He realised then, as her body moved under his, as she held him, as she pulled him all the nearer, he had never experienced a joining with her. Not truly. She had received him, had tried to make herself receive him in turn, but this was something wholly different.
It was shared.
The way her eyes would flutter when he moved just so, held him captivated. He wanted to close his eyes, to focus solely upon the sensations that coursed through his own body, but to do so would mean missing something of her.
And he wished to remember every bit of this.
She would not allow him to view her properly below, not yet, but he wondered if it would be wrong to touch while he was already so nestled inside her, just to come to know the shape, the feel of her about his fingers, another memory of something experienced that only they would know...
Only to revel in the shortened gasp when he found her again with his fingers. Pressing, teasing, memorising the feel of her, even as she responded to his ministrations, as her heels pressed against his legs, urging him toward her, for more...
When she tightened about him, he could no longer ignore the insistent thrum, an ever straining cord that threatened to buckle from the tension...
Until it broke.
And he could do nothing but hold her as he struggled for breath, as he forced himself to remain as aware as he could, of the fullness of her in his arms, of the warmth that surrounded him, of the way her fingers gently smoothed against his scalp.
This was to be welcomed. To be wanted.
And he did not know how he had proceeded with anything else. Not when he now knew what this meant. What it truly meant to relate.
He was likely crushing her, and with a grunt he shifted, pulling her with him as he could not yet bring himself to let her go.
Not yet.
Not when his blood still pulsed wildly in his ears.
And most especially, not when something ridiculously near to one of Prim’s sobs was lodged within his throat.
16. Raw
“Rykkon?”
Prim’s voice was a little alarmed, and he supposed he had held her a bit too tightly, and he forced himself to loosen his hold even as he tried to reply normally.
“I am well,” he told her, hoping it was a truth. He did not know why he felt this ridiculous sentimentality, why it seemed so very wrong to think of moving even the slightest bit away from her. And yet it did.
Now that he had found her, truly done so, there was nowhere he would rather be than here, with her tucked safely in his arms.
Prim reached up and placed her hand upon his jaw, her eyes narrowing as she looked at him. He wanted to brush her hand away, to bury his face into the curve of her shoulder and simply live there for a while, but he did neither. If she wished to study him, he would not stop her.
“You are a terrible liar,” she informed him, and though a part of him recoiled to be accused of speaking falsehoods—he reminded himself firmly that she did not know what a grave offence she had given. And in truth, he did not deeply feel it. Not when in this case she was correct.
“I feel... raw,” he admitted.
His hand came to his chest, hoping she could understand. She nibbled at her lip, a small crease forming between her brows, before she nodded. “It meant a lot to me, too.”
He relaxed somewhat at that, to hear it confirmed that even in this he was not alone.
She looked at him a moment longer, obviously considering something, before she wriggled from his hold. He reached for her, determined to bring her back, to keep her close until hunger or other needs forced them to abandon their nest of furs. But nothing seemed more pressing than his desire for her closeness, and he was not ready to part with her so soon.
But she hushed him with the press of her palms against his chest, pushing at him until he lay down again, tense though he remained from uncertainty. She leaned forward, her lips nearly touching his ear. “I’m right here,” she told him, the same assurance he had given her when she had grown nervous.
She sat upright, her breasts still fully exposed to the openness of the room, and he vaguely wondered if he should offer to cover her with a fur, or fetch her tunic from the floor where it had somehow managed to find itself. But, he groused, if she was so very cold, she could return to his arms. Where she belonged.
Her fingers traced over the ridges on his face, and he stilled, not expecting such contact. She skimmed the smallest one beginning just above his nose, upward to the largest less than a handbreadth beyond. Next, she traced the points of his ear, and a shudder went through him at the feel of it. “W-what are you doing?”
“Checking for rawness,” she placidly explained, before she leaned over him again. “I haven’t found any yet.”
Rykkon sighed, though there was a great deal of humour in it, realising that perhaps there was a bit of his wife’s own curiosity in her little game. She had seen him, of course, and he had caught her staring at some of his peculiarities, but she had never asked about them, never approached him with the intent to touch, to question him regarding their nature.
Apparently she had now found her opportunity.
“This is not quite what I had intended to convey,” he told her drolly, though he felt another shiver as her fingers traced the lines of his neck further downward, before they paused against his chest.
“Hush, you,” she commanded vaguely, peering down at him strangely. She squinted, leaning closer before sitting upright once again. “You don’t have any nipples. I thought it was just that they blended away but you... really don’t have any.”
He looked up at her, aghast. “Of course not! How could you possibly think that I could be a milking mother when I...” he gestured vaguely to his downward parts, a sinking feeling in his belly suggesting that perhaps his mate truly was so ignorant as all that.
But Prim simply rolled her eyes and leaned down to place a kiss upon his lips. “Our males have nipples. Nobody really knows why. I wasn’t suggesting anything, just thought it was odd.”
“Oh.” Some of his disgruntlement faded. He tried to remember if he had seen one of the males without a tunic in Mercy, but most kept to their tents when his people came, and those that were brave enough to remain in the camp did so fully clothed.
She kissed him again, this time a little longer, a little more fully. “I didn’t mean to suggest anything, really. I just haven’t gotten to really... look before. Do you mind?”
He remembered with a grimace that he had actually wanted this, wanted her to gather her courage to explore him in turn, and he realised then how much bravery it had taken for her to lie still and allow him to look. To touch. To taste.
And though there was a very great part of him that wished to withdraw, to hide away until this impulse of hers had passed, there was no denying that there was something wholly satisfying about her interest, of the sensation of her fingers as they learned each of his planes.
So he kissed her back, yielding to her whims, until she eventually pulled away, a smile playing about her lips.
And that alone made everything well worth it.
He started when she moved downward, taking the furs with her as she uncovered his hip, placing a kiss upon him just as he had done to her. He had not expected it of her, was a little surprised that she had even noticed he had placed one there, but something within him swelled at her sweetness as she sought to return all of his affections.
She fiddled with the fur, looking at him with the first sign of bashfulness, and he swallowed thickly at what was to come next. If he decided to indulge his petulance, he would remind her that she had not permitted him to look, had not allowed him to see her most private of places. But there was no place for peevishness in their bed.
And if his wife wished to look, he would allow it.
He gave her a slight nod at her questioning look, and she pulled the fur aside.
And simply sat.
And stared.
For what felt like an eternity.
/> Rykkon shifted in discomfort at her prolonged scrutiny, his fingers twitching to replace the furs over himself.
“There’s bumps on it,” she said at last.
“Yes,” he agreed warily. “This is what a,” his vocabulary failed him. “This is what it looks like,” he finally settled upon, as safe an answer as he could muster given the circumstances.
Her head tilted to the side, obviously considering that.
He still wished to cover himself.
“Do your males present... differently?”
“The medic at the colony said that meant you had a disease.” Her eyes narrowed a little more, and he did not know whether to laugh or give into dismay—he was certainly not diseased. “And Peter Denkler showed me his once when some of the other boys dared him. It didn’t look like that.”
Rykkon did not like the sound of this Peter Denkler, especially if he insisted upon exposing himself to a female that had never and would never be his mate.
“We were just kids though,” she continued. And to his shock, to his horror, to his delight, she reached out a finger and gave his cocc a tentative poke.
“I should like to think I was more deliberate in my treatment of you,” he half-heartedly complained, a very great part of him hoping she would touch him again. Perhaps a little more fully, her touch lingering just so...
Prim reddened, the first sign of embarrassment she had given since she had begun this interlude. It had not been his intention, he merely wished to tease her, and, perhaps, receive affirmation that he had indeed pleased her as he had so wished to.
“I have no complaints,” she affirmed, still a little more bashful than she had been. She nibbled at her lip, thoughtful, and though he wanted to touch her again, to draw her back to lay with him, her game suddenly having proved upsetting to her, he forced himself to wait, to see what she would do next. “Did you mean it when you said you liked... you liked when I touched you?”
Rykkon looked at her in some surprise, wondering how that of all things could be in question. “Yes.”
“I’ve been so curious about you, you know,” she mused thoughtfully. He could not quite tell what she was looking at, her attention seemingly more on the furs than on his person. Her voice was low, and he wanted to tug at her hand, to press a kiss to her palm to see if he could get her to smile. But he waited, knowing that for her to voice her thoughts so freely was a precious thing, and he would not hinder them in any way.
She gave a little sigh, her eyes settling somewhere on his chest. “I’ve wondered about what your skin would feel like, if your ears felt like mine even though they’re pointy, and just... all the other little things that make us different. I never... I was too nervous to ever really look before.”
“I did not know,” he told her apologetically. “If I had, I would have assured you that you could look your fill. Could touch anything you wanted.”
Prim smiled at him, a little sad, a little wistful. “But I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I? You don’t... like me to look, not really.”
Rykkon did not respond, not at first. His thoughts too filled with how true that was, and yet how wrong it felt to hear her speak it. He wanted her to feel no shame in their bed, no embarrassment as they lay together, but he was filled with his own doubts on too many occasions.
And it was not fair to her.
But he still owed it to her to supply another truth.
“I do not know what will finally make you think me too different. Which aspect of my person you will uncover that brings you some disgust.” He reached out, his fingers skimming down her arm. “I like you to find me... handsome.”
Prim offered another rueful smile. “Imperfect, you and me. Always worried that we’ll disappoint. But I guess we have each other, even in that—even if I want to call you ridiculous for thinking that I could find you anything but handsome.”
Some of Rykkon’s wariness softened at her words, to hear her continued encouragement that he was pleasing to her a balm to his troubles. He took her hand in his, holding it as he had learned she liked, and gave it a careful squeeze. “You have me in every way. For all time. If you must doubt something, let it be another thing. I will care for you, and think you my beautiful mate for all of our days.”
She came toward him, then, burrowing close as she allowed him to hold her, and perhaps her little game would continue—she would sate her curiosity with a proper inspection of all that made him different—but he wanted her nowhere else. Not when even now he felt the wetness of her tears, felt her shudder in his arms, and knew that her cries did not stem from sadness. Not this time.
“I’m so glad you said yes,” she murmured, her tears not turning to their harsher sobs, only a gentle outpouring of the same emotions he had felt after their joining. “I don’t even want to imagine what my life would be if you hadn’t.”
An ache settled in his chest as he thought of it, of her lost and so long abused, as he muddled through his own work with as much graciousness as he could muster.
But no more.
They had their duties—even now his people were so blindly assuming they would receive a say in the future course of himself and his wife.
But their nights were no longer cold and lonely.
Their days were no longer solitary testaments to their respective tasks.
They were shared, just as their joining had been.
He pressed a kiss into her hair, holding her all the nearer, needing her to feel just how much she meant to him.
“I think I found the raw bit,” she said, her voice a little croaked from her tears. He glanced down at her in surprise, only to see her lips settle over his chest, kissing where she assumed his heart to be. He smiled, brushing his thumb across her jaw, her cheek, finding her the sweetest of mates.
“All better,” he pronounced, the words a long buried declaration of his mother’s when she would bandage one of his hurts as a youngling.
Even then, the wound was still present beneath the strips of clean cloth. But the ointment had been applied to aid in healing, her love soothing to his heart if not the physical mark. His father had always been a little incredulous of his mother’s methods, reminding her in his droll fashion that of the two of them, he was the trained healer. But she had simply tutted and continued on tending to her young with that motherly wisdom, far beyond his father’s knowledge.
And perhaps it was much the same for both their less visible wounds that both he and Prim still carried. They were ever present, that yet required time to mend fully, but they had shared much—dare he believe, love?—and he was hopeful for their future.
Prim dozed for a while, but he found himself unable. He was tired—they had not yet slept long enough to make up for the previous night’s vigil—but he could not bring himself to surrender to rest. Not when so many thoughts swirled within his mind.
He did not know what the elders would claim. They had no right to interfere with their mating, to claim that she was an unworthy mate, but if Lorrak convinced them that she held responsibility for Okmar’s death...
He did not know what they would do.
He wished to believe that they had more sense than to believe such a thing—if anything, they thought her rather stupid, as so often they had remarked of the other colonists. They had no ingenuity, no cunning intellect that helped them produce weapons and grow food in abundance.
They simply existed, breeding and quarrelling amongst themselves.
Not for the first time, he considered leaving—of forsaking his promises of long ago, of building himself a life away from any who would continually find fault with everything that he was, all that he achieved.
He drew his fingers through her hair, and though it was gentle, it was enough to stir her from slumber. She sighed sleepily before she opened one eye, peering up at him. Her mouth curved downward into a frown, and he touched the corner, hoping it would soften to at least neutrality.
She graced him with a smile, even if her eyes wer
e still a bit worried. “What are you thinking about?”
“Would you run away with me? If I asked it?”
She blinked, obviously not expecting the question, and she sat up a little so she could judge his seriousness. “What brought this on?”
Rykkon sighed, smoothing his hand over her shoulder, her naked flesh a pleasant distraction from the sombre direction of his thoughts. “I do not know what the elders will say. What if they... what if I cannot protect you properly? It is better that we go, that I hide you away where no one can be cruel, where they cannot place blame on you that is not yours to carry.”
Prim continued to look down at him, her expression thoughtful. He was growing more anxious, knowing that Kondarr’s warning had come long before and if they were to leave, each moment was precious.
But she had not agreed to depart, and there was a part of him that remained leery at the prospect. Their packs would have to be light, and he relished the knowledge that he had provided her first true home.
And he was loath to take it away so soon, if ever he must at all.
“You know your people better than I do. If you think that is best, of course I’d go with you.” He relaxed marginally at her words, but she continued before he could urge her to move, to pack. “But, do you really think they’d waste their time with talking about me? Wouldn’t they be more likely to want to address things with those... creatures?”
War. An ever present reality that they had come so close to ending.
The mere thought of it started a sick feeling in his belly, knowing well the many warriors he had treated, the passings he had eased when the cruelty of poisons, of missing limbs, of mangled bodies had made their deaths inevitable.
Manta had its uses.
And he longed for those days to be well behind him.
“The death of their male will not be met with understanding,” he conceded.
“And you’re their only healer,” she reminded him, her voice soft.
“I am well aware.” Too aware. That his safety in their village was promised only because he was the sole healer amongst them, even when he would like nothing more to abandon them all to their stubborn ways.
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 21