heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

He is so careful in how he touches her, the way he links their bodies together.

But Ellis has half a lifetime of using his body as a tool. That has made all things easier; he is detached from himself in a way that makes it easy to narrow his focus on her, hold back all other things. Yes, his skin is flushed fever-warm with wanting her. It is the most clear sign of the effect she's had on him, laid into the parts of himself that are beyond his control.

His teeth scrape lightly over the swell of her breast. With his mouth so devoted to this trajectory, there is no answer for her for a long moment.

Then, slowly, "I've been thinking of this. Of you."

Of what their wedding night might be, without fully predicting it would come on the heels of a rift and the corpse of a fade-touched wolf. He might have guessed at some similar circumstance. He's known Wysteria for such a long time now.

"Lift your hips," is trailed by his hand at her thigh, his body shifting up by degrees to give her space to do so.

His voice is something felt as much as heard, rumbling thorough his chest and into her. If the soft scuff of teeth hadn't been sufficient to prompt some flexing line in her beneath him (it had), that pleasantly low vibration of his murmur might manage it. Certainly something low in her belly goes light and turns over, flocking butterflies for I've been thinking of this.

How promptly she follows his direction, eagerly pressing up into the space afforded to her.

"Ellis," is softly scolding and entirely encouraging. "That's a very bold thing for you to say."

Fingers hook her smallclothes; she had unfastened those meticulous little buttons on one side, and Ellis draws the delicate fabric down by the other. It is an excuse for his palm to run hot over her skin, all the way to her kneecap, down to her ankle, where Wysteria might kick the item away if she so chooses. He is already reclaiming that space, flatting back over her to remind, "I am your husband."

He has been hers for a very long time, title or no.

"Don't you know how long I've wanted you?"

There had been something in the way she'd prompted him there. He can offer her this reminder, even if it is hardly so straightforward. If Ellis allowed it, all the complications would seep in like the icy cold that frosts the windowpanes behind the curtains. He has to keep it at bay, pare down this sentiment to it's most base truth: of course he has wanted her. Of course he has thought of her.

His teeth scrape along her breast, soothe the sting with softly laid kisses. The thudding beat of her heart is impossible to miss when he stretches upwards to kiss her throat again.

"No," she says. Yes, the thud of her pulse is very loud, quickened sharper by that scrape of teeth over sensitive skin and the gentle kisses that have chased after it. "I don't know. You ought to tell me when first you thought it."

Bold indeed, as blunt there under his mouth as his weight is and his teeth have been against her. Her hands chase after him, fighting the impulse to simply wrap Ellis directly up in her arms again. Instead, Wysteria grasps at his shoulders and twists faintly under his lips. Scratches very carefully at curving muscle and flexes under him as if that invitation for her to raise her hips weren't specific to the removal of her smallclothes.

And she does—kick that lingering scrap of cloth from off her ankle. Where it goes after may be a concern for some later hour.

He should. He knows the first moment. Remembers how his heart had seized in his chest, twinned by a tug in his belly.

But he doesn't tell her this.

Wysteria had asked for her chemise to come off too. Ellis is not sold on the necessity of it, though it pricks at the edges of his thoughts even as he puts a hand into the loose drape of her neckline to thumb over her breast, the peak of her nipple, while he lifts his head to kiss her. He will have to take this off her, even if their present entanglement is so pleasant as to make moving a second time unbearable.

"As long as I have loved you," is not an answer. He has not been specific about this either and doesn't intend to be. It has been such a long time. Wanting her came second, slower in the wake of acclimating to the revelation of all this feeling. He loves her so deeply it steals his breath. His mouth moves along her jawline again, finds the thud of pulse in her throat to kiss there as his weight shifts over her.

"Let's have this off before I tear it," is not an answer either, and not even a serious threat. Ellis is a long way from the time when he might lose control of himself in that way. But it might delight Wysteria, to hear that he wants her so urgently that there is a danger of it.

It does. Her laugh is bright and only half smothered in deference to how close the air between them is, thick in her throat under his mouth. What an image that is—and how catastrophic, as she has no replacement for the trip back to the lodge, and would have to explain herself to the lady of the house in order to borrow more than just a set of clean skirts. The pretend threat of that serves to distract her from the fact that, no, he hasn't answered her properly at all. But she hardly needs to know the specifics of what the answer would have been either. What does the exact point he decided he wanted her matter, really? Just that it was a long time ago, and now he's her husband, and tonight he still does.

With a giddy enthusiasm, motivated by his hand at her breast and his shape and the absurd novelty of being completely naked for his examination, Wysteria pries herself up from the pillows and the fur slanted across the mussed bed. She can't go far without his permission, given the arrangement of their bodies, but presumably he has every intention to give. And if he doesn't, she's happy to encourage him with little nipping kisses and a further laugh.

With everything so loose about her person, shedding the chemise takes so little effort.

The chemise vanishes over the side of the bed.

It's absence, though telegraphed clearly and insisted upon by her, insisted upon by him, is something of a shock.

Wysteria would hate knowing it, but as struck as he is by the entirety of her, his eyes go first to that great scar across her chest. Sat back as he is, set on his heels, Ellis is likely meant to observe her in full. But he is drawn back to her face, watching her as he leans in by degrees, so he might puts his palms back to her waist. They fit, just as always, warm to her skin.

"Lay back," he murmurs, softly. "I want to look at you."

As much with his eyes as his hands, thumbs already stroking back and forth across her stomach.

Months ago, the prospect of this would have turned her beet red and reduced her to scoffing. No—that's not true. Pinning the difference on a measure of time would be entirely misleading. In fact were he next week to suddenly and without preamble ask her to take off all her clothes and lay back for his observation, she might color and fluster all the same. But they've been here in this bed for some time. And her skin feels so very appropriate on her bones. Ad he's been naked for so much longer than she has. Any embarrassment she might have ordinarily felt over being seen in her entirely natural state has so reduced as to be inconsequential. Instead, she is just very bare, and very pleased with having gotten what she asked for, and thusly is delighted by the look on Ellis's face.

"Aye," she chirps—ha ha ha, how witty she is!—and lays obediently back.

Not flat. Not quite that far. In her eagerness, she can only bring herself to the level of being propped up on her elbows. Neither can she subsist on silence despite her best intentions to merely be an observed object of his attention. After hardly a moment's measure of restraint—

"See," is very proud. She presses her knees softly about him. "Nearly all my freckles have gone."

It's still very obvious which parts of her have often seen the sun and which nearly never do. This and that long scar are hardly the only evidence that Wysteria may be failing, despite her very best efforts, to be a respectable young lady. But surely they're among the most apparent exhibits.

No, not silent. Wysteria is rarely silent, and her interjection is such a welcome thing. It sparks a laugh in return, bright and clear. He has yet to put his mouth back to her skin, if only because he hasn't decided exactly where to apply himself first.

"Aye, I see."

Spurred forward by the press of knees, Ellis' palm runs across her belly. Up over her ribs, over the curve of her breast. Fingers grazing the edge of her scar, so brief that it might go unnoticed.

Suppose they do only this? Suppose he spend the rest of the evening touching her?

Ellis would ask, if he were not so certain of her impatience. There is one other outstanding request, and he'd promised—

"Are you comfortable?" comes as he catches hold of her knee, runs fingers along her thigh. His head lifts to look into her face, taking in her expression. "Is this how you thought it might go, when you asked to have me?"

How pleasant his laugh is! Of all things, that makes her flush—affection warm and bright in her cheeks even before his hand has begun to rove along the length of her.

"Yes." It's an unvarnished answer; she's smiling still. "—Well, no. I thought I might have to undress you first. Though I enjoy that I didn't have to, as I've been able to look at you for all this time."

For all that might imply, the point of her attention doesn't flicker from his face. How fond she is of the fine wrinkles about his eyes and the lines his smile presses into his cheeks and brow. How good it is to look at him in the diminishing glow of the firelight.

"But I knew you would be very careful with me and that I might have to persuade you to be less so."

Yes, this is very like what she expected. Yes, she is comfortable.

"Next time, aye?"

For each of these things, perhaps. Undressing him. Persuading him away from caution. For touching her, because he has hardly touched her enough.

His fingers hook there behind her knee, gently hitching her leg more securely up around his waist. Having left so much ignored, even this minute shift in focus speeds his breath.

Ellis dips to kiss her. Buy a few moments to steady himself before drawing back to focus his attention. Let his fingers drift from knee to the inside of her thigh, then higher. Running fingers through all the heat of her, reapplying that same focused pressure while he shifts his weight over her. Settles by degrees, an elbow bracing at the mattress alongside her shoulder so his hands might catch in her hair, thumb at the line of her jaw. Ease the transition, perhaps.

See, she'd known it. How careful he is about drawing her closer. How gentle he is with the application of his weight even as she'd said only moments earlier how happy she is to forgive it. Were other matters not of considerable interest to her—how shocking the reapplication if his fingers is—, she might find it in her to be a little smug on the subject. Instead, Wysteria gives under his kiss—entirely amenable to his mouth and his hands and the gentle pressure of his thumb, and to the shape of him there between her thighs.

Yes, next time she will undress him and stubbornly badger him into pretending at a degree more selfishness. Next time, she will ask to be instructed and kiss him if he indulges her. Next time—

Well, it hardly matters. Here, encouraged by his nearness, she allows her elbows to buckle. An arm is wrapped loosely about him and there her fingertips gently press at the valley of his spine.

"Please," she says against the rough corner of his mouth. It's not a request made impulsive by passion, just fully aware and very sweet as if she imagines that he might require the reassurance of her asking even now.

Please.

It's a little thing, but it turns him inside out.

"Anything," he tells her, a foregone conclusion. "Anything for you."

Does it even need to be said? In the end, does she not talk her way to what she wants? Does he not always find some way to give in to her?

Even so, there is a moment of his fingers moving into her. Careful still, before his hand draws away. Before his hand comes to rest on the inside of her thigh, encouraging the spread of her legs by some minor degree as Ellis kisses her. There is so little realignment to be made. If Wysteria hadn't said, hadn't asked—

His fingers lift from her thigh.

When he does guide himself into her, this too is carefully done. Slowly, kiss breaking as he breathes out ragged against her mouth.

She is comfortable. It hadn't been a lie. Still, in response to the methodical way in which he adjusts the lay of her thighs, and the how careful and tentative he is, she sharpens. It's not nerves. It's not pain. It's just bowstring draw of her narrowing attention. The press of her fingers across the span of his shoulder blade.

The sound of his tattered exhale is a beautiful shock to the senses. The noise Wysteria makes in reply to it is automatic, less breath and more gasp, has far more to do with the draw of his breathing and the reserved tension she can feel through him than it does the low ache spreading into her. Despite what he might say, despite how hot he can sometimes be made to flush, the pant of his breathing seems very rare to the ear. He is so very measured, and even this narrowest of jagged edge thrills—

It's slow. She doesn't hurry him. Or doesn't mean to, her other hand catching in mirror to the first as if she might clutch him down against her. Her kiss is clumsy, distracted. When she laughs again, the sound is stretched very thin, her 'Oh,' sighed directly into his mouth.

The pace he's set doesn't falter, but it isn't a hardship to let himself be drawn down over her. He sinks into her. He puts his face into her neck once the kiss breaks, entire body wound tight and shivering.

Oh she says, and Ellis' answering laugh is shredded, thick with feeling.

"Good?" he prompts, mouth against her throat still. Held there, attentive to the clasp of her hands and the rhythm of her breath. Taking the measure of all these factors before doing anything else.

Oh, how good his laugh sounds so broken up and close against the skin like that. The shape of it sends a warm flush through her, pulse rabbiting quick in answer. How hot her neck feels; how all at once heavy and brittle he seems over her and under her fingertips.

"I think so," is a very candid answer despite the reedy quality of sound and her preoccupation elsewhere. It's punctuated by some restless press of heels into the bed; a faint shifting of her hip that's equal parts instinctive and experimental as Wysteria looks to settle herself about him. That small measure of friction is—

"You? Are you all right?"

All right is not the same as good.

There is no answer for a long moment, only the uneven draw of breath at her neck, the tremor working its way through his arms and shoulders, the answering alignment of his body to the movement of her hips beneath him. Not proper movement, but some shadow of it.

In this moments with her, somewhere far off in his awareness of himself and his place within the world, is the knowledge of how fleeting this will be. That he cannot stay. This is a small measure of what might have been their lives, and it will end before its time.

But it is such a bleak thing, this knowledge, that it remains cordoned off at a distance, too far to take root, so he might lift his head and kiss her and tell her, "Yes," without it being untrue.

"Are you ready?" might seem like an absurd question, considering their position. But though the small movements between them tip towards an obvious trajectory, there is still that breath of a pause in which they are acclimating. Where she is considering all this new sensation. Where he can afford her the time with which to do that.

Were she a mind reader—what a fearsome prospect—, she might have the wherewithal in this moment to dredge Ellis closer and demand that he stop thinking. Only for a little while. In the morning, which isn't so many hours away and so clearly hardly requires any self-restraint at all, he can remind himself of whatever terrible things he sees lingering so very far off from all this. Stop thinking, she might tell him. You do entirely too much of it.

(Rich, this notion, from the likes of Wysteria.)

But failing the gift of telepathy or any other significant Talents, she is perfectly content to rely on every other discernable part of him. Yes, he tells her, and it isn't untrue.

"Yes," is an echo. Followed by clear headed clarification: "I think it might help, actually. Were you to move."

See. He may rely on her to always to be very honest even when she's naked and flush. How reliable she is!

This draws another laugh, deep and fractured and breathless, pressed against her jawline.

"Aye," Ellis obliges. The present moment comes into full focus. He emerges from her neck, looks down to observe her laid out beneath him. Not the movement she had requested, but surely he is due this brief span of time in which he might look at her. Observe the flush spread all along her skin, the fan of her hair across the pillow, the color high in her cheeks.

"I love you," he tells her, and thinks it is fortunate that he has spent so much time telling Wysteria so before this. The sentiment has been so well-established that it can't be diminished by their present entanglement. He loves her, regardless of where they find themselves.

His hand finds her hip, encouraging the tilt of it soundlessly as he does, finally, take her direction. Rock his hips into her, this too a slow, measured movement.

It's a very unfair order of doing things, really. Here she is still feeling the ripple of his laugh against her throat, and then she's expected to combat the flush of pleasure that unfolds in her chest every time Ellis says 'I love you' if she's going to manage to reciprocate the sentiment before he does anything else.

That it's an impossible battle goes without saying. And so she hasn't yet worked her way past it to saying anything like 'I love you,' or 'Tell me again', or maybe even just a cheeky 'I should hope so,' before he chooses to do as she'd instructed. The result is that the slow rock of Ellis's hips is met with an involuntary soft, aching sound that might have originally been designed as something else entirely otherwise.

Lest he find it discouraging, she's quick to tighten her hands on him. To breathe out and not tremble through the exhale as she mentally sorts the parts of this which are good, and how pleased she is that he's done as she'd asked, and what will fade so long as he continues to be so deliberate. It takes a few, slow strokes for her to do it—get her bearings, to recall the dig of her fingers and loosen them, to flex experimentally into him in the way that seems obvious rather than simply feeling what he might do.

It's gratifying to be correct; it does help.

He does continue, deliberate and slow, attentive to the tension in her body. To the grip of her hands at his shoulders and the rhythm of her breathing, take his cues from the sum of all these things. This close, there is nothing but her. And even when Wysteria's grip on him eases, the motion between them continues steady and unchanged. For the moment, at least, while they settle into the newness of this thing.

"Better?" he breathes, so low it's more the shape of a word than something vocalized out loud.

Her "Yes," is immediate, clear despite the fuzzy shape of his question and the buzz of sensation spreading through her. Yes, it is better. Yes, it—she sharpens, then gives, thumbs pressing at his skin only to relent with a soft sigh—feels like the slow flex of a sore muscle, aching and not unpleasant at all.

It seems very natural that her hands should find there way to his shoulders, and his neck, and wander back into Ellis's dark hair.

"Is it—" No, he'll only reassure her if she asks that. "Please tell me," she says instead, knees tightening by reflex. She thinks of it so rarely—those other people he's loved like this, and how much she would prefer to be his favorite of them. "If I'm not as you like."

"You are."

What else could he ever say to her in this moment? Of course she is as he likes. His head has been so full of her for such a long time. What else is there?

There is some real effort involved in maintaining the pace he's set. But he's a long way from his youth, when he might have come apart so easy under the trip of her fingers at his shoulders, the nape of his neck, the slide of them along his scalp.

When he kisses her, it's a little absent. Unfocused, dropped to her mouth because he needs to be kissing her as much as he cannot draw his attention away from her knees at his sides and the meeting of their bodies, all the gathering heat flushed along his skin as they move in and against each other.

"I love you," might be mistaken as a throwaway thing, a repetition of sentiment surely unnecessary by now. It isn't. It never is. Even in this moment, applied as if in unconscious rejoinder to the motivating thoughts behind her request.

It seems like it should be very difficult to flush any more than she already is. Every part of her seems so warm. But for all that Ellis's refrain maybe very familiar, it still serves to send heat spreading through her. It's rather like the sensation of watching something molten be poured into a waiting mold, running into all the channels and filling it. If she required reassurance—not that she does; obviously she is perfectly confident in this and her part in all of it—that might certainly serve to bolster her.

"That's good," is too scattered to be shameless cheek. It might just as easily be in answer to the press of him, or his bulk between her knees, or the wound tight line of his body.

Must be, for a moment later she presses more decisively up—or draws him down by her hands in his hair—to catch his mouth again. Sets her teeth at his lip like she might prove her enthusiasm that way. Laughs there, eventually, and insists, "Oh, I love you too," as if she's just heard him.

"Tell me again."

Selfish.

But he only human. How can he be anything else but caught between helpless, desperate pleasure at hearing those words from her and drenched in guilt for the reception of it?

He loves her so dearly. It is like drowning, whenever he tries to think of it, take an accounting of it. His love for her runs in all directions, hooks into every part of him. Hearing it mirrored back fires all things in gold, scorches him for the realization of it.

This pace, it's slow, considered rhythm, had been meant to keep them here as long as possible. But how long will he last with her saying such sweet things, with her hands tight in his hair?

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