“Sit on the floor.”
He doesn't argue. He crosses the room and lowers himself down, back against the wall, legs stretched out. I step between his knees. On the floor, his head is level with my chest. Familiar territory. We've been here before, at Vorneth, his body mapped and known under my hands. But his breathing is different tonight. Faster. His hands hover at my waist and don't land.
“Hey.” I take his hands, place them on my hips. His palms settle against me, warm through the fabric. “We already know this part works.”
“This part isn't what scares me.”
“I know.” I pull my shirt over my head. His hands tighten on my hips, but his eyes don't widen, don't startle. He's seen me. He knows the sharp collarbones, the pack-strap calluses, the ribs he can count. His thumbs trace the familiar lines of my hip bones and some of the tension leaves his jaw.
I reach for his shirt. He helps, pulling it over his head, and then we're skin to skin from the waist up, his heat soaking into me, the bond humming between us the way it has since the stone.
“Your turn.” I pull at the laces. “These need to come off.”
His hands cover mine. Still them.
“Maren.” He's looking at me, and the fear in his face is specific and raw. “You had three of my fingers inside you at Vorneth and you needed time to adjust. What I'm asking you to take is bigger than that. I could tear you. I could do damage you'd need weeks to heal from. And I might not be able to stop once I start.”
“You'll stop if I tell you to.”
“You don't know that.”
“Idoknow that. I've known that since the ditch.” I hold his gaze. “And Mother Sanque's oil is going to do most of the work. That's what it's for. Not your chest. Not your scars. This.”
Something shifts behind his eyes. He lets go of my hands.
I work his laces open. He lifts his hips, helps me pull the trousers down and off. He's hard, and I already know the size of him, the weight of him in my hands. That part isn't new. But tonight I'm not just touching him. Tonight I'm figuring out how to take all of him inside me, and the practical part of my brain is already running calculations.
“The oil.” I reach for the jar. Uncap it. The smell fills the room, herbs and honey and that warming agent I still can't name.
I don't spread it across his chest.
I pour it into my palm and wrap my hand around him, slicking him from base to tip. His head drops back against the wall, eyes closing, and a sound comes out of him that I feel through the floor.
“Maren. If you keep doing that I'm going to finish before we start.”
“No you're not.” I tighten my grip slightly. “But I need you slick. All of you.”
I coat him thoroughly. Then I kick off my own trousers and pour more oil into my hand and reach between my own legs, working it into myself. Two fingers, then three, the stretch familiar from Vorneth but more deliberate now. Preparing. His eyes open and he watches me, his breathing going rough and shallow, his hands opening and closing against the stone floor.
“We go slow,” I tell him. “I set the pace. Your hands stay on my hips unless I move them somewhere else.”
“Yes.”
“And breathe.”
“I'm trying.”
I position myself above him, my knees on either side of his hips, my hands braced against his shoulders. He's looking up at me, eyes amber and steady, and his hands are on my hips and I have never wanted anything this much.
I lower myself onto him.
The first inch makes me cry out. Not pain. Pressure. More than his fingers, more than I expected even though I expected it. My body stretching to take him, a fullness that pushes everything else out of my head. His hands tighten on my hips,and I feel the effort it costs him not to move, not to thrust up, not to take what the beast is screaming at him to take.
“Stay still,” I manage. “Let me.”
“Maren, you're so...” He doesn't finish. His jaw works. His eyes are bright and agonized.
I sink lower. Another inch. The stretch burns and I breathe through it, letting my body open. Another inch. I can feel him against the front wall of me, a pressure that's right at the border between too much and not enough. My thighs are shaking from holding myself up, controlling the descent.
