His arms are strong and firm, drawing her in; and they could so easily be a prison, but there is nothing confining in this. The warmth of his embrace and the solidity of his body against hers is the greatest comfort she can imagine in inconsolable times. She feels herself anchored by it, grounded, held in place in the knowledge that she is, despite it all, protected. Held. Wanted.
And she feels herself awaken; finds the knowledge, despite it all, she can still want.
She is awkwardly arrayed against him, but she moves soon enough to settle properly in his lap, straddling him with her knees on the ground, pressing her body closer still against his. With her eyes closed, she can forget where they are; she can forget all that has happened, for a moment, and be no more or less than a woman in a man's arms. Her tongue tangles with his, her chest pressed to his, one hand trailing up the nape of his neck to cup the base of his skull. She forgets time and place and grief, forgets to doubt, forgets even to breathe, for a long time: all that there is, is the warm strength of him and the fervour and need behind their kisses, and those arms around her, holding her fast.
When at last she does break from kissing, she is panting, her colour high. She presses her brow to his, opening her eyes at last. This is not love, she thinks, with one part of herself: this is desperation and grief and the need to feel something other than pain, this is a distraction and an unfair one at that, this is a desperate gambit to amend a desperate gambit; this is not love. And another part of her says: you left all that you had for him; he would have died for his service to you. What is that, if not love?
(And a third part, settled between her thighs, murmurs: Who cares if it is love?)
She does not trust herself to speak. That brittle desperation is still lurking just barely out of sight, covered by baser things, and if she speaks, she will remember it. Instead, after a moment that feels interminable but cannot be more than a second or two, she reaches back to find his hand around her waist; grasps his wrist and pushes it down to her thigh, where her skirts are rumpled up to the knee. She is wearing trousers underneath (it promises to be a long ride, and she is not fool enough to make it with skin bare against the saddle) but she hopes the intent is clear, all the same.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-08-30 01:45 am (UTC)And she feels herself awaken; finds the knowledge, despite it all, she can still want.
She is awkwardly arrayed against him, but she moves soon enough to settle properly in his lap, straddling him with her knees on the ground, pressing her body closer still against his. With her eyes closed, she can forget where they are; she can forget all that has happened, for a moment, and be no more or less than a woman in a man's arms. Her tongue tangles with his, her chest pressed to his, one hand trailing up the nape of his neck to cup the base of his skull. She forgets time and place and grief, forgets to doubt, forgets even to breathe, for a long time: all that there is, is the warm strength of him and the fervour and need behind their kisses, and those arms around her, holding her fast.
When at last she does break from kissing, she is panting, her colour high. She presses her brow to his, opening her eyes at last. This is not love, she thinks, with one part of herself: this is desperation and grief and the need to feel something other than pain, this is a distraction and an unfair one at that, this is a desperate gambit to amend a desperate gambit; this is not love. And another part of her says: you left all that you had for him; he would have died for his service to you. What is that, if not love?
(And a third part, settled between her thighs, murmurs: Who cares if it is love?)
She does not trust herself to speak. That brittle desperation is still lurking just barely out of sight, covered by baser things, and if she speaks, she will remember it. Instead, after a moment that feels interminable but cannot be more than a second or two, she reaches back to find his hand around her waist; grasps his wrist and pushes it down to her thigh, where her skirts are rumpled up to the knee. She is wearing trousers underneath (it promises to be a long ride, and she is not fool enough to make it with skin bare against the saddle) but she hopes the intent is clear, all the same.