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“Haar, have you ever...?”
“Me? No.”
“Really?”
What surprised Jill the most was how natural it had been. Easy, almost, despite Haar’s initial hesitation. Perhaps he hadn’t gotten over it—perhaps it would be a long time before he would—but he never made it to her father's bedroom, where he'd slept the last time they'd come home. Keeping distant no longer made sense, after sharing a tent for as long as they had—sleeping close without touching, memorizing the way the other breathed in snatches of sleep, in those nights they could. Or, she had; Jill never knew if he’d ever watched her sleep, if he’d ever been awake without her.
“What, just because I’m old?”
“No, that’s not... well, maybe. Yes.”
They’d found a secluded lake on the way home, backs turned as they scrubbed away the grime of war. His wyvern lounged between them in the water, idly watching her bathe, even if its rider did not. She’d dipped down to her chin, watching her drifting tendrils of hair, listening to his faint groan as he scrubbed at his. She'd smoothed her hands down her stomach, wondering how his hands would feel instead. She’d stared at his discarded clothes on the shore, the underdress and tunic and breeches, the outdated armor he’d sworn to never wear again.
“Have you, Jill?”
“Of course not!”
“Don’t give me that. Should I assume you have?”
She’d seen his bare skin in their shared tent, as he changed a shirt or a dressing; she’d helped him, once, to wrap his shoulder, tightening the bandage without meeting his eye. But her fingers hadn’t crawled beneath his shirt, curling in his chest hair; she hadn’t stripped down in front of him, his hands threaded through her unbound hair. Her old bed was too narrow for even a grown woman by herself, but he didn't seem to mind. Haar gathered her hair in both hands as she lay back, one knee between her parted legs. Jill thought she’d be embarrassed the first time a man looked at her, his gaze roaming her breasts, her thighs, the coarse hair in between; instead, she spread herself wider, watching the hand that slid up her leg, his thumb trailing her inner thigh. Because she wanted it, had wanted it back then, too, before he’d left for the Tower. Then, again, when he’d returned from the battle, bruised and bloody and alive.
Haar paused, the thumb up high where she could no longer see it, where he would feel her emanating warmth.
“Haar. Tell me if you don’t want to.”
“Oh, Jill. I do. I do.”
There would be things they’d learn, things they’d already learned. Jill liked her fingers through his hair, and the indent around the back from the discarded eyepatch. Haar enjoyed her breasts, palming the soft flesh she’d revealed to no one before, tracing the line between them. She had never thought her breasts were anything worth showing off, small and high, until his gaze had dropped when she’d slipped off her shirt, moaning when she’d pressed them to his chest.
Haar explored her body, this man who predated her earliest memories. He had stood in her father’s empty house after the last war, watching her with a clear what do I do with her?, because he had promised, after all. Jill wasn’t so foolish to think her father had nothing to do with his hovering presence, even from the grave, as Haar slept in his vacated bed. But he had crossed into her bedroom this time, with his hands and lips and that low groan when she’d fingered the button of his pants. His lips had been salty on hers, and he smelled like a wyvern, but perhaps they both did, embedded into the fabric of Talrega.
“Kiss me, Haar.”
She licked her lips, knowing they were dry and chapped with how often she had worried at them, praying to her father that Haar would come back alive.
You trusted him with your life, and I trust him with mine.
“Anything, Jill.”
His voice was deep, the breath of her name like lightning. Her parted lips were an invitation, sighing when he accepted. She couldn't remember the first time she'd thought about kissing Haar, a curiosity that had evolved into desire, staring at his lips without hearing what they said. She hadn't thought about the rest of it—his weight against her body, the warmth of his tongue in her mouth—and she pressed into it, wincing at the sudden clash of teeth. She marveled that she could feel him smile against her lips, the gentle way he eased back to keep kissing her, her, that he'd wanted to kiss her, too. She gasped for air when he broke away, as he kissed along her jawline and beneath her ear, pushing aside her hair to nip at the lobe.
He propped up on one arm to look at her, brushing her fringe back from her forehead. Her breath hitched when the hand between her legs finally moved, his thumb tracing around the pulse at her center. She’d spent many nights watching his hands at camp, those long fingers that cleaned his weapons or shoveled meager rations. She held her breath when those fingers parted her, wet with impatience, as one finger slid inside.
“Oh. Oh, Haar.”
There was just enough light to see by, the sun on its slow descent toward evening, throwing shadows across his face. Jill traced the outline of his right eye, scarred shut, the soft white pulse of an empty socket. Because she remembered, of course, when the eye had been there. He hadn’t been much older than she was now. Because life wasn’t so long, in the end—her childhood had been wished away for the day she would fight, resulting in the girl who’d known nothing else. She would never tell Haar it was strange for her, too, undressing for a man who remembered those years more than she did. He kissed the palm that touched his scar, watching her face as he eased a second finger inside her.
“You’re beautiful, Jill.”
Jill cupped his jaw in both hands, rough and unshaven, because who had time to shave in the middle of war, smiling at the flecks of gray in his stubble. She warmed when he smiled, too, the way his lip quirked on one side, his freshly-washed hair falling over his forehead. She tilted her head back as he curled his fingers inside her, those long fingers slowly penetrating her, a gentle thrust that sparked in her belly. He kissed her again, that salty-iron-reptilian scent that she sucked in like air. He kissed her mouth and her chin; he moved down the line of her throat, pushing harder between her legs. His stubbled jaw grated her clavicle as he slid his fingers out, and she whimpered, damp and empty and wanting. She arched her back at his wet, open-mouthed kisses on her skin, the slight hesitation before his tongue slipped between her breasts.
“Haar.”
Her hands roamed up his forearms, biceps, shoulders, then traced the scars on his back. His skin was laced with them, her fingers dancing over the soft, white flesh as he sucked on one breast, then the other, his tongue playing at the nipple. There were scars she was too young to remember, and some she did, from long ago—the eye, forearm, shoulder—and she’d told herself it wasn’t just him, that she’d paid attention to all her father’s soldiers. But it was Haar who’d lingered in her periphery, denying when he’d changed from a superior to a man; it was Haar with his face in her cleavage, her own wetness on his hand as he traced the line of her abdomen.
His one eye widened when she eased him away, trembling at what she’d fantasized all those nights alone in their tent. Because he had become a man, after they’d reunited in the war, watching him across the field or asleep around camp. He was a man who knew how to ride, whose thighs she’d watched when he mounted a wyvern, whose body rippled when he wielded an axe. It had been the stress of battle, she’d told herself then, when she’d glance at his spread legs on the saddle; they all yearned for something, she’d thought, staring at his parted lips when he napped. She guided him onto his back now, his heart hammering under her spread palm. Because Jill was a rider, too, straddling his hips as she traced the plane of his stomach, the line of hair beneath the navel.
“Shit. Jill.”
His erection stood upright between her thighs, and she couldn’t help but watch her own hand wrap around it. Because of all their partial undress in that shared tent, it was the one thing she’d never seen, carefully concealed when they prepared for battle. She stroked him slowly at first, uncertain what he liked, what he needed. Haar watched, too, as her thumb traced circles around the tip, already slick. Jill liked the way he looked at her, lingering on her belly and breasts and neck before meeting her eyes. He tried to tuck her hair behind her ears, even though it never stayed there; she shivered when those hands trailed down her sides to cradle her backside. He groaned when she teased the tip of his dick again, as she leaned over to suck at his neck, her nipples grazing his chest.
“You keep doing that, Jill, we’ll never get to the good part.”
“This isn’t the good part?”
His laugh was like a growl, sucking in a breath when Jill raised her hips. He grasped both her breasts as she hovered over him, teasing his dick against the swollen flesh between her legs. She pulsed with renewed need, hot and wet, as Haar lightly squeezed her nipples. Jill bowed her head, her hair tumbling off a shoulder and toward the floor, as she stroked both hands down his length.
She’d heard the women whispering at camp, those women who were experienced. They said it hurt the first time, that you had to get used to it, that a real man knew what to do. Haar closed his eye, holding her hips as she guided him to her center, where she ached from his penetrating touch.
“Look at me, Haar.”
It wasn’t so unlike his look when roused from a nap, or a reluctant wake-up call at dawn. His half-lidded gaze watched the hands between his legs, widening slightly when she started to lower her hips. The pressure between her open thighs was more surprise than pain, a slight hesitation when she realized there was no going back.
“Jill. Are you all right?”
“Yes, Haar. Yes.”
Because there was already no going back, from the moment she’d abandoned Daein again, following into his tent; there was no going back, holding back tears as he disappeared into the Tower of Guidance; it hadn’t mattered what fate intended for them, as long as he came home.
She lowered down farther, taking him inside, slow and easy. She moved back and forth, feeling for what felt good. And she knew him as her eyes fluttered closed—she trusted him—lips parted, shifting as he gently raised his hips, feeling him move inside her.
“You like that, Jill?”
“Oh... oh, yes. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t, he wouldn’t, not until she’d say it was too much, but it would never be too much. Not with Haar. Because of course it was Haar, after all those years. It was Haar, who started moving faster, his hands on her thighs. It was Haar, who was learning her body as he’d learned her soul, instinctive and penetrating. And she couldn’t decide where to put her own hands, grasping his hips and his shoulders and his chest, clenching her thighs around him as she pushed down farther, hilting him inside her.
“More, Haar. Please.”
She clung to him, crescent moons on his skin from clipped nails. Because she was in love, that word the women said never to say, but it was Haar—
It was Haar—
His hands slid up her thighs, meeting at the place where he filled her. She gasped when he found that swollen flesh at her center, one thumb gently stroking her. It had been a long time since she’d felt weak—not since he’d trained her, young and inexperienced—but her muscular thighs trembled now, as Haar stroked faster. She moved back and forth, feeling him within her body, the spark of pleasure as he teased between her legs.
“Come on, Jill. Finish for me.”
She looked at him, really looked at him, lying on his back with his broad shoulders and unkempt hair, with his hands and his dick between her legs. Her weakened thighs tensed all at once, unprepared when the lightning struck. Jill came with a cry not unlike that of battle, grabbing at his chest as her body shuddered. Haar didn’t back down, still stroking that pulsing flesh between her legs, releasing the pleasure and pain as her nails dug into his skin. She panted, her hair falling across his naked body, feeling Haar’s own tension build beneath her.
“Jill, I... I have to pull out—”
“N-No... please. Stay.”
Haar grabbed her thighs, arching back with a low moan, thrusting deeper.
He went still, panting. When his eye drifted closed, she stroked his stubbled cheek with the back of her hand, then traced around his square jaw. He lightly grasped that hand when it reached his chin, kissing her fingers. No, life wasn’t so long, in the end. It wasn’t as strange as she thought it might be, as Haar met her eyes. She thought of all those years only he would remember, a vague memory of happy as she'd watched him become the soldier she'd wanted to be. He smiled, twirling a strand of her hair through his fingers. It was a simple act, but just another piece of Jill that she wanted him to have.
“Should I get down?”
“Yeah... but careful. It could be messy.”
They’d have to bathe again, his release slick on her thighs and in the sheets. But Haar seemed unbothered by it, wrapping both arms around her. The bed truly was too narrow—Jill gathered her hair quickly before it was trapped beneath his arm—but it worked, when she nestled to the pulsing heartbeat within his chest.
“You’ll stay with me, Haar?”
He kissed her forehead.
“Until I die.”
Her eyes drifted closed, as Haar combed the length of her hair with his fingers. Maybe, this time, he could finally watch her sleep.