the room’s warm candlelight, and then the tunic was bunched around her waist, her smallclothes revealed. White cloth covered Astrid’s softest parts, wisps of dark hair curling around the edges.
Astrid paused with her tunic rolled up to her hips. Her legs opened wider and then came to a stop. A second passed, then two.
She was waiting, Freya realized.
Freya fumbled with the laces of her trousers, stood to slide them down, left them at her ankles. Her bare legs were exposed, and Astrid was drinking in every inch of them in a way Freya rarely let anyone do. Freya raised her tunic and placed her fingers against the pin keeping her smallclothes in place. Astrid mirrored the movement.
Freya licked her lips. Should she say something? Were they really doing this?
“Astrid,” she started, and Astrid unclipped the pin holding the cloth covering her in place, and Freya had no words left.
Astrid’s eyes were intense, set on Freya’s, as she parted her legs farther for Freya to see her. Between her legs, Astrid glistened in a way that made Freya’s mouth water. How Freya yearned to drop to her knees, to touch and taste and satisfy her queen.
Instead, she sat back on her wooden stool and unraveled her own undergarment, revealing herself to Astrid in reciprocation. Their eyes met, blazing. Freya gave a slight nod; Astrid’s hand drifted toward her inner thigh.
The division between them and the rest of the world, the realization of Freya’s fantasies come true—all of it culminated in a sense of surreality. It was not hard to imagine the hand Freya placed against her hip was Astrid’s and not hers. That the slow, circular movement Astrid began against her clit was something out of a dream.
Freya mimicked Astrid’s movements, following her pace. She was overly conscious of every one of her senses, as if time had slowed down. A faltering on Astrid’s face, so unlike her. Their breaths filling the tiny space, faster and faster. A squelching noise, almost embarrassing in volume.
A moan—Astrid’s. They’d reached a frantic speed with their touching, and Freya leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She pretended her fingers were against Astrid’s cunt and not her own; she pretended she was being touched by Astrid and not herself. She heard a hitched sigh, imagined the look on Astrid’s face that she would make if Freya was the one to pleasure her. If Astrid could lie there and focus on her pleasure alone.
In her mind, Freya saw Astrid’s head rolling back, her horns catching on the fabric and pulling it, her mouth parted in satisfaction. How it would feel to run her hands over Astrid’s bare spine.
The change in breathing was Freya’s only indication Astrid was close. Her eyes snapped open. Astrid was struggling to sit up. Her other hand twitched against her thigh, and Freya wanted to take it, to finish out together, but she didn’t quite dare.
Astrid’s eyes squeezed shut. Her body began to tremble. She let out a soft, “Oh,” and shivered. Freya’s body reacted more to Astrid than to her own movements, and she rode the crest of the wave coming on and held it back for as long as she could, until it overcame her all at once. She clamped her mouth shut to hold in a noise the guards outside would have heard.
Astrid’s hand came to a stop, her fingertips wet in the candlelight.
Later, after they’d taken turns cleaning themselves up in silence, Freya returned to her stool, her body buzzing with energy.
She needed to discuss what this meant, where this was going, what to expect. And she was fairly certain Astrid had little intention of doing so. The conflicted look on Astrid’s face when she stole glimpses of Freya from under her sheets left no doubt in Freya’s mind about Astrid’s internal struggle with what she wanted.
Freya knew what Astrid wanted. She would have to let Astrid come to that conclusion with finality on her own.
