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"To bed!"
You did not know who had shouted it, but the rest of the crowd took up the cry at once.
"You held your breath, too frightened to move. You had known this moment must come, yet you would have given anything to delay it, even for an hour. Perhaps if you had asked your husband earlier... But it was too late now. Lord Baratheon knew nothing of your fears. How could he? You had exchanged only a few words before, always under the watchful eye of your relatives, who were known for their strict adherence to tradition.
You watched helplessly as a group of drunken men set down their goblets and rushed towards you. Purple lightning, golden roses, swans, larks, turtles, suns, and moons swirled around you, making your stomach churn. You longed to escape, to take your horse and ride away somewhere you could be alone... Yet you stayed. Not only the Tullys of Riverrun knew the meaning of duty.
You gritted your teeth as the first hand clamped down on your shoulder.
"To bed!" Lord Swann roared in your ear.
His fingers fumbled clumsily up your back, searching for the lacing of your corset, but you turned away before he could catch hold of it.
The others quickly followed suit. Drunken lords. Their heirs. Younger sons. Lesser knights. Even a short, wizened septon who could barely stand. Their hands gripped, wrinkled, and tugged at the fabric of your gown, eager to drag it to the ground. Someone shoved you toward the stairs. Someone else laughed in your ear and dug their fingers into your arm.
"Come on!" Lord Swann nearly made you deaf.
A few other voices rose above the rest. Lord Selmy was demanding that someone bring him more wine, his brother was singing some foolish Dornish song, and the unfortunate septon was shouting that someone had stepped on his robe.
And then there was your husband, of course.
Lyonel Baratheon laughed louder than any man you had ever met. The Laughing Storm. That was what they called him. Never before had that nickname seemed so true as it did now. Unlike you, he seemed to relish the attention. For every comment that brought a flush to your cheeks, he answered with one of his own, sometimes even more lewd. The ladies had already managed to strip him of his cloak and crown.
The men around you were not giving up either. No matter how hard you tried to move forward, you could not break through the tangle of limbs reaching for you.
"Save your strength," someone sneered behind you. "The real battle lies ahead."
You knew he was right.
When they dragged you from the hall, the noise of the feast slowly faded behind you. The corridors were narrower than the Great Hall, which only made the men crowd closer. Hands still reached for you, tugging at your sleeves, brushing against your back, your arms, your neck, even your hair. Fingers everywhere, grasping and testing, as if you were some mare being led through a market.
It felt as though an eternity had passed, yet you knew you had not gone far. The tapestries on the walls told you as much. You recognized them even through the blur of movement: the stormy sea stitched in dark blue and silver thread, waves crashing against the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay; Durran defying the wrath of the gods; and the great stag standing at bay, surrounded by a ring of wolves.
Then you understood why they were letting you slip from their grasp. The game amused them. Each time you twisted away or ducked beneath an arm, laughter followed.
But thanks to the gods you were drawing closer. At last the stairs to the highest floor rose before you.
And then you felt it.
In the crush of bodies someone pressed far closer than before, a hand lingering low on your back before tightening in a way that made your stomach turn. You wrenched yourself free and turned, only to see Lord Selmy grinning at you through the chaos. For a moment you were too stunned to react. You doubted anyone around you had even noticed.
But Selmy’s place was quickly taken by his brother.
He tried to hold you back by grabbing your waist. Thank the gods he was so drunk he could only catch your sleeve before colliding with the septon. Both men, one tall and round, the other short and thin, swayed and fell to the floor. The younger Selmy still clutched your dress, and you nearly fell with him—but at the last moment, someone’s hand shot out and caught your forearm.
Ser Robyn Trant carefully set you upright. His grey beard hid most of his face, but his smile was full of sympathy. He had seven sisters, so he probably knew how you felt.
Suddenly, unseen hands grabbed your waist, lifting you almost off the ground.
"Someone please take care of that damn dress!" You felt foul breath on your shoulder. Trapped between the heated crowd and the icy wall, you didn't even have a chance to turn around, but you would recognize that stench anywhere. Ser fucking Denys of Tarth, who had tried to dance with you more times today than you could count.
Your corset was getting looser with each passing moment. Denys worked at the laces with unsettling skill, tugging and loosening them as if he had done it a hundred times before. Yet his fingers wandered farther than they needed to, lingering where they had no business being. Your stomach twisted.
The others quickly seized the opportunity while you were pinned in place. One knight bent down to remove your shoes, another tugged your skirt above your knees and untied the ribbons holding your stockings. Someone began to sing, "The queen took off her sandal, the king lost his crown."
I should have drunk more, you thought as your bare feet touched the floor. The two goblets of wine you’d had during the feast didn’t calm you—they sharpened every sense instead. You were so tired of it all, yet you knew it had to be done. Without it the whispers would never stop. They would say there was something wrong with your body, something better kept hidden. Some might even whisper that the marriage had never been truly consummated. You had always known that... Always... And yet you blinked quickly. All you wanted was to collapse and wake up when it was over.
"No secrets tonight!" someone shouted, ripping off your dress. Shreds of lace fell to the floor, pooling around your feet. All that remained between you and the prying eyes was your silk shift.
"Our lord has good taste." Selmy tried to slip his fingers into your cleavage.
You instinctively grabbed his wrist, but the old fool took it as encouragement. As you turned to push the other hands away, Selmy tugged at the strap, exposing one of your breasts.
"No," you whispered, almost silently.
Shame, fear, the constant chaos and noise left you barely able to breathe. Somehow you managed to pull your shift back into place, but you feared you might not be so lucky the second time. If they…
"Enough."
All the laughter vanished suddenly, as if cut off by a knife.
Ser Trant was not his father's heir, not even his second son, but he had served faithfully at Storm's End for forty years and often spoke on behalf of his lords.
The old knight wrapped his cloak around you and lifted you with the same ease a child might lift a straw doll.
But the guests didn't give up. When they realized that Ser Robyn had spoiled their fun instead of helping them, some of the men glared at him furiously. You tightened your grip on the cloak when another hand brushed too close to your leg. Someone tried to take it away, laughing that he needed it more. Someone clapped. Someone sang. Someone tried to force the knight to put you down.
The longer Ser Trant carried you, the more disgruntled the crowd became. Sometimes you could hardly believe what you were hearing. Lord Selmy complained that he hadn't traveled so far to have someone of lesser birth spoil his fun. His brother called Ser Robyn an old fool. Someone else added that he probably valued sheep more than women.
Ser Robyn let the words wash over him, as if they were nothing more than wind.
How could the men who had only moments ago toasted your happiness change so quickly? They reminded you of kennel hounds, snarling when the bone was snatched from their jaws. You wanted to believe it was only the wine speaking—the heat of the feast, the disappointment of a spectacle cut short. Anything was easier to accept than the thought that this was their true nature. You blinked rapidly, forcing the sting from your eyes. You would not cry. Not here. Not before them.
"Ser…" You opened your mouth, not knowing how to thank Ser Robyn.
"It’s here, my lady," he smiled reassuringly. "No one will bother you anymore."
He was right. When the oak door creaked open, the crowd stopped as if some invisible barrier held them back.
You blinked against the sudden light.
The room was warmer than the Great Hall, warmer still than the corridors. Too warm to shiver, yet when the knight laid you on the bed and left with his cloak, a chill ran through your body.
The noise persisted—murmurs, clapping, laughter, mockery. Sometimes a shadow passed across the doorframe, a hand or a head leaning too far, peering in. You kept your eyes fixed on the doorway, counting the heartbeats between bursts of laughter. Each step in the corridor made your breath catch, only for the voices to drift away again. Time stretched strangely, each moment longer than the last.
After a while, new voices cut through the familiar noise. A figure emerged around the corner, then another. The shadows of the ladies pushed into the corridor, slowly making their way toward the room. Lady Connington. Lady Penrose.
Your husband between them.
You’d almost forgotten that he existed.
Everything will be alright, you told yourself. Everything will be alright. He wasn't a bad man, right? He could be as loud as a pig on the block, but when he kissed you in the sept, he held you as though the Seven had made you from glass. During the feast he danced with you almost all the time, and he never hurt you. He smelled of wine, smoke, and something warm that didn’t repel you. On the contrary—it drew you back into his embrace each time. He had always been kind to you. He had never been cruel.
But Ser Willem had seemed nice too—the thought struck like a lash of a whip.
When your cousin stood beside him in the sept at Bitterbridge, most of the girls envied her as if she were about to wed Aegon the Conqueror himself. Ser Willem had been everything a woman could desire: handsome, witty, and gallant. As they left the sept, Alia looked the happiest girl in the world.
But in the morning her smile was gone. You had no idea what had happened that night. She never spoke of it. You did not see her smile again for a year—until word came that Ser Willem had broken his neck in a fall from his horse.
When your husband appeared in the doorway, you forgot how to breathe.
The ladies had stripped him of nearly everything but his trousers. A few women were still trying to finish the task, laughing, while he twisted free, joking that no knight should enter battle without his armor. When he finally tore himself from their hands and slammed the door shut, a murmur of disappointment rolled through the corridor.
The bolt fell.
And you had no idea what to do with your hands.
Should you speak? Stand? Go to him? Or wait — as if for a command?
Would he come to you, or tell you to rise?
Your husband did none of it.
The only thing that held his attention was the wine by the hearth. He smiled and reached for the goblet without looking at you. He drank greedily, as befits a man who had spent the night roaring rather than breathing.
He was handsome. You knew it, but you'd never seen it so clearly before. Elegantly dressed and surrounded by servants and lords, he had been just another man the ladies whispered about in secret. Flushed, barefoot, half-naked, and with disheveled hair, he made your body behave in ways you were ashamed to admit. His chest was covered in a thick mat of black hair that tapered downward, reaching almost to…
His eyes caught yours instantly. You looked down, but his laugh told you that you were too late.
Your cheeks burned with fire.
The door muffled most of the noise, yet voices still drifted from beyond it. Someone—you were almost certain it was Lady Connington—joked that you would soon learn how to handle a lance, while another urged your husband to run you through with his sword.
There were other sounds, too: the fire in the hearth, the wind, and somewhere far beyond the castle, the steady roar of water against rock.
"My lady?"
Lord Baratheon was staring at you, raising his goblet slightly. You understood the question behind the gesture and shook your head. Your throat was too tight to swallow even a drop.
Your husband set the goblet aside and dropped onto the bed like a soldier exhausted after weeks of travel. You instantly began to regret refusing so quickly. Holding the goblet would have given you something to do with your hands—a safe place to rest them, and an excuse to lower your gaze.
He lay still for a moment, then suddenly moved closer, though he remained far enough away that even if he wished to, he could not touch you.
You felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment, though you could not have said why.
"Do you know what usually happens on a wedding night?" he asked.
Heat rushed to your cheeks once more.
"I think so, my lord."
How could you not? You had sisters, cousins, and a septa who had spent half her life in Dorne. You were better informed than most noble maidens of your age.
"So what do you think I should do now?" This time you could clearly hear the teasing in his voice. It was exactly the same as when, a few hours earlier, during one especially spirited dance, he had asked if you thought you could keep up.
What should you say? What did he expect to hear?
"Let me ask it differently." His voice dropped to a whisper. "What do you want me to do?"
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
"I can bring you wine, if you’ve changed your mind," he offered. "I can send those damn fools away, find more pillows—or let you sleep. Just say a word."
This was not a jest, not a mummer’s trick. He looked at you as if your opinion truly mattered. For the first time that night, someone asked your opinion on something other than the next dance or taste of supper.
For the first time, you thought you might actually like him.
Fear whispered that you should take the opportunity and run—hide, disappear, slip beneath the blankets and pretend sleep had already claimed you. Duty reminded you that running would change nothing. The night would end the same way, whether today or tomorrow. Bedding was not a thing a bride could escape.
You thought of the dances in the hall. The way his hand had rested warm and steady at your back, guiding rather than pushing. The way he had laughed when you nearly lost a step and spun you easily back into the rhythm. Being close to him had not felt frightening then. Quite the opposite.
Perhaps it would not be so terrible.
Your heart beat faster as the thought settled.
In the end, it was your husband who made you choose. Not duty, nor fear of your kin. His eyes. His smile. The way he let you decide. And beneath it all, a part of you just burned to stay with him.
"Kiss me, my lord," you heard your voice.
You didn't have to say it twice.
He rose at once and moved toward you, as agile as a cat. His hands braced against the mattress on either side of your hips. His legs touched yours. Still surprised by your own boldness, you let the blanket fall to the floor.
His gaze lingered over you.
His face moved closer to yours.
His breath tickled your lips.
It was too much. You closed your eyes and waited.
A heartbeat passed.
Then a second.
A third.
A fourth, and a fifth.
Still nothing happened.
You cautiously opened your eyes, only to see again the same mischievous smile you had seen throughout most of the feast.
"You didn’t say where I should kiss you," you heard.
You felt your cheeks warm and your heart beat faster. The moment stretched, teasingly slow.
"I think it's your turn to decide, my lord." That was the smartest thing that came to mind.
"Lyonel," he said.
In that same moment, his lips finally found their way to yours. At first, it was just a soft pressure and warmth. This kiss wasn’t very different from the one in the sept. But that didn't last long. He slid one hand slowly into your hair, the other wrapping around your waist.
For a moment you only held there, unsure what to do next. Then, gathering a small measure of courage, you lifted your hands at last. Your fingers, which had been clutching the sheets, gradually found their way to his back.
When his tongue brushed your lips, a shiver ran through you. You answered him, unsure but willing. Hesitantly, you slid your hand along his arm, reaching for his chest, feeling the thick hair tickle your fingers.
The world shrank to warmth, breath, and taste. Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he must have heard it. The kiss deepened, becoming more assertive. Not violent, but not gentle either. More a downpour than a spring storm.
"If you want, I can kiss you here too." His lips brushed your cheek. "Or here." You felt his warm breath next to your ear."Or here." His mouth moved lower and lower, leaving a trail of heat along your neck.
At the same time his fingers climbed higher, gliding over the thin silk of your shift, which suddenly felt too light, too treacherous. You felt the warmth of his palm through the material and it seemed to spread through you like fire. Your back arched against your will. Each touch sent unfamiliar shivers through you. This was nothing like the dance anymore—this was warmer, closer… and far more pleasant.
"I could kiss you here too." His fingers stopped just below your breast. "But I'm afraid you'd have to take this off first."
Gods, for a moment, you truly wanted to—wanted to feel his lips and hands on every inch of you. But the thought of standing before him completely naked was too much. Too soon.
Your fingers hovered at the neckline of your shift. You could feel his eyes on you, patient, curious, waiting. One small movement and the silk would fall. One small movement and there would be nothing left between you but skin.
Your heart beat faster.
You thought of the corridor full of drunken laughter, of hands pulling at your dress... You thought of the dance, his steady hand at your back, the warmth of his breath against your neck.
He was still waiting.
Slowly, you found the straps of your shift and slid them down your shoulders, one by one. The silk fell softly, settling at your waist.
Something darker flickered in his gaze.
"Well played," he said.
His lips found your skin again—first your neck, then your collarbone. His slow movements drove you wild, each kiss lingering longer than the last, until at last his mouth reached its destination, drawing a soft moan from your lips.
When he slid his thigh between your legs, you instinctively pushed back against him without thinking. His soft, low sigh told you he'd noticed.
"Don't stop," he murmured.
You froze, suddenly aware of what you had done.
For the space of a heartbeat he did not move either, as though waiting to see if you would try again.
When you did not, he shifted instead. Slowly, gently, he pressed his thigh against you once more, beginning a faint, steady motion.
Your fingers tightened in his hair as another quiet sound escaped your lips. Your breath grew uneven, and your thoughts dissolved into warmth and a slow, rising pulse of sensation.
His hand slid down your back, following the line of your spine, until it stopped at your hip. The silk of your shift stirred beneath his fingers, catching, slipping, and rippling, as if the fabric were teasing him on purpose.
"May I?"
You knew what he was asking. The thin ribbon that held your shift at your waist was already curling between his fingers. To your own surprise, you found yourself thinking that if he stood bare before you as well, the whole business might feel far less awkward.
"I'm afraid it's your turn, my lord." The words escaped you before you could think better of them. Surely it was the wine speaking.
He stared at you for a moment, as if unsure whether he'd heard you correctly.
"A challenge?" A slow smile curved his lips. He clearly liked the idea.
He got up and stood beside the bed, where you could see him clearly. It was another challenge—this time for you.
Slowly, without haste, he reached for the laces. Each movement was careful, almost deliberate. His fingers moved lower and lower, revealing a thicket of black hair.
He did not take his eyes off you.
He took his time.
He wanted you to see.
And he wanted to know whether you would hold his gaze until the end.
He was a large man—broad-shouldered, with powerful thighs and strong arms, proportioned in ways that made your breath falter. The realization tightened something low in your stomach. The firelight danced across his skin, emphasizing the tension in his muscles and how… ready he was.
"Your turn, my dear," he said with a mischievous glint in his eye, as if to see if you could keep up with him again.
You lifted your chin slightly. For a brief moment, your eyes met. Storm or not, you had never liked to lose.
You slowly rose from the bed and stopped half a step away from him. You weren't as composed as he was, and you didn't even try to pretend. Instead of meeting his gaze, you focused on the ribbon.
You knew he was watching. You felt it.
Your fingers found the knot—and immediately fumbled. What had seemed so simple a moment ago suddenly felt impossible. The ribbon refused to yield, and your hands, clumsy and stiff, might as well have been carved from wood. You tried again, slower this time, forcing your fingers to work despite the heat creeping up your neck.
All the while you could feel his eyes on you, patient and unhurried.
At last the knot loosened.
Only when the silk fell silently to the floor did you find the courage to look him in the eye again.
His gaze moved slowly over you—not greedy, not crude, but intent, as though he meant to remember every line of you. Something softer flickered in his expression, a mixture of admiration and quiet satisfaction.
"You're breathtaking," he smiled.
He drew you back toward the bed, until the backs of your knees met the mattress. His hand slipped to the small of your hip, steady and warm, guiding you down until you found yourself lying in the very place you had been sitting only moments earlier.
Was this the moment? Should you do something? Spread your legs? Wait until he asked?
But instead of his weight pressing you down, you felt only his warmth beside you.
"My lord…"
"Lyonel." He grazed your neck with his teeth. "I swear, if you call me lord again, I shall have you thrown into the deepest dungeon."
You laughed, the sound escaping before you could stop it. You felt as though some tight knot inside you had suddenly loosened.
You couldn’t see his face, but you could feel it in the way his breath warmed your skin and the way his arm shifted around you. He was smiling too.
The roughness of his beard brushed pleasantly against your skin, and you found that you liked it more than you expected. Your hands roamed over his chest, his back, his arms—still too shy to venture any lower. You tried to learn him: every muscle, every shift in his breathing, the tension in his jaw, the hint of a smile.
He seemed to be doing the same. His fingers traced your ribs, circled your hip, then drifted lower, at last brushing the sensitive skin behind your knee. With each passing moment, it grew harder to think. When his hand reached the inside of your thigh, your eyes met again. The unspoken question lingered between you.
Instead of searching for words, you moved to meet him—gently, but with enough certainty that he would not need to hesitate.
He smiled again. In fact, he had been smiling ever since you returned to bed.
You had been sure that now his hand would move straight to its goal, but it did not happen. His fingers continued in the same slow rhythm, until you almost wanted to cry out in frustration. Each small movement drew your attention more sharply than the last. Each inch his fingers traveled sent a quiet shiver through you. Each pause felt almost unbearable.
You knew exactly what you wanted—you had taken that same pleasure into your own hands more than once—but the plea caught somewhere between desire and pride.
Your breathing quickened. Your body tensed with anticipation, and just when you thought it was over—that he was about to cross the line...
His fingers withdrew at the last moment.
The heat of him lingered, making you ache for what had not yet come.
The first time, you were sure it was an accident.
When he did it again, you knew it wasn’t.
Seven hells. He was the most infuriating man you had ever met.
But if he wanted to play, you could play as well.
He realized at once what you were doing. When your hand found the place you had carefully avoided before, his smile deepened. You brushed your fingertips against his skin, tracing a shape you did not dare to name. This was not how you had imagined it. In your thoughts, everything had seemed simpler, softer, smoother…
Your husband laughed at the look on your face.
You were certain he would continue his little game.
He didn’t.
His hand slid between your thighs—gentle, but unmistakably firm.
Your body tensed beneath his touch. For a fleeting moment you could only breathe in sharply, almost laughing with relief. Sensation spread through you all at once—warm, overwhelming, impossible to ignore—until it felt as though every part of you had awakened at once.
Your hand continued to explore unfamiliar ground, but your husband still seemed far more composed than you. Watching him only stirred a stubborn impulse in you—you wanted to see that calm composure crack, if only a little.
You tightened your grip cautiously, unsure how far you could go without hurting him. Your eyes lingered on his face, searching for the smallest change in his expression... and of course he noticed.
"I’m not made of glass," he said with a smile.
You pressed firmer this time, but something in his eyes told you it still wasn’t quite what he liked.
"Want me to show you how I do it?"
Two dragons battled in your head. One urged you to say yes. The other warned you what it would cost.
But curiosity won.
Instead of answering, you lifted your hand just enough to let him guide it.
His grip tightened around yours at once. His movements were quick, forceful, decisive—stronger and faster than you would ever have dared on your own. The sight made you lose your composure. The tension in his jaw, the strain in his muscles, the rhythm of his breath—what he was doing… what you were doing together. He never once looked away. His gaze held yours the entire time, as if he wanted to be sure you saw everything.
And then you understood.
He liked being seen. Being admired. Being watched. That was why he thrived at feasts and tournaments. He was like a flame—burning brighter the more eyes fed it.
His grip tightened around yours now and then, guiding you whenever you faltered, his breathing growing heavier with every passing moment. The tension in his body gathered little by little, until at last something like a low growl slipped from his throat.
"That’s enough." He caught your hand and stilled it. "I don’t want to end it like this. Not tonight." Then he frowned faintly, as if something had just occurred to him. "You know what I’m talking about, right? Have you ever tried…?"
He didn’t even have to finish the question. Your face spoke louder than words.
A slow grin curved his lips.
"Seven save me," he laughed softly. "I’d love to see that one day."
Before you could even think of blushing, his hand was between your thighs again, and your thoughts scattered like sunlight slipping behind clouds.
At first, you thought everything would unfold as it had dozens of times before.
You were wrong.
The heat built faster than you expected—much faster than when you were alone. Your hips lifted unconsciously, your breathing turning ragged as your hands tightened on his shoulders, as if you needed something solid to hold on to. And when new sensations joined the familiar ones…
"There… yes."
You no longer thought about who might hear you. About duty. About pride. About propriety. Your body responded on its own. Your fingers slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck, tangling in his disheveled hair. His movements remained steady, deliberate, unhurried—as though he knew precisely how far to go.
And then the rising tension finally broke, sudden and overwhelming.
The firelight blurred around you as your body shuddered, as if a storm had broken beneath your skin. You pressed your lips against his to keep from crying out. For a moment you could only cling to him, as if the ground had shifted under you. Your fingers tightened helplessly in his hair. The trembling did not stop at once. It moved through you slowly, fading little by little, leaving your muscles weak and unsteady.
Only after a while did the world begin to return—the quiet crackle of the fire, the rough touch of the blankets, the scent of wine and smoke.
When you finally calmed, he was still there.
This time you didn’t worry about what would happen next.
He guided you onto your back again, but this time you pulled him down with you. Most of his weight rested on his tense forearm, but some settled against you—enough for you to feel the pressure. Pleasant. Grounding.
His hips shifted slightly. You felt your bodies molding together. He noticed the hesitation immediately. His fingers traced the line of your cheek, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. His brow creased faintly, and his movements stilled.
"Too much?" he asked.
You shook your head at once, your fingers tightening in his hair.
"No… just…" The words failed you. But your body answered for you when you shifted your hips slightly beneath him, seeking something you could not yet name.
You smiled, encouraging him to move again. You'd never felt anything like it before. It wasn't painful. It wasn't pleasant. It was… strange.
He began to move again—careful, patient, giving you time to grow used to the unfamiliar closeness. At first you focused only on the rhythm of it. The warmth. The steady pressure of his arm beside your head. Then, little by little, something shifted. The strangeness softened. You moved with him more easily now.
"There you are," he murmured, as if he had been waiting for that moment.
His breath quickened, and his fingers roamed over you restlessly, as if he couldn’t decide which place he wanted to touch most.
And then you heard it.
A low, broken sound slipped from his throat—short, uncontrolled, betraying surprise even to him.
Your pulse skipped a beat.
You wanted to hear it again.
Your lips traced a timid path along his neck, mirroring the warmth and tenderness he had offered you earlier.
He paused as if to speak, but instead of words, another broken sigh escaped him. This time, he didn't try to stop it.
Suddenly, what had seemed strange just moments ago began to resemble a song whose words you'd known for a long time—though only now had you dared to sing them. A warmth spread through you, like a calm wave returning again and again, each time a little stronger. Perhaps if it lasted a little longer…
But then your eyes found his, and you realized it was almost over. His movements became quicker, deeper, more urgent. Your name slipped from his lips, quiet, strangled.
"Gods…" The rest dissolved into a low, broken sound.
Every muscle in his body seemed to tighten at once. Then the tension left him, like a bowstring finally released.
For a moment, he remained still before sinking down beside you.
No words were needed.
He instinctively pulled you closer and you snuggled into him without hesitation. His hand found its place on your waist, your cheek resting just below his collarbone.
He fell asleep faster than you expected.
Only then did you allow yourself to look around. The sky over the sea was beginning to shift from black to a gentle gray. Your gaze wandered to the ceiling, the heavy curtains, the fireplace where the fire had long since died. You thought of the new and the familiar, of the steady crash of waves against the rocks in the bay below.
You thought about this night.
And about all the nights to come.