Chapter 59
Varrik already set up our tent, and as I slip inside, I wonder idly if this is the same one we shared before. Just like that time, we’re sharing a bedroll again too, though now, I happily press up against him after kicking off my shoes and settling beneath it.
I can barely see him in the dark, but he’s positioned himself so I can use his shoulder as a pillow. One hand rests against my back, and he absently strokes up and down over my tunic.
His eyes are closed, but I know he’s not asleep yet.
“It’s strange to be back in this same tent—in this same forest,” I murmur. “But everything is different.”
“Not everything. You were still grinding up against me the entire ride here.”
My mouth drops. “I did not!”
He cracks his eyes open, and I see the flash of his teeth as he smirks. “No need to be shy. I enjoyed it.”
I pinch his side, but that only makes him chuckle, because it’s actually quite hard to pinch him. His torso is rock solid muscle. Which reminds me that his chest is bare and very distracting as I rest my palm over his abdomen. “You should wear a shirt.”
“Why? Are you being tempted?” His hand reaches down to cup my ass, and heat whooshes through me.
“No,” I lie. “But we’re in the wild. What if a bear comes during the night?”
I can hear his amusement. “A bear?”
“Yes. It could attack, and then you’d have nothing on to protect your chest.”
“I’d lure it away before it could attack me,” he points out. “And I doubt a shirt would do much good anyway, but you’re quite concerned for my chest, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes. It’s a good chest.”
He laughs. Far too loudly.
“Oi!” Frid bellows. “You two latched lovebirds, shut up, would you? The rest of us are trying to sleep.”
I glare at Varrik. “That was your fault.”
“Sure,” he says placatingly, but I can still hear that smile on his stupidly handsome face.
“Do you think Ciona is taking care of my cat?”
“Your cat is fine,” he drawls. “She’s probably pissing on a rug somewhere as we speak.”
“She is not. She’s probably sleeping.”
“Which you should be doing,” he points out before kissing me on my head near my horns. “Now rest.”
Grumbling, I turn onto my side. His arm stays curled around me so his hand is now splayed over my stomach. I shut my eyes, trying to get comfortable, trying to snuff out my racing thoughts.
It doesn’t work.
Maybe I should’ve had more of that horrible drink.
“Blight?”
“Hmm?”
“Can’t sleep?”
A sigh escapes me. “No. I’m too anxious about tomorrow. Too wound up. I can’t quiet my mind, even though I’m tired.” I drag a hand down my face. “I’m sorry. Go to sleep.”
His hand moves lazily over my stomach. Then he rolls onto his back, moving me with him until we’re chest to chest. He seems to really like this position.
I pick up my head, my hands bracing over his pecs. “What are you doing?”
“Shh. Rest your head against me.”
I move, lying down until my cheek is pressed against his skin. His fingers come up and he starts kneading my back.
“Relax,” he admonishes.
I let out a paper-thin breath as he folds his fingers over all the creases and hard edges of my muscles. He massages me, his large, strong hands working into the balled knots, smoothing out the taut lines.
Slowly, I begin to relax, my tight muscles turning into jelly. He starts to hum, low and quiet, just the softest sound from a graveled throat. My eyes close as I fall into it, and it wraps around me, pulling me into the bliss of his stroking touch.
He works methodically. No spot left forgotten, no part of it rushed.
At my neck and scalp, his fingers draw over the tension, rubbing circles over my head and dragging thumbs down my neck until I shiver.
He kneads my shoulders until the muscles liquefy, and then plods down my spine.
He even rubs both arms and hands, gently combing through my fingers and rocking my wrists back and forth.
He stalls at the hem of my tunic. “Can I?”
“Yes,” I whisper, aching for more.
He slips beneath my shirt so we’re skin to skin.
I can feel his exploratory touch over my newly formed scars.
His fingertips stroke over the length of the raised lines as if he’s mapping each one.
Weighing their significance and memorizing their shape.
His movements are so gentle, making bumps roll down my arms.
“So soft,” he murmurs.
“Do you have scars besides the serpill bite?” I ask. I didn’t notice any.
“Plenty. But only on the inside.”
I can tell by the tone of his voice that it’s true. That pieces of his past have nicked into his bones. “Will you tell me now why you wear that pied cloak?”
He pauses, and I think he’s not going to respond until a quiet answer drags out. “It’s a reminder.”
It’s clear he doesn’t want to delve deeper, so I don’t push. I don’t want to undo the tranquility he’s poured over me. He continues to massage, to work out every bit of tension I carry until I’m melted down. Until I’m only warmth, and pleasure, and a flux of breath flowing past my lips.
He continues that peaceful rasp of a hum I can’t name, and it buffs away my anxiety until it’s smoke in the wind. When his movements start to slow, I shift my hips, only to freeze when I feel him against my thigh. It makes my stomach flutter.
“You’re . . .”
His hum idles. “Hard?” His low chuckle travels up my stomach. “I get the privilege of touching you with your soft body tucked right against mine. Of course I’m hard.”
The warmth he kindled sinks down deep, right through my belly to settle between my legs. I can’t deny the thrill it gives me—that it’s me who has such power over his body. That it’s me who’s affected him so much that even touching me like this makes him stiffen.
“Should I . . .?”
“No,” he says. “This is just about giving you comfort.”
My heart feels like it’s grown—soaked in his care like water to a seed.
I rock against him, and he freezes, voice coming out in admonition. “Estinya.”
“Varrik,” I retort through a smile.
“Behave yourself.”
I rock against him again.
“Brat,” he scolds as his hands come to my hips, holding me in place. “I wanted to relax you.”
“You did,” I say, throat bobbing. I feel at ease now, but the warmth he saturated me with has built into an ache. “I just . . . I want . . .”
His fingers knead into the flare of my hip. “What do you want?” he murmurs.
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm. Do you want more of my attention?”
When I nod, he reaches down to clutch my ass, his palms squeezing.
“But we shouldn’t,” I admit. Though even as I whisper those words, I press against him, doing the very thing I denied as I grind into his stiffness.
“Forget should and shouldn’t. Do you want pleasure?”
My throat is caught with a wanton truth that cinches. “Yes.”
“Then you’ll have it.” His rough stubble scrapes over the side of my head. “Can you be quiet?”
Excitement shoots through me, like a bolt of lightning. “Y-yes.”
“Yes, sir.”
My stomach flips at the command. “Yes, sir,” I repeat.
He groans low in the dark. A scatter of coal that leaves its mark all over me. He then shifts us until we’re lying on our sides, both of us facing the wall of the tent. With his arm tucked under the side of my head, he notches my bottom against his hardness.
I don’t breathe as his hand moves to dip down to my waistband.
He loosens the laces at the front of my pants before slipping beneath the fabric to settle between my thighs.
I jolt with the feel of his fingers against me.
He heaves out a breath, and my hands fly to his forearm, not to pull him away, but to brace myself.
“Do you know what I feel?” he asks, so quietly that my quick breaths nearly drown out his question.
“What?”
“I feel your perfect cunt.” His words mash me like mortar and pestle. “You’re throbbing with heat. Weeping out wetness that’s slicking all over my fingers.”
I gasp, high and reedy. “Varrik . . . you shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Remember what I said? Forget should and shouldn’t.” His touch swirls through me, swiping up my moisture. “And what I’m saying is nothing compared to what I’m going to do.”
I’m baited. Ready to plunge right onto his hook. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to play your body and make it sing with the pleasure you need in order to sleep.”
I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from whimpering as he cups my mound.
“I’m going to fuck a finger up into you now.” His quiet murmur is without falter. Solid. Which is good, because I feel like I’m disintegrating.
He does exactly as he said he would. One thick, hot finger slides up into me, and my chest constricts. My head is still lying on his other arm, and he has me pressed so tightly against his groin that I can feel every rigid inch of him, feel our heat building beneath the blanket of the bedroll.
His finger moves, up and in, pulling out before thrusting back. My eyes flutter shut at the rhythm. Wincing at the wet noise coming from me that he starts to strum to life.
“Filthy little fiend,” he purrs against my ear. “Letting me finger fuck you in the tent, where not twenty feet away, the others lie in their bedrolls.”
I shudder with red-hot chills that consume me from calves to collar.
“But you’re going to be quiet, aren’t you? You aren’t going to let anyone but me hear these sounds you make.”
I nod and grip his arm hard, knowing my nails are leaving crescents indented in his skin. I don’t think he even feels it.
He does something then. Moves his finger in a way that strokes against a spot deep inside of me. The sudden pleasure has my whole body quaking, and a moan falls from my lips. I can’t stop it.
In an instant, his other hand covers my still-parted mouth to muffle my moan. “Far too loud. Now I’m going to have to keep my hand on your mouth, aren’t I?”
I throb at his possessive tone, quaking as I helplessly nod just to make him keep going. His arm beneath me moves, and I’m rolled, my spine to his chest as he lies flat on his back.
He thrusts his finger again before curling against the spot that makes me shake.
Then he adds another finger.
My eyes rip wide open with the stretch. The pleasure expands, my body taking him in as fast as his fingers demand.
“Can you hear how wet you are?”
Fates, I can. It’s erotic.
Profane.
So wanton that I’m filled with decadent bliss.
His dark words slip in and strap me in place. “If you keep gushing, the others will be able to scent you.”
I go rigid. Eyes staring at the tent, the outside world a sudden risk. A dark danger.
But I must be twisted, because instead of wanting to scramble away, to stop this, I start grinding against him with a pitching whine. A sound that is nothing like me and yet is the most base, primal part of who I am.
“Please . . .” I beg, the word muffled against his palm.
He makes me wait.
I bite him. Lick him. Grind harder. Pleading with him by using my body in every way that I can, while he’s holding me so tightly it’s like I’m bound with rope.
A needy tear collects against my lashes and then falls to the crease of his hand that still covers my mouth.
“You need to come?” he rumbles against my ear, and I could weep with relief, but all I do is nod again. “Then make sure to swallow your sounds. They’re only for me.”
When I don’t answer, he takes hold of my throat and squeezes. A light tease of dominance that fires every single sense within me until I’m searing. “Are you with me?”
My whisper melts off my lips. “Yes, sir.”
A pleased sound leaves his throat, and in the next instant, his tongue drags up the side of my slightly curved horn, making a rush of pleasure tingle from the blunted tip all the way down to my core.
And then his thumb presses right over my intimate spot—the spot where every nerve ending seems to be trussed up and bound, waiting for him to unleash me.
His fingers thrust in, curling, again and again, while his thumb grinds down on the bundle.
My pleasure knots up in strings of him and me—strings that I know, right then, will never untangle.
My mouth opens, and his other hand is there to catch the sound.
He crowds and curls, playing my body with the same skill as his music, all the way up to a crescendo.
And I peak.
My rapture spills out against his palm. With whimpering shudders, lips parted to the taste of his skin, I pour, all while he muffles my pleasure. Keeps it and holds it, just for us.
When I slump, satisfied and panting, he swipes away my wetness and fixes my clothes. Shifts my pliant body until we’re both settled and comfortable. He’s still hard, but he doesn’t ask anything of me. He seems to be sated simply by sating me, and I revel in it.
Soon, I fall asleep with his protective arm wrapped around my body and the echo of his hum lingering in my mind. I fall asleep with his presence pillowing the harshness of the world and giving me a soft place to land.
I fall asleep knowing I’ve never been closer to home.