Kerowyn's Ride

“Beast,” she said, and went back to the kiss. He sank slowly to the floor, taking her with him, his hands moving against her skin under her shirt. She pushed his shirt up out of the way, the better to touch him. He rolled over to one side to give her hands more room to roam.

This time he broke free with a yelp as his bare back came into contact with the stone floor. “I hate cold floors,” he said ruefully, as she giggled at his woebegone expression. Then he scrambled to his feet, and pointed off into the dark. She couldn’t see his face from that angle, and she couldn’t see past the light cast by the fire, so she jumped to her feet—

Only to find herself scooped up, and launched across the room, to land in his bed. A moment later, he was beside her.

“Oh, my,” she said, “Where do you suppose this came from?”

He didn’t even bother to answer, and in a moment, she didn’t really want him to.

Shirts and breeches were everywhere, being tossed out of bed or shoved to one side. Somehow she managed to get out of her clothing without tearing anything; he wasn’t so lucky. He couldn’t get the wrist-lacings on his shirt to untie, and with a muttered oath, he snapped them.

His hands and mouth were everywhere; well, so were hers. Every touch seemed to send a tingle all over her, seemed to make her want more.

They explored each other, a little awkwardly sometimes; she hit him in the nose with her elbow, once, and he knocked her head against the footboard. Kero hardly felt it when she collided with the carved wood, every inch of skin felt afire, and she was propelled by such urgent need that she could have pursued him over the side of a cliff and never noticed.

It hurt, when he took her—or she took him, whichever; she wanted him as much as he wanted her. But it didn’t hurt that much, and he was as gentle as his own need would let him be. And she began to feel something else, something she yearned after as shamelessly as a bitch in heat. Just out of reach....

It was all over too soon, though, and she was left feeling as if something had been left undone; unsatisfied and still hungry somehow.

Sated, he just rolled happily over into the tumbled blankets, and went right to sleep.

She could have killed him.

Twice.

She curled up on her side, stared into the dark, and listened to him breathe. And wondered, What did I do wrong?

Later, she figured out she hadn’t done anything wrong. Practice, as with anything else, made both of them more proficient, better able to please each other. Eventually the outcome equaled the anticipation, and neither went to sleep unsatisfied.

She finally understood what all the fuss was about—and the obsession. She understood—but she felt herself somehow apart from it; her desire was satisfied, but whatever it was that awakened real passion in others had not touched her.

And nothing ever quite made up for the letdown of that first night.

And he never understood, or even noticed.

Winter became spring, then seemed to run straight into autumn without pausing for summer. There were never enough hours in the day for everything. Kero often wondered what possessed her, to have consented to this.

She often wondered if she were doing the right thing. She had no doubt that a conventional life would be far, far easier.

And I wouldn’t have to rise with the sun unless I really wanted to.

The wooden practice blades were nowhere in sight, which was a little odd. Kero exchanged puzzled glances with Daren, then looked away before the glance could develop into anything more intimate.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this as “just friends,” she thought, staring at the sandy floor of the practice ring. Grandmother was worried about me getting my heart broken, but it seems as though it’s going to be the other way around. I really like Daren—but—

But. Blessed Agnira, I’m a cold-hearted bitch. I ought to be on my knees with thanks that he’s in love with me, or thinks he is. Instead, all I can think of is “how can I pry him loose?”