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“You,” Nynaeve said, “are going to believe you are worthy of every happiness in the world, Lan Mandragoran, if I have to beat it into you. Now get over here and take this dress off me.”
Lan's smile deepened, and he raised a brow. “A command, wife? In private?” And he actually turned his back to her, shrugging out of his coat and walking over to hang it on the dressing stand in the corner.
Nynaeve gaped, realized she was gaping, shut her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands balled into fists. Light, this was going to take some getting used to, particularly if the bloody man was going to be so bloody literal about it, honestly. Didn't he want to undress her?
“A suggestion,” she said, in a voice that wasn't too strangled, her eyes still closed, breathing with deliberate evenness. She could hear garments rustling, fastenings clinking.
“Hrmm.”
Her eyes and her mouth popped open, ready to let him know just what she thought of -
He was bare to the waist.
What she thought of – what had she been thinking of? He was walking toward her, and Light, he was so – so very -
“A good suggestion,” he leaned down to rumble in her ear as he moved around behind her. A warm hand caressed the curve where her shoulder met her neck, swept her braid to the side, and placed a whisper of a kiss just below her ear. “Wife.” His breath was hot on her neck for just a moment, before she felt his fingers move to her buttons.
Nynaeve drew in a shuddering breath; she felt a little light-headed. There were a great many buttons up the back of her dress. The snug fit of the Ebou Dari cut required one every inch, and she was keenly aware of each inch of skin bared.
Every inch of her skin would be bare soon.
Why did that suddenly feel so bizarre? For Light's sake she'd spent enough time imagining it. Every feverish private moment she'd managed to find in the chaos of the past year had been devoted to pretending her fingers were his. And yet, the thought of Lan seeing her with her legs eagerly spread had something very like panic rising in her throat.
She knew better; no husband in the world had ever been disappointed in a lustful wife. There was no reason for the whole business to feel so humiliating and impossible now that it was real. He would not laugh, would not smirk as if he'd known all along what sort of woman she really was – what she really was was a perfectly decent woman who desired her husband, as was entirely right and proper.
His fingers paused on her buttons. “You're trembling, my love.”
“Yes, well.” There were more words to that thought, she was reasonably sure, but they were all swirling about in her chest like leaves in a whirlwind. She crossed her arms and clung to her elbows and did not clutch her braid.
Lan was still for a palpably thoughtful moment, then abandoned the remainder of her buttons to slide her dress as far off her shoulders as it would go still half-fastened. He put his hands on her shoulders, large and warm and calloused – just rested them there, and yet her whole body gave a twitching sort of shudder. A giggle escaped her before she could bite her tongue. Light, what was wrong with her?
“This is alright?” Lan asked, moving his hands in slow, soothing strokes, his palms cupping her shoulders, the heels of his hands kneading the muscles of her upper back.
If she opened her mouth she had no idea what was going to come out, but she was reasonably sure it would be something ridiculous and mortifying. She nodded shakily.
“Good,” he said; his hands moved a little further down her back, his thumbs pressing in little rolling circles to either side of her spine. It felt wonderful, and at the same time made her feel a bit like she might be sick at the strange intensity of it, like her body didn't know how to contain this feeling.
His hands had reached a point down her back where her dress was in the way again, and he undid two more buttons before giving the same careful attention to those next few inches of skin.
Light, he was treating her like a nervous horse, letting her get used to being touched. A small part of her wanted to snap at him that he wasn't so clever, she did realize what he was doing, but she bit the words back. She felt like a nervous horse.
A horse that had never been ridden?
If she burst out laughing – or crying, she really wasn't sure which it would be - she would throw herself out the window, she really would.
Pop pop pop, went three more buttons. His thumbs stroked along the inward dip of her spine, then out along the waistband of her petticoats, which felt quite nice, but also made her jump like – blood and ashes she was not a bloody horse!
One hand rose and traced down her spine, the full length of her back. “Graceful as the frond of a fern,” Lan murmured, before settling both hands on her hips, inside her half-shed dress.
Really, the man said the most absurd things. Men didn't say thing like that. Not and mean them. If she started crying -
'There are buttons at your wrists, my love.”
And she had her arms wrapped around herself with her hands stuffed into her elbows, blood and bloody ashes. Nynaeve jerked her arms apart and began fumbling at a button, giving an inarticulate growl when it slipped from her fingers and would not come loose of its fastening.
“Shh, love,” Lan said, his arms reaching around her and catching one hand in both of his. His front was pressed to her back, bare skin to bare skin, the slight coarseness of the hair that trailed from his chest down his belly tickling at her shoulder blades.
Of course he couldn't just undo the bloody buttons, he had to massage her hands too. It felt nice, surprisingly nice, she'd had no idea the palms of her hands were so sensitive, but did he have to be so good at this? Not that she wanted him to be bad at it, or had ever thought he would be, it was just that -
“I want to please you,” she blurted out.
“This pleases me,” he said, moving on to the next hand. “Holding you. Undoing your buttons. Knowing you are my wife. I've dreamed of unbraiding your hair.”
“No,” she said, frustrated, and twisted around in his arms. The button he'd been in the middle of undoing popped free of her sleeve and went bouncing across the floor with a series of little musical pings. She darted a glance down before meeting his eyes. The fit of his trousers looked roughly as it usually did, not that she'd spent much time looking, but, well. He didn't seem to be prepared to enjoy his bride, was the point, and no wonder.
“I mean, yes, of course you can - what I mean is – I am not a skittish horse, Lan Mandragoran.”
She couldn't even jump out the window now, with her dress half off.
“I had not mistaken you for one,” he said, with the faintest suggestion of a smile as he drew her in against him, hands at the small of her back. “I would not dream of implying that you might be anxious in anything.”
She glared at him; not one line of his face changed.
Oh Light, there was still such bleakness in his eyes – there was a hint of humor, and of heat, too, but it was such a fragile flame.
“I'm – sorry,” she began haltingly, lowering her gaze to his chest. “I don't know why I'm -”
“Nynaeve -”
“I'm not afraid,” she insisted. “I know you won't hurt me.”
“I'm glad,” Lan said,“But with no comparison to untrained horses implied, Nynaeve, I know this is new and strange to you, there's no fault in that.”
“I'm not so innocent,” she grumbled. “I've been a healer of one kind or another since I was seventeen, I'm not going to faint at the sight of you.”
“That is reassuring,” he said, in a very level tone.
“Oh blood and ashes, this is absurd,” she said, pulled back from his embrace, and began hauling her dress off over her head. He helped her, of course – of course he did.
It wasn't possible to wear an ordinary shift beneath an Ebou Dari dress, at least not comfortably, no matter how thin it was. The bodice had a stiff lining that served the same purpose, so far as modesty went, at least while one had the dress on.
With the dress off, it meant she was left wearing nothing but a froth of lacy petticoats, bare to the waist save for the thin chain around her neck with his ring on it.
Lan was standing there holding her dress in a haphazard bunch that was sure to leave creases, his eyes drinking her in. Nynaeve hadn't thought it would be possible flush any more than she already was, but she could feel new heat rushing up the back of her neck.
“Here,” she said, and took the dress from him. “I'll just -” She turned, clutching hopelessly crumpled silk, and went to lay it over her travel chest. She made a half-hearted attempt to smooth it out, then gave a long and shaky exhale, and addressed herself to the ties at the sides of her petticoats. These, she could get in and out of herself, and of course she needed no assistance with her smallclothes, or her stockings. There; all neatly laid out for tomorrow. She'd hardly worn the things; dinner had been blessedly brief.
It wasn't so hard to turn back around – not really. Not compared to, say, dueling one of the Forsaken.
Lan had done the same as she, and sat entirely bare on the edge of the bed, the covers thrown back. If there was still a shadow of bleakness in his eyes, it was overwhelmed by what else she could see there – tenderness and heat.
As for other parts of him, that was looking – perky? A bit? Somewhat more interested in the proceedings?
A hint of wry amusement entered Lan's expression – well, if he didn't want her to stare he shouldn't sit with his knees apart like that! He held out a hand; Nynaeve went to him in what started as a dignified walk and ended in a giddy, queasy rush the last few steps. There was something reassuring, something natural and right, in the way his palms fit the swell of her hips as he drew her in between his knees and kissed her.
She could feel the brush of his . . . her mind stuttered, supplying an assortment of dry terminology, the sort a healer learns. Phallus, male organ, the reproductive member.
Prick. Cock. Words to get a young girl's mouth washed out with soap.
It seemed too substantial to be called a prick, a word she associated with sewing needles and sore fingers.
Staff? A word for exasperated, blushing matrons come to the Wisdom because their husband was too embarrassed to ask himself. It would be different if she were older, they'd always said – well, or married – not meaning any disrespect, you understand, Wisdom, just the opposite really.
What under the Light did it matter what she called it?
It was very hot, just nudging at her belly. Did that feel good, for him, just that?
Their eyes were level, like this, and her hands seemed to find his shoulders of their own accord, to twine about his neck, fingers playing with the ends of his hair as much out of an inability to be still as for any deliberate intent to show affection.
“I won't tease if you don't like it,” Lan said. “All I want is to give you pleasure.”
“Well that makes us a fine pair,” Nynaeve grumbled. “One of us had better want something a bit more specific.”
“Oh, I want things,” Lan said, his voice a rueful rumble. He leaned in until their foreheads touched, eyes still open. “Many very specific things.”
She gave an amused huff of a laugh. “Me too,” she confessed.
“What would put you at ease?”
“I don't know,” Nynaeve grumbled. She was exasperated with herself; how tedious must this be for him? Lowering her eyes let her avoid the intensity of his scrutiny, but the view downward left her once again staring at his – manhood?
She'd read novels that called it that, though she'd chop off her braid before she'd admit to reading that sort of book. It had always seemed a bit absurd to her, as if all that made a man a man was what was between his legs. It made him male, of course, but a man, one to be desired, was a great deal more than that.
Lan was every bit of everything a man ought to be, to her mind, and she was making his bloody manhood look a little deflated again. Her eyes snapped back to his face; his eyes were full of tenderness and determination, but she could see the cold beneath that, trying to overwhelm it.
Nynaeve squeezed her eyes shut. She would not cry, burn it, the very last thing any man wanted in his bed was a weeping woman.
“I love you, Wisdom,” Lan said, low and earnest. “I love you, and I've wanted you since you tracked me to Baerlon and announced it to the room like it was nothing. Light, woman, you had a glare like a hawk, daring me to doubt you. You expected it; you were used to suffering fools who doubted you. I wanted to take you right there on that table, show you I was no fool, I saw your worth.”
Heat washed through her; oh Light, she had wanted him too. Not there on the table – Light! - but in some hidden storeroom, perhaps, or the stables – she knew what young people got up to in haylofts. She'd shocked herself, wanting to be tupped in a hayloft like some shameless fool of a Coplin. There'd hardly been a Coplin wedding she could recall where the bride hadn't been looking a little plump around the middle. She was the Wisdom, for Light's sake, how could she even think of doing such a thing?
She would never have done it, not really, but the thought had planted itself in her mind and would not be uprooted.
And now he was her husband and she had every right to demand tupping dusk and dawn every day of their lives, and she didn't know how to let it happen.
“You are doing nothing wrong,” Lan said, voice brimming with frustration and an edge of bleakness that made her heart ache. “I am . . not whole, Nynaeve.”
Her eyes snapped open, and she frowned – what was he talking about? Not whole? If he was about to start babbling that nonsense about being unworthy of her, even now, when he'd married her -
“It's the broken bond; it dulls everything. I am still able, or I'd not have wed you, I would not be so selfish as that, but it takes . . more. If it were not for that – Light, if you knew all the times just the thought of you had me -” he broke off with a huff of a rueful laugh. “You'd have boxed my ears until my head rang, if you'd known, and now I can finally have you I make you doubt that I want you at all.”
There was nearly an echo of her own thoughts in that, and it took her a moment to decipher the rest.
“I wouldn't have,”she finally said – lied, really, because she most certainly would have, but that wasn't the point just now. “Boxed your ears, I mean. I would – I would have had no right.” She thought her face might well catch fire, admitting that even so obliquely, but it seemed only fair.
“Oh?” Nynaeve stiffened at the amusement in his voice, and his expression gentled instantly. He drew her in for another kiss, slow and tender, his arms encircling her in a way that felt almost protective. “Good,” he said, when their lips parted. “I'm glad.”
Now what under the light was she to say to that? But it felt very nice to be wrapped up in his arms with his knees to either side of her, entirely enveloped by him. It felt safe.
“I told you once before,” Lan said. “I will never shame you.”
She had nothing to answer that either, beyond a tremulous smile, but it filled her with a warmth that felt liquid and glowing and overwhelming, and she had to kiss him again before it turned into tears.
Was he stirring, a bit, that part of him that was pressed between their bodies? Did it . . twitch? Was that good?
Nynaeve drew back from the kiss and took a steadying, determined breath. “You said – more?”
His smile widened, though it remained tender, not a hint of mocking. Light, she'd always hated being treated like she was weak or fragile, and some part of her felt like she should hate how careful he was being of her – but another part of her felt in real danger of shattering, and desperately grateful for his care of her.
Just this once, she told herself. He won't think less of me. He promised. She could trust him, she knew that.
“Here,” he said, drawing himself up fully onto the bed, and holding out a hand to help her up after him. She followed feeling all gangly limbs; there was simply no elegant way to climb into a bed this tall for a woman of her height.
From the way Lan was watching her, he didn't seem to mind. Well. That was alright, then, she supposed.
He grabbed the pillows and made a hasty mound of them against the headboard, then sank back against it. Nynaeve would have laid down next to him, but he urged her over him.
“Like this,” he said, hands at her hips. “Astride. Just like this, for now,” he said when she would have settled into his lap, and guided her to sit straddling his thighs instead. Her knees were to either side of his hips, and he arranged her legs so that her feet were tucked under the pillows at his back. Her hands settled on her own thighs, too uncertain for anything else.
She was spread wide open and his – his staff, that was the word that seemed easiest to think, and she could be prim in her own bloody head if she bloody well wanted to be.
His staff was right there, inches from her quim, bobbing interestedly in its direction.
It was a little bit ridiculous looking, really.
“Light, you're a vision,” Lan murmured, and Nynaeve flushed in embarrassed guilt at the contrast to her own thoughts. He was beautiful, of course, but, well, a half-stiffened phallus was a silly-looking thing, even his.
His hands stroked up her sides to her breasts, and she forgot about feeling anything but his hands molding themselves around her, large and hot and callused. She watched his thumb circle her nipple, so gently, almost reverently. Where untouched by the sun, her skin was darker than his, but his hands were weathered and brown, and her breasts – well, all but the inward slope of them, were her gowns really that low? Surely not – were pale, like milky tea. There was something enthralling in the contrast of how very rough, how very male his hands looked against this soft and feminine part of her, and how tenderly those hard hands touched her.
It wasn't quite a shudder, that passed through her – something warmer, sweeter, that made the muscles of her stomach jump and those between her legs tighten, heat blooming there and running up her spine to the back of her neck. Light, he must have been able to feel that, with his legs between hers.
Lan leaned down to kiss her, still cradling her breasts. The combined sensation was dizzying, making her lips clumsy; she heard herself make a little gasping, whimpering sort of noise, felt her hips rock of their own volition. It was just so much; he hadn't even touched her between her legs yet and she already felt wound tighter than fantasies and her own fingers could get her after – well. Longer.
He leaned back, and Nynaeve realized she'd gripped his forearms; her nails were biting into his skin. She hastily loosened her grip, but Lan caught one of her hands and turned it so that he could kiss her palm with all the same tender intensity he'd shown her lips, only while kissing her hand he could meet her eyes.
It took everything she had not to look away, and at the same time she didn't think she could have had her life depended on it. Another shiver took her, and his lips curved against her palm.
She was going to shatter just from him looking at her like that, and also faint, and maybe throw up. Her heart was pounding in her ears and in her quim and oh Light, it was not fair that she should have to break through her block and figure this out all in one day. Just how much surrendering could the Wheel expect of her?
Of course, if he stopped she was going to die.
Lan released her hand and reached out to draw her braid over her shoulder. There was definitely reverence in his eyes to match the heat now.
“This braid,” he said, wrapping the end of it around one finger, his thumb tracing over the smooth twists of it, “has haunted my dreams.”
His fingers were blunt and heavy-knuckled, but very dexterous as he undid the silken cord at the end, then began to coax the strands apart. Her hair was still faintly damp from her earlier bath, and braiding it that way had put a kink in it; overwrought as she was, for a moment that seemed the most awful thing in the world. Properly brushed and dried it would be smooth and gleaming. She was proud of her hair, why did it have to be disappointing tonight?
Lan didn't look disappointed. At all. Breathe, she told herself.
When he had it entirely undone, he spread her hair out in a fan over her shoulders and down her back. It parted around the peaks of her breasts, and the ends hung past her hips to just brush his thighs.
“Oh Light, Nynaeve,” Lan breathed.
Then his eyes flickered downward, just briefly, but the rapturous look dimmed and frustration and bleakness crept back in.
The part concerning him looked . . . fuller, to her. Not quite stiff, but flushed and swollen. It looked like it must ache. The sight of it made her keenly aware of parts of her that were feeling tender and needy, but she could gather that it wasn't in quite the state it needed to be, and also that he'd thought seeing her with her hair down would do the trick.
Lan opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Nynaeve wrapped her hand around him.
Whatever he had been about to say turned into a startled grunt. He went very still, save for the part in her hand; that gave a throbbing twitch that she found very satisfying.
She moved her hand tentatively, while he stared at her all agog, then down at her hand on him – that made his hips jerk up into her touch, just one convulsive thrust, and then he was still again, and tense as a coiled spring.
“You can move; you don't frighten me,” Nynaeve said, in what was meant to be a reassuring tone – her voice wobbled, burn it. He didn't; what she felt did. That wasn't his fault and shouldn't be his concern, but his eyes flashed back up to her face, concerned – still more than a bit stunned, though, too.
She could feel his pulse picking up, feel him swelling in her hand, and Light, that was heady. “Is this what you need?” There, her voice was steadier.
His eyes squeezed shut and his head fell back with a strangled groan – just for a moment, before his eyes snapped open and he raised his head enough to watch her hand on him, like he didn't want to miss seeing a moment.
“Yes,” he rasped. “Light yes.” He swallowed convulsively. His voice became a barely articulate rumble. “Light, that's good.”
Was there a note of surprise in his voice? Well, he did know she'd never done this before; no reason to feel hurt if there was.
Still, she began to pay close attention to which motions seemed to bring those involuntary twitches and shudders, what made him jump in her hand. Were there parts of it that felt better than others? She varied her grip, then screwed up her courage and brought her other hand into it, stroking curiously with her fingertips.
The first choked groan that earned her was not, it turned out, because she'd found a particularly sensitive spot, but just for the fact of what she was doing. She found other places, though, that rewarded particular attention.
She was so focused on him that it startled her to feel his hand on her thigh.
“Don't stop,” Lan rasped, when her hands paused as he sat up straighter, the better to reach her. “Blood and ashes, don't stop.”
She tried not to, as his hands stroked up her thighs, thumbs finding the inner crease of them. Then one thumb stroked down the seam of her quim.
Nynaeve bit off a cry, and her hips jerked, and she may have tightened her grasp on his staff more than she intended.
He grunted; her hands sprang away from him. Then, remembering he didn't want her to stop, she hurried to take hold of him again, gently, petting as if to sooth him. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -”
“I'm not complaining,” he said.
Oh. Well then – she tried to take up again where she'd left off, but his thumb parted her and it was hard to remember even to breath. He sought her entrance and pressed there, not quite inside, circling. It wasn't where she wanted his touch the most, but it was good enough to still her hands, every fiber of her focused on the sweetness of that sensation.
The shock of it eased, and she tried to attend to pleasing him in turn, but her hands shook. Then his thumb slid up to press and rock against the nub at the peak of her, and she froze again, unable to do anything but feel.
Her hands. Lan. She was supposed to be -
His hand, the one not occupied with pleasuring her, found hers and pulled them gently away from his shaft.
“I'm -”
“Hush,” he said, cutting off her apology. He leaned in close, kissing her neck, his thumb moving back to her opening. She could have wailed for the loss of the sharper sensation, but this touch was waking a different craving. “You have been so patient,” he said, voice low and warm. “So steadfast.”
That word pricked at her – be steadfast – but then his thumb pressed a little ways inside her, and the jolt of remembrance washed away in sensation. All she could manage in reply was a wordless whimpering; she hoped it sounded appreciative.
“I've made you wait untended long enough, my love. Forget me for now. This is long past due.”
She thought she ought to argue with that, but his thumb curled, pressed, rubbed, stretching her just to the point where it started to faintly burn before letting up and stroking in soothing circles again. She squeezed her eyes shut, clung to his shoulders and buried her face in his neck. His free hand stroked her back; his thumb stoked back up to where she was neediest. She could feel herself begin to tighten, to spiral upward.
Nynaeve had the vague idea that this wasn't how this was supposed to go; she was meant to reach her peak with him inside her, their marriage consummated, their bodies made one flesh.
But his touch was firm and implacable and oh Light it felt so good. She was pressing into it in urgent little nudges of her hips, unable to help herself.
“That's right, my love, just like that. You've needed this. You deserve this.”
Had she? Did she? Oh Light so good – her toes were curling, her legs tightening spasmodically around his hips, her fingers clenching on his shoulders. So – good -
She whined against his throat, then gasped, her whole body jerking and shuddering in a pleasure so sharp and sweet it was almost unbearable.
His touch slowed and gentled but didn't stop, and the soft but insistent attention wouldn't let her body settle. The rhythmic clenching of release faded to flutters, but the spark of need caught all over again in her, more desperate than ever.
And that was good, wasn't it? They weren't done, so it was good.
His thumb withdrew from her, and Nynaeve whimpered, hips curling up, chasing after the sensation that was, at once, driving her mad and all that was keeping her sane.
“Shh, I have you, love,” Lan murmured, and fingers replaced thumb. She'd slid forward almost into his lap, and he'd spread his legs a little, spreading hers wider in turn. She could feel his shaft against her inner thigh, hard and hot, now. His fingers pressed inside her, just shallowly, then retreated. Then again, deeper this time, moving in small circles, stretching her. Readying her, she realized, and was surprised and a little alarmed that it was a bit uncomfortable when he pressed deeper still, his knuckles just inside her where she felt tightest.
Nynaeve blinked her eyes open and leaned back a little, wanting to see. She'd never really worried about pain; if a woman's body could stretch to birth a babe, it stood to reason that the deed necessary to conceiving one should cause no great difficulty.
The discomfort was fading as he continued with the same deliberate care; it would be well, even if his staff at full readiness did look a good bit more substantial than two fingers. “How does that feel?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said. His fingers stilled. “Nice,” she amended hurriedly. “It feels nice.” That wasn't a lie – if she ignored the warning twinges that teetered on the edge of pain, it did feel good. In a way. She could feel the potential for pleasure in it, anyway; her body didn't seem to know what to feel.
Nynaeve deliberately relaxed her grip on his shoulders – Light, her nails were digging into his skin – running them up his neck to tangle in his hair. She raised her head, thinking to draw him into a kiss, but the intensity with which he met her eyes stopped her. Lan studied her expression as carefully as she had ever seen him scrutinize a place for dangers.
“You're not hurting me,” she assured him. He wasn't, really; she just had to get used to it. It would be fine. “It feels . . . well, frustrating, actually.” She squirmed, trying to angle her hips so that the heel of his hand would press where she felt neediest.
His staff twitched against her thigh, but the rest of him seemed to relax, at that. His lips curved into a small smile. “Good,” he said, curling his hand to give her a bit of the pressure she wanted.
“Frustrating is good?” she huffed, wriggling; Light, where had her shame gone? Well, good riddance to it anyway.
“Oh yes,” Lan said, his hand and his hips both rocking in answer to her movements, but languorously now. He was rubbing himself against her thigh, she realized; it was deliberate and indulgent and shameless did not begin to describe it. And with his fingers inside her, he couldn't possibly miss the way the sight and feel of him seeking his own pleasure made her clench.
“Frustrating is perfect,” he said, his voice deep and full of heat. He withdrew his fingers and grasped her hips with both hands, drawing her in flush against him. The underside of his staff pressed into the seam her quim, the tip sticking up between their stomachs. He arched and rolled his hips, rubbing his full length against her. “When there is better to come.”
“Oh. Yes. That – yes.” His shaft stroked right where she'd been craving, but she ached where his fingers had been. “Yes we should.”
Light, she sounded like she'd been hit in the head. He was still making sense; why was he still able to string words together? It wasn't fair.
“If you're ready, my love” Lan said, voice going so very gentle. He tucked her hair behind her ear, stroked her cheek. It was all at odds with the urgent throb of him between her legs; the contrast made her throat tight with emotion. He loved her; oh, she knew that, of course she did, but even so. She loved him back so desperately.
Nynaeve nodded shakily, afraid of babbling nonsense if she tried to speak.
He kissed her, soft and sweet and almost chaste, if that weren't such a ridiculous thought in the circumstances. “Up on your knees, then.”
That took a moment of awkward rearranging, holding onto his shoulders for leverage while his hands stroked up and down her sides, a thumb just grazing the side of her breast now and then, as if he couldn't help himself. Then she was kneeling astride his hips and his staff was right there – definitely not a prick – and she was trying to sink down onto it. Only, that wasn't quite as easy as she would have thought.
He took himself in hand, adjusting the angle and urging her forward with the other hand on her hip. She tried again, lowering herself on trembling legs, but she took him less than an inch inside and then – couldn't. It was not that it hurt; it was just as if her body didn't know how to open any further than that. She shoved; that did hurt, and she flinched.
Lan caught her with both hands on her hips, stopping her from just pressing on regardless. Well, some women did have pain the first time, some women bled, and if she was one she was unlikely to die of it.
“Slowly,” he said.
“This must be maddening for you,” Nynaeve said, moving her hips as much as his grip would let her, trying to adjust whatever needed adjusting to make this work. “To be halfway like this.” A good bit less than half, really.
“Perfectly,” he agreed. Nynaeve huffed. “You will not cause yourself pain for my sake,” he insisted, in a tone that brooked no argument. “I will not hurt you.”
“I have delivered babies, Lan Mandragoran, I am aware of what it takes to damage a woman,” Nynaeve snapped. “You may be impressive but you are not the size of an infant's skull.”
There was a beat of silence in which Nynaeve wondered if it was too late to throw herself out the window.
Then Lan threw his head back laughing. His whole body shook with it, and she found herself breaking out into hysterical giggles along with him. Something in her body eased, internal muscles of which she hadn't really been aware relaxing with the the absurdity.
“Oh Light, Nynaeve, I do love you,” he said, still grinning and chuckling, his grasp on her hips loosening. Before he could regain his grip she tried again to sink down, and this time she opened to him, her body almost drawing him into her in a way that felt, at once, unfathomably strange and as natural as breathing.
The humor washed out of his face in a very satisfying manner.
“I love you,” she answered shakily.
He let his head fall forward until his forehead touched hers, and moaned. That sound tightened things inside her, clenching around him, and his moan turned strangled. He wasn't quite fully inside her, but Nynaeve tried rising up a little before lowering herself further.
Choked moan turned to gasp; she did it again, and his hips snapped up to meet her, sending him deeper than she'd intended. The intensity of it startled a yelp out of her. His eyes flew open and he drew back enough to see her face.
“Just startled,” she hurried to assure him, her voice breathy and strained. “It's -” She had to swallow and lick her lips. It was what? Words didn't seem to want to cooperate.
“You feel -” Lan paused to draw in a deep, unsteady breath. He thrust up again, but it was a careful, deliberate movement this time, and she tried to move with him. There was a look of amazement on his face. “So good. Light, so good.”
“Good,” Nynaeve said, flushing at the praise. Her movements felt clumsy and awkward to her, but she must be doing something right to put that look on his face. For her part, this wasn't giving her the sort of sharp, immediate pleasure she was used to, but it was enthralling none the less. There was a feeling of potential to it, something elusive and vast. And the way Lan was looking at her, that awed disbelief -
She wasn't sure she understood that, actually, thrilling as it was. This wasn't so new to him, however much she disliked thinking of that fact, and she couldn't imagine that these first fumbling efforts of hers were the best he'd ever had. She'd very much like to believe that, but she didn't.
Maybe it was just that he'd never thought he'd have her? She liked that idea much better than thinking he'd expected even less of her than she was managing.
Some of that must have showed on her face, because the stunned look on his faded, shifting into a determined focus. He reached up and brushed her hair out of her face, then cradled her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek. “After the Blight -,” he began, then stopped, closing his eyes briefly and drawing in a deep breath, as if he needed to steady himself.
The Blight? What? She did not want to be reminded of him turning her away right now.
“Coming out of the Blight,” he went on, eyes opening and locking on hers, willing her to understand. “Into the clean air. The Blight is on your clothes, in your hair, it's soaked into your skin. You reek with it.”
Not that one particular time in the Blight, then. She still had no idea why he was talking about the Blight now, describing things that were the precise opposite of arousing, and her thighs were beginning to shake in earnest with the unfamiliar effort. But there was such need in his face.
“You don't want to breathe, in there,” he told her. Each thrust of his hips felt full of intent, still slow and careful but pushing as deep inside her as he could go, as if he wanted to press what he was feeling into her body with his. “For days, weeks – you haven't wanted to breathe. Coming out, there's no sharp border, no line you cross. But gradually, the stench fades, and the air cools, and eventually you dare a deep breath. That first deep, clean breath – it sings in your blood.”
Oh. Oh.
“You are that breath, heart of my heart. I can feel you in my blood like air. I can feel you.”
“I love you,” she said again, a bit desperately – Light, she had no flowery analogies, she was no good with words, but she did love him like breathing, she did.
Her attempts to keep moving were becoming wobbly; if she kept at this she wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow, but blood and ashes she did not care. She could be pulled through the Rahad in a cart for all she cared; nothing mattered but that she could give him that. She could be his air.
“Wait, love.” A hand on her bottom urged her to stillness, and she paused, panting, to give him a questioning look. “Wrap your legs around me,” he said. “Hold on.”
She felt his legs changing position under her and then he was up on his knees, still inside her, and she was clinging with legs around his waist and arms around his shoulders and feeling no little bit like a hat hung on a peg. A bit more warning would not have gone amiss! But he only stayed like that a moment, leaning forward on one arm while the other wrapped around her, lowering her to the mattress on her back.
Nynaeve was half sideways on the bed now, her head toward the foot of it, her hair a disorderly cloud around her head and beneath her back. She had to crane her neck to look him in the face, and his hips pinned her to the mattress. That did feel . . interesting. But even so!
Lan grinned at her expression, and leaned down for a quick, hard kiss. “Trust me,” he said, and rocked his hips, moving in her without lifting his weight from her at all.
That intriguing feeling of pressure bloomed into a throb of pleasure that felt like a revelation. This was what she'd been craving, what the sense of potential she'd felt earlier had promised. Like this he moved against every needy part of her, inside and out, all at once, and oh Light.
“Good?” Lan asked, repeating the motion. His voice was a satisfied rumble that said he knew very well that it was, but she could hardly bring herself to mind, nodding frantically. He could look just as smug as he wanted, provided he didn't stop. He gave a pleased hum, smiling down at her, and started to move faster.
It actually got better. She wouldn't have thought that was possible. Her legs strained and trembled, her toes curled, her heels dug into the mattress. She clung to his arms, his shoulders, whatever part of him her restless hands happened to latch onto.
He thrust a little harder, his smile turning into a look of intense concentration, then harder still when it was clear she was far from objecting. She was panting and quivering, her legs thrashing when her feet could find no purchase on the sheets, but blood and ashes she was not objecting.
“Oh,” she found herself gasping, shocked and overwhelmed by the intensity, the feel of his strength over her and in her. “Oh!” Her whole body felt seized and shaken by a pleasure that fed into need and back into pleasure, winding tighter and tighter.
“Mmm,” Lan agreed, almost a growl.
Then he slowed, drawing almost fully out of her – she cried out, desperate – and pushing back in so slowly that she felt every fraction of an inch in aching clarity. Need tightened almost to pain. Another slow thrust, and a moan of appreciation from him, his eyes closed. He looked utterly lost in pleasure.
Nynaeve tried to bite her tongue on a needy whimper, but his eyes opened. She could imagine what he saw in her face, and his expression went so tender she could have wept.
“I have you, my love,” he said, and pushed as deep inside her as he could go, jolting a wordless cry from her. He held there, grinding his pelvis against hers, before pulling back and repeating the motion. “I have you.”
Then faster, but hardly withdrawing at all. It was perfect, and it was unbearable. “I have you.”
She strained against him, needing more, just a little more, and still a little more, the pleasure so intense it was like going mad, yet not enough.
Lan's breath grew ragged; his efforts redoubled, pounding like a heartbeat. “I have you.” It was a ragged rasp of a promise; his arms trembled.
She was going to combust, to fly apart, to die. She was almost – almost -
Release burst through her, a crashing wave of raw bliss that curled her spine up off the bed. Her hands clutched at Lan's shoulders. Lan went still inside her while her whole body shook and clenched around him. It seemed to go on and on and on.
She gasped for breath, and only knew then that she had actually stopped breathing for a moment. With a wince for the half-moon marks her nails had left, she let go of his shoulders and let herself fall back to the bed. It felt a little bit like floating – except that Lan was still inside her, heavy and hard, grounding her.
Still needing.
She lifted one suddenly weak and clumsy hand to his face; he was breathing like a bellows through his nose, his jaw tight. At the touch of her hand a shudder went through him.
“I love you so much,” Nynaeve told him, and tried to raise her hips encouragingly, but he was so tense, and he was so much larger and stronger than she even when she wasn't feeling completely boneless, that she managed to do little more than squirm. Another whole-body shiver ran through him.
Very carefully, watching her very closely, he withdrew and thrust. This was a different motion than what had brought her to release, more like those few savoring strokes he'd allowed himself before. Larger movements, in and out. It was pleasant enough, but not more than that – perhaps she was simply too wrung out, but it was a little bit of a relief to realize that what he seemed to need wasn't likely to wind her up all over again.
“Yes,” Nynaeve said, answering a question he hadn't exactly asked to the best of her present ability. He seemed to understand, moving little faster. “Yes,” she repeated, and smiled up at him, tangling her fingers in his hair and kneading the back of his neck, hoping he understood that for encouragement; more words seemed beyond her.
He groaned, and folded himself down from up on his hands over her to braced on his elbows. He buried his face in her shoulder, hips pumping furiously now. She kept the one hand in his hair – he seemed to like that – and stroked the other down his back as far as she could reach. His breath was hot on her neck.
“Yes, my love” she repeated, holding this enormous man as well as she could manage while he shook and strained, over her and in her. “Yes.”
He made a noise deep in his throat, and she felt his mouth open wide as if to shout, but there was no other sound as he thrust hard and stilled inside her, twitching and pulsing.
A few more nudges of his hips and all the tension left him. For a moment he was alarmingly heavy; then he got back up on his hands and shifted some of his weight onto his knees, withdrawing from her in the process. Nynaeve winced a little at that; she was suddenly very tender. He rolled onto his back at her side and sprawled there. She couldn't quite see, but she thought one of his arms had to be dangling off the bed.
It came to Nynaeve's attention then that she was, in addition to being a bit sore, also very wet. There was hot fluid dripping from her. His seed; what would one day – one day soon, burn it – give her his children. Well, in the mean time the wetness made the air on her sore flesh cold, and that was actually soothing. So there; it was to be expected and convenient besides. She did close her legs just a bit, though; there were limits to how shameless only one day as a married woman could make her.
Nynaeve turned her head to Lan, to find him watching her; she rolled toward him at the same moment he reached for her, both smiling, and she settled into the crook of his shoulder. She hesitated a moment before draping a leg over his, thinking of the dripping mess between her legs that would certainly be dripping on him if she did – but burn it, it was his anyway, wasn't it? She wanted to curl around him as tightly as she could.
He didn't seem to mind, his arm tightening around her. Her fingers toyed idly with the sparse hair on his chest, damp with sweat. She savored the slow rise and fall of his ribs, his breathing deep and even.
He hadn't actually fallen asleep, had he?
She glanced up; once again, he was already watching her. She grinned, and he smiled, his smile turning into a wondering bark of a laugh and then a kiss – an awkwardly angled, brief, tired kiss, but fervent all the same.
“Husband,” Nynaeve said, just to hear it.
“Wife,” he answered.