Rthan
As evening fell, Rthan poked at the mat on the floor across the hut from Brena's softer, warmer bed.
He liked the smell of her cozy home. Rosemary, sage, cinnamon, and a dozen other herbs filled the smoky air. Jars, baskets, and charms lined her walls.
"Rthan," she said softly, right behind him.
He nearly jumped. Her breath was warm on his back.
"I missed one of your wounds," she said.
She touched his arm gently.
He looked. It was just a scratch. Not a deep, bloody wound that he could show off with a joke—but a real, thin scratch. Like the work of an angry kitten.
She moved to her shelves and began fussing with her jars again.
He lost patience.
He took the jars from her hands.
"Woman!" he barked. "Enough! A healthy man cannot have your hands all over him like that without reacting."
"Give me back my ointment!" she said.
She reached around his chest, trying to grab the jars.
Instead of giving them back, Rthan picked her up.
She squealed and kicked, but he carried her all the way to her bed and dropped her into the pile of soft otter furs.
She kept struggling.
He pinned her wrists over her head.
She gasped.
He looked down.
She was lying beneath him, dressed only for sleep, her body full and warm. The firelight from the hearth made her skin glow like melted caramel.
They both knew he was stronger. He could overpower her anytime. But knowing it and feeling it—having her under him like this—was different.
Her golden eyes held a question.
He let go of her wrists, suddenly.
"It's late. It's cold. Pull up your blankets and go to bed."
He had almost reached his own mat when she spoke again.
Her voice was low and rich.
"The blanket is not as warm as you. I'm still cold."
He took a step toward his mat.
"Colder," she said.
Another step away.
"Colder," she said again.
He turned back.
She hadn't pulled up the blankets. She had loosened the leather wrap that usually held her breasts tight to her chest.
He stepped toward her.
"Warmer," she said. "But not warm enough."
He came to the bed.
"Warmer," she whispered.
He lowered himself over her. Her breasts fit perfectly into his hands. He stroked her nipples with his thumbs.
She sighed into his kiss.
"Is this what you wanted?" he asked.
He reached for one of her jars, opened it, and dipped two fingers into the smooth lotion.
"That's an herbal salve," she said, trying to take it from him. "It's for healing skin. Not for play!"
"But I want to play."
He caught her hands again and pinned them gently above her head.
"And I'm tired of you being the only one allowed to rub on lotion."
Brena
Brena tried to sit up. She wanted to take control again. But Rthan held her down—and her body listened to him more than to the voice in her mind warning this was dangerous.
Then Rthan began to rub oil into her skin.
All her resistance melted away.
Slowly and with great skill, he moved his hands over her—down her neck, down her arms, up her calves, up her legs.
He touched her breasts. His fingers circled her nipples.
Wherever he touched, heat followed. Her skin tingled with fire.
Then she felt him part her thighs.
She knew what he meant to do.
Suddenly, her pleasure turned to shyness. She tried to push him away.
It was foolish. She had been with a man before. She had given birth to two daughters.
But with Rthan, she felt like an Initiate again. She was embarrassed by how much she wanted him. Afraid of what he might think of her.
He did not let her go.
His grip was strong, but gentle.
He opened her legs again. Slowly, carefully, he rubbed the oil into her most private places.
Then he lowered his mouth and licked the skin he had just touched.
Soon her own desire made her wet.
His tongue moved faster.
She gasped and shook, overcome with another wave of deep, glowing warmth.
Then he moved over her.
His body covered hers, all muscle and heat.
His weight felt good.
He slid inside her, stretching her slowly, fully.
Another rush of pleasure burst through her. Sharp and sweet.
He moved inside her like an oar plunging into strong river water.
As he neared his peak, he lowered his head and pressed his face into her neck, her hair.
She felt him tense.
He cried out as he released.
Then he collapsed beside her.
For a long moment, they shared that dazed, dreamy happiness that only lovers know after love-making.
He kissed her again and again—her face, her hair.
"Brena," he whispered, like the name itself was something he could hold.
His smile changed. It grew deeper. More real.
She felt a twist inside her.
Had she let him become her husband in truth? Even though his heart still belonged to her enemies?
Did he feel more for her than desire?
Did she feel more for him?
The questions were too hard.
She pushed them aside. They could wait for daylight. For clearer thoughts.
She placed her finger on his lips.
"I'm warm now," she said softly. "Sleep beside me."