for some reason Dalton insisted on being written about
Pistachio #16. A Shoulder to Cry on with Sprinkles and a CHERRY
Rating : PG-13/light R for non-explicit sex
Timeframe : mid to late 1260's
Edit : Marty said it should get a cherry for the alternating PoV and lack of dialogue. He's been reading my stuff longer than anybody, so I'm not going to argue.
He always kept his eyes closed, not that it did him any good. His fingers wound their way over curves too generous to suit his memory, but they were soft, and they were real. The hands that held him were far too smooth to have ever held a sword, but they were warm.
She smelled right. Dear Gods, what a smell. Sometimes he’d just bury his nose in her hair and breathe in what Ilya once told him was honeysuckle, and it would feel as if someone had shown him the way back home.
The voice that called his name was enough to shatter any illusions. He’d call hers back, tell himself that this was what he wanted. His efforts must have begun to pay off. There were times when her name found its way to his lips of its own accord. Then he would have to assuage the guilt he felt when he realized that this was what he wanted.
When it was over and he had time to think on what he’d done, as she lay breathless in his arms, he would promise himself, and this time he meant it, that next time he would open his eyes.
***
He always kept his eyes closed. Lonna often wondered if it was so he could reshape her into some semblance of Ilya. She suspected that, though his lips settled on hers, she was not the one that he was kissing.
What did it say of her, that she would let herself come second twice? But staying angry at Dalton was even harder than staying angry at Terrel, and she was beginning to find reason, far more often than she should, to visit the palace, always hoping she might find him there.
Sometimes his touch was different and she was convinced he was making love to her and not the ghost he clearly wished she was. Sometimes there was a warmth to his voice that told her she was gaining that place in his heart she so coveted. But such moments were fleeting and, in the morning, she would curse herself for letting them draw her back to him.
She loved the way he’d hold her afterwards. Then, somehow, the distance didn’t seem so great. She wondered if next time she would be enough and, maybe, he would open his eyes.
Rating : PG-13/light R for non-explicit sex
Timeframe : mid to late 1260's
Edit : Marty said it should get a cherry for the alternating PoV and lack of dialogue. He's been reading my stuff longer than anybody, so I'm not going to argue.
He always kept his eyes closed, not that it did him any good. His fingers wound their way over curves too generous to suit his memory, but they were soft, and they were real. The hands that held him were far too smooth to have ever held a sword, but they were warm.
She smelled right. Dear Gods, what a smell. Sometimes he’d just bury his nose in her hair and breathe in what Ilya once told him was honeysuckle, and it would feel as if someone had shown him the way back home.
The voice that called his name was enough to shatter any illusions. He’d call hers back, tell himself that this was what he wanted. His efforts must have begun to pay off. There were times when her name found its way to his lips of its own accord. Then he would have to assuage the guilt he felt when he realized that this was what he wanted.
When it was over and he had time to think on what he’d done, as she lay breathless in his arms, he would promise himself, and this time he meant it, that next time he would open his eyes.
***
He always kept his eyes closed. Lonna often wondered if it was so he could reshape her into some semblance of Ilya. She suspected that, though his lips settled on hers, she was not the one that he was kissing.
What did it say of her, that she would let herself come second twice? But staying angry at Dalton was even harder than staying angry at Terrel, and she was beginning to find reason, far more often than she should, to visit the palace, always hoping she might find him there.
Sometimes his touch was different and she was convinced he was making love to her and not the ghost he clearly wished she was. Sometimes there was a warmth to his voice that told her she was gaining that place in his heart she so coveted. But such moments were fleeting and, in the morning, she would curse herself for letting them draw her back to him.
She loved the way he’d hold her afterwards. Then, somehow, the distance didn’t seem so great. She wondered if next time she would be enough and, maybe, he would open his eyes.