Handsome.
His mother had called him that, though he had never believed her—not when so many opinions suggested the contrary.
But his mate thought him handsome.
He tried not to preen from her praise.
“Then I am permitted to find you beautiful,” he declared, leaning closer as he allowed his fingers to begin to touch, Prim forced to lean backwards lest his entire body press against hers. She swallowed, but relented, her back reclining against the furs as he moved over her. “Do you not agree?”
Her nod was shaky, but present.
“Are you nervous?” he asked softly, any playfulness gone from his tone. He would be exploring her—of that he was certain—but it was important he also have full knowledge of her thoughts and moods.
So he could assuage them. Distract her from them. Coax her into joining with him fully, not only in body but in mind.
“A little. But that’s stupid.”
Rykkon hummed low in his throat. “Do you fear I will hurt you?”
She openly scoffed at that. “If you’d wanted to do that, you’ve had ample opportunity. Somehow I doubt you’d choose now to start.” Her tone made it clear that she spoke truly, that the notion seemed genuinely absurd to her, and he was glad of it.
But still, she was nervous. “Then what troubles you?”
His fingers skimmed over her shoulder once more, this time unencumbered by fabric. Smooth skin tickled against the slight rasp of his own flesh, so different, but wonderful all the same.
“Are you really going to make me talk about all my girlish insecurities?”
He blinked down at her. He had not the least idea what those could be. But another thought was causing him worry. “Do your people not talk as they relate?” He had already done much wrong against her, and he did not wish to add to his failings. But it seemed almost a cold thing to not speak with one another—for him to merely touch without any word to pass between them.
At that she rolled her eyes at him. “You must think that I did a lot of peeping back in the colony if you keep asking how other people have sex.”
His head cocked, considering. “You would not speak from your own experience?”
He did not expect the slap against his arm or the way her eyes narrowed at him, no longer a teasing glint suggesting her amusement. “That was rude.”
His confusion deepened. “It was? Why? You have said openly that your people were not overly selective in their mating.”
“My people, yes, but not me!” She pushed insistently at him until she could sit upright, her expression making perfectly clear how annoyed she had come to be with him.
Evidently talking was indeed a bad thing, should he wish her to remain amiable to their joining.
He reached for her hand, and though she looked almost ready to rebel as he held it within his own, she did not pull away entirely. “I am sorry. I am only trying to understand.”
Her lips thinned. “You don’t have to insult my character while you do it. How would you like me to assume the same thing about you?”
Rykkon shook his head. “You know there have been no others. None would have me.”
“And they would have me? The same boys that would taunt and hit me because it was fun? The same ones that, as soon as I grew breasts, would make all sorts of lewd comments and give me a grope as I passed? What would possibly make me want to be with someone like that?”
He did not know what to say. She was right, of course, for she could be nothing less—not when he knew well the life she had led with other males of her kind. She had spoken little of the other colonists, other than to tell of their inaction, of their general lack of care.
And now, in his ignorance, he had caused her great offence.
His thumbs traced the knuckles of her hand, wondering how he could ask her pardon once more. A part of him wished that he could simply bring her close, that they could sleep for a while and he could awake anew—this time without any foolish words flowing freely from his person.
But he could not. Not when she looked both hurt and angered at his thoughtlessness.
Her hand fascinated him. It was softer than his own, even with the patches of thicker flesh he felt upon her palm. Her skin did not shift in colour, though his began to do so, sluggish as it always was, but visible nonetheless. On impulse, he leaned forward and brushed his lips across her knuckles, wondering at the feel of them.
Prim’s breath caught, and he felt a light tug suggesting she would like him to return her hand. But he kept it close, smoothing his fingers across hers once more. “I am sorry to have insulted you,” he said sincerely, hoping that she could find it within herself to forgive him yet again. “I should have known better than to have assumed.”
Prim gave a little grunt, apparently agreeing with him.
“Do you... would you like me to make you something to eat instead?” It pained him to ask it of her, but he was uncertain of what to do when she was so clearly unhappy with him.
Prim sighed deeply, closing her eyes and hanging her head. She was silent for much longer than he would have preferred, but he could not bring himself to ask after her thoughts—not when his words had been what caused such trouble.
“No,” she said at last, giving his hand a little squeeze. “It’s just a reminder that we have a lot to learn still about each other. It never occurred to me that you would question that... or that you wouldn’t have known just from the blood alone.”
His eyes widened, and he bowed his head, remembering the shame he had felt from having caused her such hurt from their initial joining. An apology seemed wholly inadequate.
She tugged at his hand. “Hey, what’s upsetting you?”
He scoffed openly. “I hurt you. Should I be pleased by that knowledge?”
Prim rolled her eyes. “You were fine. It wasn’t actually as bad as I expected.” She paused, colour returning to her cheeks as she regarded him. “Don’t your women bleed the first time?”
Rykkon gaped at her. “Why should they?”
Prim looked terribly uncertain, but eventually she sighed, leaning back against the furs, and Rykkon followed, the better to look at her properly. “Well, my kind does. Or... can, I guess.” She peered at him, her eyes narrowing. “Is that what you thought all that time? That you’d done something horrible to me?”
Rykkon shrugged, uncomfortable with the memory. He was relieved to hear that perhaps it was not some great failing on his part that had caused her to... to bleed, but he was still confused on the subject.
His father had never mentioned it to him, and he began to wonder what other attributes of human composition had been neglected during the time of his apprenticeship.
“I did not know that there was another explanation.”
Prim nodded, looking rather grim as she did so. “Then I’m sorry too. I don’t want you feeling guilty about things that are beyond your control. That seems to be a problem for you.”
Rykkon did not bother to disagree. “You are a generous wife,” he replied instead, meaning it. “Your forgiveness abounds.”
Prim snorted, and she moved a bit closer to him. “Don’t think anyone has ever accused me of that before.”
“It is a truth,” he insisted solemnly. “And I am grateful for it. Though I would have it not be so necessary in the future.”
His mate hummed in agreement. “That would be nice.” She bit at her lip, looking at him with some uncertainty before she seemed to reach some kind of decision. “Are you going to kiss me again?”
He blinked at her. “Would you like me to?”
She did not answer him vocally, instead leaning forward to press her lips against his, delicately at first, merely a brush of her softness before she pulled away. “No more trying to figure out how the rest of my people... relate, okay? We’re just going to figure out what works for us.” Prim sealed her pronouncement with another kiss, this time longer, more lingering as her hands so tentatively came to his shoulders.
<
br /> Her touches were light at first, her fingers hesitant and almost unsure of their welcome. He pulled back, touching her cheek gently as her eyes fluttered open to meet his. “I find it most agreeable when you touch me.” She chuckled, a breathless sound that held a measure of embarrassment—and it troubled him to hear it. “You do not believe me?”
Prim shook her head. “It’s not that. Just... more nerves I guess. That I’ll do something wrong, something you won’t like.”
He leaned down, skimming his lips across her forehead, her cheek, and finally, her mouth. “We will figure out what works for us,” he repeated, deciding that he quite liked her proposal, especially if it meant he was free to invite her to conduct her own explorations as well. “And I like it when you touch me.”
Prim was silent for a long while, and he contented himself with small touches of his own—the feel of her shoulder and the furs surrounding them, nestled as she was within his bed. The way her breasts would ever so slightly meet his chest as she inhaled, only to retreat upon the exhale.
“I like your kisses,” she said at last, and he halted all his movements, listening. “I like it when you hold my hand.”
He reached down and grasped her hand, pulling it upward so he could see their entwined fingers as they rested beside her head. “You have lovely hands,” he remarked. “Strong and graceful. And so small,” he teased.
Prim grimaced, but seemed pleased at his words all the same, even if she did not admit so aloud. “They are perfectly average,” she insisted, though she gave his hand a little squeeze, her eyes soft as she regarded him. “Or maybe you’re just too big.”
Rykkon gave a grunt. “I am afraid it is beyond my capability to change that aspect of my person.”
“I happen to quite like you as you are,” Prim murmured, avoiding his gaze. Her cheeks were pinked, and he found himself oddly moved by her words. So much of this was not what he intended—he had thought simply to carry her to their bed, to learn of her pleasures and how to become generous in his affections, but instead they had quibbled as so often they did.
For there was still much to learn between them.
And yet, still, she quite liked him.
“I care for you very much. You know this, yes?”
She glanced at him, her one hand still tucked neatly into his while the other rose to shyly skim the line of his jaw. “I’m coming to.”
Someday she would be certain of it, of that he would ensure. With his every touch, his everyday care, he would infuse his action with how much he appreciated her presence.
Appreciated her.
“I am sorry that I do not always know what to say to you. I am sorry that I am not always the mate you need me to be.” And he meant it. For he knew that he had hurt her, no matter how unintentionally, and he hated that knowledge.
“No more apologies,” she informed him with a shake of her head. “I think we’re both a little imperfect, and that’s just fine with me.”
He smiled at her. He would strive to be better, just as he hoped she would try to be more open with him as well, but she spoke truly. They both bore their own scars, and had been changed by the having of them, but that did not mean that they could not make something beautiful.
Together.
He kissed her then, drawing her body flush against his, the time for words behind them. He grew bolder as he felt her fingers smoothing over the swell of his arm, and he barely suppressed a shudder at the softness of her against him.
He was fascinated by her mouth, by the dangerous exchange that only he could experience by his choice of mate. The others could not, not with the females of his kind and their potential for poison, but he could share this with Prim—this press of his lips upon hers, the way she opened for him, allowed him to taste her, pressing and needing as he held her all the closer.
When at last he drew away, her chest heaving as she drew in air, he glanced downward at the swell of her breasts. So different, yet also...
Tantalising.
Rykkon glanced up at her face, pleased by the flush that covered her skin, her lips a deep pink from his kisses.
She did not wish him to ask—did not want to discuss the matter.
She simply wanted him to explore.
And he wanted nothing more.
His first touch was perhaps a little timid, a little unsure, as he skimmed a single knuckle across one of her nipples. It was taut, almost straining as it stared back at him, and he found it fascinating. Questions flickered through his mind—whether or not he was permitted to touch, to feel them, when they would be used someday for milk for their young. He did not wish to insult her, but as he glanced upward, he found something in her eyes, a tenseness that he did not expect.
Except it did not appear fearful. She did not dread his caress.
It was anticipation.
And he was not so stupid to sully their exploration with more inane enquiries.
Not when she looked at him in such a way.
He had thought the skin of her hands to be soft, the underside of her arms particularly so. But nothing compared to the feel of her breast beneath his hand as he gently cupped her, his fingers revelling in the sensation of softened flesh, of a pebbled nipple that stood, even now, insistent against his palm. It fascinated him, yet made his mouth grow dry all at once. He was a healer, well used to the physical form. Yet there was something in him, something he had yet to name, that was growing more persistent.
It was not a vague curiosity that urged him on, to lean forward and press kisses upon those impertinent nubs. It was not a healer’s questioning mind that urged him to open his mouth, to taste her, to revel in the shudder that went through her as her fingers dug into his shoulder.
It was something instinctive.
Something powerful.
He was not a healer, not then.
He was a mate.
He was a husband to his wife.
And it was glorious.
To skim his hand across her torso—to marvel at the way his hand could span her waist so completely, to press further downward.
To pluck at the tie of her trous, to release it slowly before glancing at her once in confirmation. To see her nod once in affirmation before he pushed them down entirely, aided by her own shimmy of further acquiescence.
It was so different from their first congress. He would treasure it, for it had been what fulfilled their bonds of marriage, but it was not the same.
Not when even now he could hear the catch of her breath, of the little whimpers as his lips met the flesh of her hip, just once, simply so he could tuck away the knowledge that he had done so, even as his fingers sought and found.
There would be no poultice this time, trying to ease the way by artificial means. Not when there was moisture of her very own. Warm. Welcoming.
Undeniable confirmation that she wanted him.
She tugged at him, and he looked up at her, only to see her cheeks had darkened even further. “You’re too far away,” she protested, a hint of discomfort tingeing her words.
“I am here,” he assured her, hoping that she would be satisfied with his reminder alone. But her eyes were pleading, her tugging persistent, and though it was with some reluctance that he crawled back up the length of her body—so close to truly learning the nuances of his wife’s most hidden places—he did so.
For her desires came first.
And there would be time for that yet, for learning, and touching, and seeing, when she no longer knew embarrassment when she lay within his bed.
So instead he kissed her once more, to drive away any lingering reticence from her mind, as well as to reassure her that all was well when she was with him.
He wondered if there would come a time when she would grow bolder in her curiosities, in her desire to learn of his person just as he sought to do with her. He thought yet again that perhaps her people did not think such things—perhaps the females did not hold any particular interest in that regard, but he stopped himself.
Prim did not care for how the vague notion of her people chose to join with their mates.
She simply wished for them to learn of each other.
To partake.
To relate.
He felt a thrill of anticipation as he looked forward to many more nights and days with her, as her needs grew more pronounced.
And while he much enjoyed their kissing, he longed to be joined with her fully—to experience once more the entirety of her embrace. This time no longer with her tired and resigned, no longer with her mind occupied with nightmares.
But to join for its own sake, simply because they wished to do so.
His hand drifted lower once more, and though she squirmed, she made no protest as he found her, as he prepared her, before finally, allowing only enough time to push away his own trous, he entered her.
Rykkon trembled, unsure that he would ever grow used to this feeling—of the warmth, of that silken heat that threatened to drive him into madness. But there was a startled gasp beneath him, and it forced himself to return to awareness, if only for a moment. His voice was low and raspy, strained as he stifled the instinct, to push, to press, to move. “Are you well?” he asked, pleading silently to hear that she was. That this time, with his pleasure so complete, that she felt some measure of it as well.
Her hand tightened upon his arm as she nodded, her lips pressed firmly together.
“Prim?” A sinking feeling settled low in his belly, that despite his best efforts, despite her previous enjoyment, he might have done something wrong.
He brought his hand to her cheek, his thumb brushing against that pursed mouth, urging her to speak to him.
Her eyes moved to his, and he drew in a sharpened breath at the way she looked at him. Not pained, not begrudging that he had failed her yet again.
But full of desire.
“Please,” she murmured, and he briefly wondered what she was asking of him. But then she shifted, a thrum of pleasure rising through his spine at her movement, and he rather thought that what she asked was that he not require her to speak further.
His Prim did not care much for talking. But perhaps she was growing fond of this exploring.
And on that they were in perfect agreement.
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 20