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This is nothing like anything she's ever done before.
Any tryst she's previously engaged in has lasted less than ten minutes, if not five. Usually, all or most of her clothes stayed on. Tucked into a dark corner of the Circle's library, ears straining for the sound of approaching footsteps, she and her partner raced to get one another off before their absence from their duties was noticed.
This is about as far from those hurried affairs as one can get: there's a full beam of sunlight falling through the window, she has not a single stitch of clothing left to her, and her quarters have a great deal of space and very little furniture. A breeze tickles her flesh from the cracked window across the room.
Her skin burns to know it—that she's completely bare, kneeling in a spot of sun, her hands bound behind her back. The rope chafes, but only a little. The way she's bound makes it more comfortable to keep her shoulders back, rather than hunched a bit forward. She's never even noticed how much she slouched until this moment. She's never been more painstakingly aware of her body than in this moment.
That's not all she's aware of, either.
No one has ever stared at her like Bull is currently doing—like he's admiring all that naked flesh, like he has all the time in the world to do so. Maker, she's going to have sex with someone who calls himself The Iron Bull, and she feels nothing but breathless anticipation and growing enthusiasm—never mind that this isn't at all like she imagined it would be. Clearly, her imagination is lacking.
He's barely touched her at all so far. Cursory contact, nothing more: absent brushes as he undressed her, bound her; hands firm and directive, guiding her to kneel. He sits on her couch now, three whole paces away, his view of her unimpeded.
He'd planned it; she can see that much. He'd arranged her so that she faced him, after all, body perfectly illuminated by sunlight. He considers her as he's done for what must be the last five minutes—like one might consider a feast, she thinks, though she's never known Bull to look at food so long before devouring it. She can't read his expression, but she thinks he appreciates her breasts and hips, judging by the way his eye pauses there. She thinks he likes the new muscle in her thighs and shoulders, too—built from months of hiking and fighting through the ass end of nowhere.
Despite these observations, she wants to squirm. She thinks he would disapprove, and settles for rolling her shoulders back instead, trying to ease some of her restless energy. She doesn't yet know exactly what they're doing—only that she wants to know. Only that she has an inkling, a guess, and Maker, she hopes she's right.
He rises. Like a mountain, she thinks, watching in spite of herself. It would be easier not to look at him—not to look at the way he's looking at her—but she can't help it. She stares at the line of his shoulders, the patterns of paint on his skin, the bulk of his muscles until he looms in front of her. One hand slides into her hair and wraps it around his fist, winding until it's tight to her scalp. He pulls her head back—firm, yes, but gentle, too. She doesn't fight him, and she's rewarded with the faintest smirk.
"Like what you see?" His voice deep, amused.
"I thought that was obvious," she breathes.
He releases his hold in her hair. "Stay right there."
He leaves her line of sight, moving around the bed. She hears the whisper of clothes over skin—she prays, furtively, that his pants have joined hers on the floor—and then her bed creaks, and his chest is pressed to her back. She inhales sharply.
"You need a bigger bed," he says. Goosebumps erupt down her body.
"Next time we're in Val Royeaux," she agrees.
He chuckles. His hand on her shoulder makes her jump. "Easy," he murmurs. His hands easily span the width of her shoulders: fingers resting on her collarbone, palms warm on her skin. She can feel every callous rasping over her flesh—and then, unexpectedly, his thumbs dig into her back. She bites her lip on a groan of approval.
"None of that." He moves one of his hands from her shoulder and pulls her lip from her teeth. "There's no one here to hear you except me, and I want to hear you."
She shivers. His hand returns to her shoulder; he kneads her worn muscles with expert fingers. She can't get a groan out, not quite—the still air is too quiet, her mere breathing too loud—but she sighs, leaning into the touch. It's soothing, but she can never quite forget that he's behind her, wearing exactly as few clothes as she is. Though her anticipation abates, there's still a low thrum of arousal in her gut, waiting for what comes next.
He seems to know exactly where her worst tension is. The minutes drift slowly by, and he eliminates every point of pain until she's putty in his arms, listing back against him. Casually—almost—his hand drifts lower to graze her breast.
She's half-asleep, half-aroused, and then, just as suddenly, she's wide awake. When she dares to look down, she can see how her breast fills his hand. He squeezes, just slightly, and runs a thumb over her nipple.
She's aching. Maybe it's that she's had nothing but her own hands for months, or maybe it's him, or maybe it's both, but she can feel her clit throb with want of attention. Her thighs are spread too far to find any relief, and his hands seem to be in no hurry to move in that direction.
He wraps her hair around his fist again, pulling her head back, and then he's kissing her—as thoroughly as she's ever been kissed, she's sure. His lips part hers; his teeth bite the flesh he'd so recently chastised her for nibbling; his mouth swallows her surprised moan. As soon as her back arches—trying to get closer, reaching for more contact—he pulls back. His fingers sharply pinch her nipple, and she gasps at the point of pain.
"Be good," he tells her, warning in his voice. "That was nothing."
She reluctantly stills; his hands return to their earlier ministrations, soothing the hurt with soft touches. Soon, she's weak with lust again, worse than before. One of his hands travels slowly down her ribs, over her stomach. She has to work to keep herself stationary, to prevent herself from arching into his touch, trying to direct him. She thinks she understands the game—that she does not give direction, not here. Not when it's the two of them, alone.
If she doesn't like it, she can make him leave. It would be the work of seconds to fry through the ropes binding her.
She doesn't.
When his fingers finally slide between her thighs, she whimpers with relief. He chuckles again, abandoning her breast to gather up her hair. While the pad of his finger circles her clit—too light, too slow to provide any real relief, but enough contact to make her tremble—he trails open-mouthed kisses down her exposed neck, adding tongue and teeth when he reaches her shoulder.
Her chest heaves with every breath, straining. He is merciless: one finger, maddeningly slow in its stroking; one hand, cupping and kneading her breast; teeth finding every sensitive spot her skin has to offer and digging in. Despite the slow torture, she's about to come. The pleasure builds until she can't think of anything at all, can only feel his hands on her—
He pulls away.
Her hips arch automatically toward his hand as he removes it; desperately seeking release, she forgets his warning. Before she can fear retribution, it's already arrived. He shifts, and his palm connects to her ass with a sharp slap.
This time, she cries out. She doesn't recognize the voice echoing back to her off the stone walls: high, keening, breathless, anguished. Surely she has never sounded like that.
"I did warn you." His voice is dark, unyielding—slides over her skin, right to her core. Despite her stinging ass, she's still so close.
He doesn't indulge her. His hands drop, instead, to where hers are bound, untying the knots with ease. For a moment, she worries that he intends to stop—but then he simply rearranges her, reaching around to bind her hands in front of her body instead.
"On your back," he orders, getting off the bed.
She does as she's told. It's awkward work, moving without having her arms available to her, but she manages, even though her hips and thighs are stiff from kneeling.
"Arms up." He's back, holding more rope; she lifts her hands above her head, and he ties her to the headboard.
"Good," he says—softer now—and leans down to kiss her. She doesn't strain into the touch, much as she'd like to. His tongue parts her lips, slips in and out of her mouth while they kiss; when he finally pulls back, she's dizzy and breathless, her mouth swollen.
"You look good like this, asaaranda." She doesn't know the word—doesn't have time to wonder what it means before his fingers find the bite marks he left on her shoulder earlier. The flesh is raw, sensitive under his touch; the throb between her legs increases tenfold. She moans, eyes closing, arms pulling the rope tight.
"Pull all you want. You're not going anywhere." He moves down her body, shoulders between her legs. "I don't think you want to, either."
He drapes her legs over his shoulders. She can feel his breath on her wet flesh, and for a moment, she thinks that will be enough to put her over the edge.
"Don't come until I say."
She stares down the length of her body at him, aghast; perhaps the look she gives him is a little wild, because he chuckles. "I won't keep you waiting longer than you can handle," he says—like a promise.
He doesn't put his mouth on her—not yet. But he touches her, fingers slipping through her slick folds, circling until he finds her opening. She can feel him looking at her, gazing at the core of her, and she would die of embarrassment if she weren't already dying for his touch, for more contact, for something.
His finger—just one, and just to the first knuckle—slips in, and then his tongue is on her, too, warm and wet with the most infuriating, lightest touch. She wants to scream, but the only sound that makes it out is a pained whimper.
His finger thrusts, a little deeper with every stroke. His tongue circles her clit, barely brushing it. He knows exactly what he's doing, she thinks. It takes all the restraint she has to keep from bucking into his face. The rough surface of his horns scratches at her thighs, abrading her sensitive flesh, and she thinks it should hurt—and it does, little brushes of heat and pain—but it adds something, too, contrasting with the pleasure he's inflicting between her thighs. A second finger slips in beside the first.
She can't do this. She can't stop herself from coming, not unless she thinks about something fairly disgusting, and even then, she isn't sure it would work. She's panting now, her muscles tense with the longing to move and her refusal to do just that. Her heartbeat is throbbing between her legs, under his tongue. She can hardly think past the blind desire his touch invokes.
He adds a third finger. His tongue stops circling her clit, fluttering against it instead. With every soft tap, she thinks she'll come, whether he wants her to or not—but the soft, infrequent touch isn't enough.
"Bull," she gasps. "Please."
"Oh, I like that." He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the center of her and she cries out—close, close, so close—before pulling back. His fingers thrust, almost lazily, but every stroke rubs at exactly the right spot inside her. "You sound good when you beg."
She's quivering. She's only just noticed it—a fine tremble running through her limbs, her body straining toward release. She can hardly catch her breath, can hardly think to breathe at all; her entire world has narrowed to his mouth and hands, the points of contact where he's wringing the very life out of her.
His tongue moves away from her clit again. She thinks she might cry—that if he denies her again, she'll actually break down.
"Go ahead," he invites.
She's hardly processed the words when his mouth finds her again. His tongue presses to her—a firm, even stroke—and she cries out, back arching, writhing to get more contact with his mouth. He takes up the punishing rhythm from before—a quick fluttering of his tongue against her, swifter and swifter—and the pleasure of it builds until it breaks her.
When she can open her eyes again, he's still between her legs, fingers rocking gently inside her. She's sensitive, too sensitive, and tries to squirm away, but he gets his free arm around her hips and holds her down to the bed.
It doesn't feel bad, just—overwhelming. Her body is boneless in the aftermath of such relief, but even so, arousal is already stirring in her gut. It's never occurred to her to chase release again so soon, and even if it had—there's never been enough time, enough privacy.
His head rests on her inner thigh, his eye on where his fingers disappear into her. His mouth, chin, and stubble are all slick with her arousal. Despite the fingers thrusting languidly into her, she's suddenly achingly empty.
"Bull," she whispers.
His eye rises to meet hers. Her mouth goes dry at the heat in that stare.
"Something you want, asaaranda?" he asks, eyebrow cocked.
"You." She swallows. "Please. I want you."
He pulls his fingers slowly from her body. She closes her eyes, shuddering at the sensation. When he speaks again, he's looming over her—his words close at her ear, his cock pressed against her.
"Seems like you already have me," he says. "Might need to be more specific."
She turns her face away; he takes advantage of her bared neck, nipping and sucking at previously unmarked flesh. "Fuck me," she says, her control fraying. "I want you to fuck me. Better?"
He bites—harder than before—into the crook of her shoulder, and she gasps at the pain. "I don't like your tone," he says mildly.
"Please," she says, her cheeks burning. "Please, please fuck me."
He kisses the crook of her shoulder, evoking another little sting of pain—but another spark of pleasure, too. "Better," he murmurs.
He kneels up between her legs; she looks down the length of her body and watches as he takes his cock in hand, stroking it just once, his grip light. He's bigger than she's had previously, certainly, but not incompatible with her body. He gives her time to adjust: his first thrust is slow, only half his length. He draws back; she cants her hips up, taking a little more of him on the next thrust. She can scarcely breathe at the sensation—the slow, unhurried roll of his hips between her thighs, like they've all the time in the world.
When he's finally buried in her to the hilt, he rearranges her, unfolding her legs up the length of his torso until her feet rest on his shoulders. Arm wrapped around her thighs, he slides out of her and rolls back in. His thrusts are still slow, steady, getting her used to the new angle. The instant a moan passes her lips, his pace increases. He's thick, Maker, and he finds the spot inside her that his fingers found earlier, stroking it with every thrust.
Her arms ache from her shoulders to her bound wrists, but the pads of his fingers slip between her thighs and press to her slick flesh, counteracting the pain until she doesn't know which is which. He doesn't circle, doesn't tease; his thumb moves in firm, tight circles, precisely in time with every thrust of his hips.
"Please," she gasps. It seems to be the only word left she knows. "Please, please, please—"
"Let go," he orders, and Maker help her, she does: hips arching up to chase the contact of his touch, head thrown back with a wordless cry. He thrusts—once, twice, hard, brutal strokes both—and empties into her.
When she's caught her breath—when her muscles have relaxed, letting her sink to the bed—he slides slowly from her. She opens one eye, then the other, watching while he leans over to undo her bonds. Her mind is blissfully, blessedly blank; her head hasn't been so empty in what feels like years.
Once she's free, he crosses the room to put her kettle on the still-burning fire. The sun is gone from her windows; the sky is dimming above the mountains. She watches the darkness creep in until he blocks her view, a cup of water in hand.
Without asking, without prompting, he helps her sit up. "Drink," he says, holding the cup to her lips, and she does, wrapping her shaky fingers around his to hold the cup steady. She doesn't realize how parched she is until the cup is empty.
He replaces the cup on her bedside table, sits down beside her, and takes her hand in his. Methodically, his fingers firm and sure, he massages her aching arm from fingertips to shoulder; when he moves to her other side, she isn't quite so sore anymore.
The kettle whistles. She eases back against the headboard when he gets up, her eyes drifting closed, and wakes again with a start when a warm, wet cloth touches her shoulder.
"Easy." He moves in slow circles over her skin, rubbing away sweat and saliva. There's a steaming bowl of hot water on her night table; he must have filled it from the kettle. She's oddly touched by the care in this gesture, the attentiveness.
"How're you feeling?" he asks, dipping the cloth back in the bowl and wringing it out. This time he runs it over her cheek; her eyes close again at the touch.
"Mmm." Her lips twitch up in a tired smile. "Like I might never move again."
He chuckles. "Not bad."
It's been some time since she felt so at ease, so quiet. He wipes away what feels like the dirt of a thousand leagues from her skin, and for once, she doesn't wonder about what comes next. Now is good enough for her: his warmth at her side, his touch on her cheek.
"Not bad at all," she agrees.