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Love Affair	By : dragonslover1 Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 4416 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: “Dragon Age”, its sequels and products, are owned by BioWare. I am not profiting from this fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 1-Love Affair
- 1
Love Affair

As the crest of the night approached, the abandoned mansion was filled with noise of a specific type. Panting was the foremost sound, with moans and grunts and groans suffusing the time within. An occasional giggle or laugh sometimes flittered out through the empty halls.
A mere week ago, Fenris had been visited by the object of his affection and finally summoned the nerve to talk about the most sensitive subject of his life: the night he’d given in to temptation and made love to Marian Hawke. He’d been surprised to learn how much she felt for him, and she, too, was surprised. When their desires joined and they admitted to being in love — if only to themselves — they each secretly promised to themselves that they would never separate.
Already it was proving an easy promise to fulfill. If they didn’t spend the night at the Hawke estate, they spent the night here. Hawke was more open in public than Fenris was, perfectly willing to chuck his chin or kiss him in front of nobles who frowned on such a thing. Though outwardly he chided her for the display, inwardly he was giddy and pleased. She cared naught what the nobility thought of her cavorting with an elf, one covered in “tattoos” and sporting an unnatural hair color for his age.
A part of him was humbled by her, and that only fed his desire for her. Luckily she seemed to ache for him as badly as he did for her. There were never any questions or hesitations before lovemaking; one of them would grab the other and there would be no more need for words. And afterwards, they would talk, basking in what Hawke continually referred to as “the afterglow”. His reading lessons were suffering due to this, but he didn’t much care.
Now they fell atop the bed, spent and satisfied. Marian laughed once, biting her lip, and writhed just a little, as if she couldn’t help but stretch against the cool sheets. Her hand fisted the fabric.
He gripped her hand, growling into her neck, “You know how that distracts me.”
He wasn’t sure why, but it did. Her hand fisting the sheets seemed to coincide with her losing absolute control, which in turn tended to make him lose his mind. It made him want her again, want her more. . . It made him want to taste and tease and drive her wild until they simply passed out.
“I know,” she said, turning her head so their noses rubbed. The proximity of her lips demanded a kiss, so he closed the distance between their mouths. “Mmmm,” she moaned softly.
How had he ever managed to win her? He supposed he could call it his “just dues” for the harshness of his life, but he couldn’t make himself believe it. Not even the Maker could have managed to give her to anyone or anything — this was a woman who chose everything herself. She’d chosen him. It still dumbfounded him.
He relaxed into the bed, sliding an arm under her waist to keep a hold on her. As he looked up at the ceiling, he wondered aloud, “Why didn’t I do this the very moment we met?”
She chuckled. “Because you were extremely untrusting. Still are, technically.”
“Ouch,” he responded, but it was a lie. He wasn’t hurt; she’d spoken the truth. “What I mean is. . . You’re gorgeous and incredible. I noticed that from the first moment,” he explained, looking at her. She watched him with a mix of adoration and interest, as though riveted to what he was saying. That, too, was distracting; he had to struggle to remember what he was talking about. “The. . .first moment I saw you. I saw that battle, against the slavers. I was watching. You caught my eye.”
“And apparently I never let it go,” she teased.
He smirked. The truth, bare and simple and profound. “That’s why I asked you to help me against Danarius. After seeing you fight like that, I was sure you’d be able to help me.”
“Let’s not forget Aveline and Bethany and Varric,” she pointed out. “They were there too.”
“Yes, and together they felled four slavers, while you managed nine — and their mage. Who was constantly hiding in magic shields.”
She blushed a little. He’d discovered that about her — she knew how skilled she was, how powerful she could be in battle. But when others brought it up, she tended to get shy and modest. It was adorable, really.
“That’s not my point though,” he said now, trying to get back on track. “I was fascinated with you from the first glance. You were different from everyone I’d ever seen. I wanted you even back then, though at the time I’d. . .never felt that kind of desire before, so I didn’t know what it was.”
“Is that why you offered to help me and stayed in Kirkwall?” she wondered.
He nodded. “Hell, that was the reason for everything. Why I asked you to come help me — I wanted to see more of you — why I stayed so close when we were in the mansion, why I gave you all the money I had on me —”
“I was tempted to refuse it,” she cut in.
Confused, he looked at her with raised brows. “Why?”
“Because I have this rule about money and those less privileged than myself. You were clearly worse off, and if I hadn’t needed that money so much, I never would have accepted it.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. Yes, that was just like her. I don’t need a reward was a phrase he’d heard from her often. She helped because she could, because it made her happy, because she wanted the world to be a better place for everyone in it. He’d seen her stay her hand against hardened criminals who pleaded for their lives.
But he’d also seen her show no mercy to certain types. Murderers, rapists, blood mages — these received only cold glares and sharp blades. Because to make the world a better place, it needed less of those types.
Now he sighed, looking back up at the ceiling, thumbing through his memories. Why hadn’t he tried to make a move on her? He’d been aware of his desire for her since before the Deep Roads trip. And the entire time during the trip, he’d been stressed, worrying about the taint. It was a relief when they’d left at last, no more darkspawn to threaten her life in so many ways.
“Why didn’t I ever try to seduce you. . ?” he wondered, only half aware that he’d spoken aloud. Marian turned her face into his shoulder at the question, and he noted that she froze just like that. Odd. “Marian?” he prodded, glancing at her but only able to see hair.
“Mm-hmm?” she responded without moving.
He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “I thought we promised not to hide things from one another.”
She gave a delicate cough, moving to her back. Her expression was half-shamed, half-embarrassed — and she was clearly uncomfortable.
“What is it?” he asked, though the words were closer to a demand. He leaned up on one elbow to hover over her. She bit her lip, a sure sign that she was either nervous or feeling intense waves of pleasure. He doubted the latter.
“That night, the first night we were intimate. . .” she glanced away, “wasn’t really our first.”
His brows hiked up. “What?”
After taking in a steadying breath, she looked at him again. “There was a time before then.”
“You. . .” he started, confused. He tried thinking back but came up empty. “Explain. I would have remembered that.” He was sure of it.
“Not if you were dead drunk,” she hinted.
“You got me drunk?” he blurted, offended and hurt and shocked. He tried to convince himself he wasn’t the least bit pleased with this news.
“No, you got yourself drunk. I didn’t seduce you, Fenris, you seduced me,” she said, stressing her words.
He believed her words as true. But he still doubted the validity of the story. “Explain,” he demanded again.
She gave a sigh. “Okay. We were at the Hanged Man. . .”

- - -

It was rare for her to go to the Hanged Man and find Fenris here. As usual, his scowl scared away any who came too close, leaving him alone in his corner table with a single mug. Isabela was sitting with him, clearly trying to flirt with him, though Marian noticed he rolled his eyes often. She watched the two of them for a while from afar, given she’d come here to talk with Varric.
But once her talk was done with and Isabela had finally been driven off, she rose and crossed to Fenris’ table. His glance at her was the type she was used to getting from him — recognition, a little surprise, a little irritation. He hated being disturbed when he didn’t want to be, but she reasoned that he hadn’t come to the Hanged Man for nothing.
She gripped a chair with a smirk. “This seat taken?” she asked.
The corner of his mouth twitched just a little. He gestured the seat with a nod, so she pulled it out and sat down, crossing her legs.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she started.
He shrugged a shoulder. “Even I can only stay in that mansion for so long before boredom drives me out.”
That was true. She was feeling the same way in her brand new estate. In the year since the expedition, she’d had little time for anything but politics, worrying over her sister in the Grey Wardens, and getting the estate livable again. The previous tenants — the slavers — hadn’t treated it well. Her sole mote of satisfaction was in the fact they were either all dead or too scared to set foot in Kirkwall now.
She wasn’t used to being indoors for such lengths of time. Even working for Athenril had been more interesting, given she was kept moving at all times. She hated being idle, and she could tell Fenris hated it too — perhaps more. Had he ever stayed in one place this long before? He looked like he was itching for some kind of adventure, like the kind she used to have before the expedition. The ones she used to take him with her for.
“Is that why you’re here?” he asked with a gesture of his chin.
She shook her head. “I came to talk to Varric.” She propped her elbow on the table, rested her chin in her hand. “I still don’t understand why he and Isabela don’t find some place more permanent than living here. Although I suppose Isabela doesn’t spend many nights here,” she added thoughtfully.
He gave a single chuckle — a good sign. As far as she knew, she was the only person who could get him to laugh, even in that simple, weak way. Because of this, she greedily coveted every last one.
“What were you talking to Varric about?” he asked.
She shrugged. “What were you talking to Isabela about?” she returned.
He narrowed his eyes. “You were watching me?”
She tisked. “You don’t have to sound so offended. I noticed you. And I noticed Isabela sitting with you. Come now, you’ve known me over a year. I’m observant.”
“A good habit to have,” he admitted, but he didn’t look much consoled.
She rolled her eyes. “If you want me to leave, you need only say so.”
“I didn’t,” he answered simply.
She pointed at him. “Then stop being so. . .you. Cold and indifferent and stoic.”
He rose a brow but didn’t reply, as if gauging her.
She reached forward and took his mug, which he didn’t seem to approve of, and looked in it. It was empty. In fact it didn’t look like there’d been any ale in it at all. She set it back down.
“Were you actually drinking anything,” she wondered, “or were you just contemplating the mug?”
Now he looked uncomfortable. He replied, “I’ve never been drunk before. I’m unsure if I want to be.”
“It’s an experience,” she offered with a tilt of her head.
“You’ve been?”
“More than once,” she admitted. “But it’s not something you really want beforehand. You start drinking and then you start enjoying drinking, and before you know it, you’re waking up in the street with kids poking and laughing at you.”
“You don’t make it sound very appeasing,” he pointed out.
“It’s not the aftermath you look forward to,” she said, waving over a barmaid. “It’s the journey.” She ordered two mugs; Fenris gave her an odd look. “Drinking is little fun without a friend to drink with,” she explained.
“You expect me to trust you on this?” he challenged.
“Indeed.” She leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. “Because, Fenris, I’m the single most trustworthy person in this city. I can promise you now that if you do get drunk, I can get you back to your mansion without getting robbed or getting lost.”
He leaned forward too, as if she’d dared him to agree. “One condition. You pay.”
“With pleasure,” she answered with a smile. The mugs arrived, and she grabbed hers with a thank you to the barmaid. She wasted no time tossing it back, though Fenris was much slower, eying the mug as if he wasn’t sure he should. Which was silly, really; she’d seen him drink wine before, chugging it down. But she supposed ale was different.
They talked. They drank. Soon she noted that Fenris was drinking more than she was. Enough so that he excused himself, left the tavern, and returned quick enough for her to assume why he’d left. He resumed drinking with nary a pause.
He was an agreeable drunk, she found. Despite all the torture he must have sustained, he volunteered information and even joked. At times his past seemed to haunt him, and he would glare into his mug for long moments before drinking more. But overall, he was surprisingly positive for the man she’d thought he was, and a little less tolerant of the ale than she. He was hammered by the time she decided to call it quits.
She had a lot of work to do tomorrow, after all, and it was getting late.
When she stood to leave, he barked, “Where do you think you’re going?”
She gave him a surprised look. “Back home. . ? It’s late.”
“You. . .” he paused, seemed to think it over, then nodded to himself. He rose. “Then, take me back first.”
What conversation had he had in his head? She arched a brow, her sluggish mind unable to follow very well. “Take you back. . ?”
“To my mansion. You promised,” he reminded her, having to steady himself on the table when he walked around it. “You promised you could.”
Oh. Right. She vaguely remembered that, but nodded all the same. “Okay. One moment. I need to pay first. Try. . .try to stay upright,” she teased with a grin.
He wobbled and scowled — directly at his hand on the table. She chuckled.
The trip back to the mansion was full of giggles and snickers from her, and fumbled words from him. He kept trying to talk, and she kept trying to respond, but it was obvious their minds were too muddled to manage either feat very well. And they had to walk with his arm across her shoulders, because he wasn’t quite steady enough to keep from stumbling.
They paused at every staircase they had to climb, scowling at it beforehand. One step at a time, they climbed it, gripping each other tightly when they wavered. Several times they started to fall and pitched forward, landing hard on the stairs, but luckily losing no ground.
This last time, for the last staircase, they managed to make it to final four steps before he yelped and fell forward, taking her down with him, twisting as they went. She ended up on his chest, barely controlling herself enough to push off of him as he groaned.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“. . .Foot,” he replied.
She glanced down, then winced. On his right foot, three toes were bloody. She sucked in a breath. Looks like she was going to have to treat the wounds before going home. “Okay. We’re almost there,” she told him, leaning over him — maybe too close. “Let’s get you inshide and fix you up.” She started to rise, struggling to do so before deciding it would be easier off the stairs and crawled up the last few steps.
She helped him do the same, and then they were pushing against each other, trying to get back to their feet. How they managed to make it inside, up the stairs, and to his bedroom, she would later be unable to grasp. She laid him back on the bed before searching for something to bind his wounds with, coming up with a bucket of water and an old scarf.
It would have to do. She shredded the scarf into thin strips, boiled the water and wetted the cloth. She sat on the bed with his foot on her thigh as she worked. One strip she used to clean off the blood, and she was honestly surprised at how little he moved when she did so. It must hurt a lot, she reasoned, so why wasn’t he jerking at the pain? She wondered if he was asleep, but tossed the idea out when he glanced up at her and asked what she was doing.
“Fixing your toes,” she explained, lifting the appendage enough for him to see. His mouth thinned in distaste, but he didn’t otherwise react. He looked as if he didn’t quite believe that was his foot.
Once she had his toes clean and wrapped, she rose to leave. He didn’t move when she set his foot back down, so she guessed he’d passed out.
She was wrong.
She’d barely heard any movement — dismissing the creaks as him tossing on the bed — when a hand gripped her arm and spun her around. She only just comprehended his face before he pushed against her, making her stumble back and hit the table. Her first thought was that she was being attacked and she made a floundering grab for her daggers, but he managed more coordination than she, catching her wrists. And then he was kissing her.
She jolted in surprise, perplexed by the situation. This was Fenris, right? Okay, so she may want him — Maker would know — but he never showed any interest in anything beyond revenge. That’s all he wanted.
Wasn’t it?
Clearly not, because he groaned, a guttural, gritty sound that was so masculine and deep and somehow relieved, as if he’d waited a long time for this. She shivered at the sound, surprising herself by how quickly she softened for him, relaxing despite being in a situation she didn’t know how to deal with.
Men had forced themselves on her before — this was far different. She knew him, at least a little, and knew that he would never do this without significant incentive. Was being drunk enough to waken his desires? The ones she’d foolishly believed he didn’t have?
She pulled back, twisting to free her wrists and failing. “Stop this,” she ordered.
His expression was a cross between disbelief and lust. It made him look dangerous, speeding her heart rate at once. The problem was that she couldn’t figure out if she was scared or excited.
“No,” he replied simply, then leaned in to kiss her again.
As nice as this felt, she couldn’t go through with it. Sane, sober Fenris wouldn’t do this — not without her consent, at least. She wriggled, freed her hands, pushed at him; his arms went around her like steel. Maker, how could he be so strong? She managed to turn her head to the side, but it didn’t slow him. Hot, moist lips slid down her neck, his breath tickling her skin.
“You need to shtop this,” she tried, her drunkenness slurring her words a bit and making it harder to think. Or was it his teeth that were doing that? She shuddered.
“No,” he answered again.
A part of her mulled over the fact that this was exactly what she’d wanted for so long: for a man to seemingly demand her. A man she wanted. A man who would crush her to him, worship her with his hands and mouth. A man she could, in turn, worship with her hands and mouth. Most of all, a man strong enough to bend her to his will.
It was what she wanted because it was so impossible. Her skill and her willpower were too great. She’d easily broken men before, men who’d wanted her. She’d pushed and pulled, and found that they rolled when she did so, like a child’s toy. She wanted someone she could push who would push back, someone who even could push back. He had to be stronger than her — she was already strong enough to take care of her entire family by herself, so she needed someone strong enough to take care of her.
More and more, Fenris was proving to be just that man. She’d met scant few like him, men who exuberated the qualities she desired and needed. Most of them had been qunari, for obvious reasons. Their devotion to their religion was staggering, but it was both good and bad — because they didn’t believe in strong women. They were crossed from the list for a number of a reasons, but that one was the largest.
Currently, Fenris was the only one on the list. Who else could she pick? Varric, maybe, but the dwarf’s height always threw her. Besides which, he seemed to be entranced with his crossbow. She’d yet to figure out why.
So when Fenris moved, pulling her tighter against him even as he pressed into her, she shivered in pleasure. His grip was so tight — few could hold her like this, strong enough that she imagined she’d be bruised in the morning. She bit her lip.
He was sucking on her neck, making throaty, pleased sounds as he did so. Oh yes, she agreed with herself, he wanted her. But then, drunk men were known for chasing tails, regardless of whose tail it was.
That thought sobered her a bit, and she pushed against him, gaining ground when she broke his grip and he stumbled back a step. The look on his face was almost one of. . .betrayal.
“You’re drunk, Fenris,” she told him, surprised to hear that she was panting. Maker’s breath, how badly did she want him? Enough that he managed to get her aching for him in seconds, it seemed. “I can’t let you do this. Not while you’re drunk.”
For a moment he seemed uncomprehending of what she’d said, and then his eyes cleared. Determination was displayed there, with no small amount of hunger. He surged forward, seizing her hips. “I can,” he growled, and her heart skipped a beat.
As if employing some kind of strategy to keep her from escaping, he lifted her — she grabbed him in reflex — and all but slammed her into the wall. She grunted at the impact, though it didn’t hurt. Hands on her thighs around his hips, he kissed her again, growing bolder with every second. She whimpered against the onslaught, feeling her protests crumbling as though seeing them before her, one by one, crushed by him. Soon he was plundering her willing mouth, and though she noted his lack of skill in this area, she didn’t much care.
She could taste him so clearly on her tongue, a mixed taste of man and ale and something so incredibly exotic she couldn’t name it. She kept trying to tell herself that this shouldn’t happen, only to find her hands were in his hair, holding on. She was holding him there.
Then things started happening in a blur. She knew she was acting and reacting, but she could no longer control it. She was aware that he was pulling at her clothing, and that she was doing the same to his. Yet when she tried to control her hands, time seemed to slip away. The next thing she was aware of, they were on the bed. She was atop him, kissing him, sucking at his lips as his fondled her. She grasped they were naked and was about to rear back when he twisted, flipping her beneath him.
Time escaped her again. She knew she was moaning, could hear the sounds she made — the sounds he made. They were moving together and there was pleasure, ecstasy, in every part of her and a pressure inside her, pumping and thrusting. Weight on top of her, heat all around. Hands — fingers — gripping her hips, her thighs, petting her breasts. Lips kept returning to her, seemingly everywhere they could reach.
Flashes of brief consciousness seemed to go by. She felt rough cloth at her hands and knees, then her breasts. She felt a hand on her lower back, another on her hip. She felt her hair sticking to her forehead, felt bunches of fabric in her clenched fists. She heard growls at her back, her front, her shoulder, her ear. The growls all seemed to form her name, but she was so lost, how could she possibly be sure?
She was being held in powerful arms, then she wasn’t. It was so hard to make sense of that she eventually gave up. She saw the ceiling, saw his green eyes, saw the fireplace. She heard her voice, begging for more, then his, promising it. And always there was her heartbeat, so strong, and the pleasure. It was the pleasure that she always focused on — because it was so intense. She could feel it everywhere, inside and outside, from her toes to her fingertips to her ears and the roots of her hair.
Then she was moving on her own, sitting upright on his hips. She looked down and saw the intensity of his gaze. He was rapt on her, captivated, eyes seeming to take in every detail as she rose and fell. She felt his hands on her damp skin — damp? How long have we been at this? — and moaned. She focused on trying to touch him, too, but it felt so good just to move and she had so little mentality to spare.
She looked down again, at herself, hearing the way her pants mingled with her moans. She saw smears of white across her stomach and shivered. His seed. So much of it. The room felt hot, stuffy. They were both damp, she noted, hands slick as they touched each other. Her heart was going so fast and hard, she could feel each thud of it in between the shocks of pleasure inside her.
How long had they been. . ?
Her mind faded, lost to the sensual sea she was drowning in. When she broke through the waves again, he was above her, unmoving, their foreheads almost touching. Thrums of electricity were suffusing her, and she recognized it as the aftershocks of release. His hair was wet against her skin, and they were both breathing harshly. Her body was trembling, especially in her legs. He felt shaky too, she realized. His eyes were closed. And she could see very well, oddly. As she regained control of her mind, she glanced around.
Light was visible through the windows. The sky was a light indigo. Dawn. When had they left. . ?
Above her, Fenris jerked. The move seemed to wake him slightly and he opened his eyes, catching her gaze. He looked. . .satisfied. In awe. But his eyes were glassy, and though she felt lethargy in every inch of her, she knew what that meant.
He was still drunk, and now on the verge of passing out from exhaustion. He wouldn’t remember this — any of it since leaving the tavern. Her heart clenched at the knowledge, and she had trouble swallowing. Whatever he was thinking, whatever he saw in her face, she didn’t know, but he tilted his chin up to kiss her. She kissed back, feeling as though she were saying goodbye.
She felt a bead of sweat trickle from her eyelid down her temple to the pillow.
At last, he moved, making her arch as she realized he’d still been inside her. He withdrew, rolling to his back. She looked at him, trying to take in the details she knew she wouldn’t be able to remember later. The way his chest heaved with his breaths, the sight of his skin drenched in sweat, the way his markings curved up his stomach and across his chest.
Maker, he was like a living work of art. Despite knowing they must have been making love for hours, she couldn’t repress the ache inside her as it bloomed to life. She would be living with this ache from now on, she knew. Only he could ease it, and after sleeping off the effects of the ale, he would be none the wiser.
How would she ever be able to face him again with this knowledge? She could only pray that he fell asleep quickly, that she received no questions when she returned home, and that she, too, would forget everything. Maybe this was for the best, she reasoned. He would have to forget, for the sake of his own sanity. He would never be able to accept the fact that he got that drunk and spent literally hours sating himself with her, when she’d been trying so hard to prevent it.
She should have fought harder. Regret stung like a poisoned blade; she knew that now. And she knew she’d never regret anything more than this night, because he would never know it happened.
She pressed her hand to her forehead, scowling at the heat rising from her tested body. She tried to think of some way to hide the evidence here, but she was so tired. . . She could hardly think straight, and she had to save what brainpower she had left to chart the course home.
“Marian,” he murmured, his voice so deep and rough. . .
It was pathetic how her heart jumped at the sound of her own name. The feeling was so familiar that she just knew he’d been saying it all night and her reaction now hadn’t changed at all since the first time. Would he always have this power over her?
In a selfish twist, she hoped that yes, he would. Because that would be constant proof that tonight happened, in case she ever doubted her memories. It was cruel — but if he wouldn’t know tonight happened and never act on it, then she wanted to keep the memory for herself. She vowed to never tell him, doubting there would ever be a repeat. And she vowed to never forget.

- - -

Fenris watched her, captivated, with every word she spoke. When at last the story was done, he could scarcely believe it. But evidence was there, and now he looked more closely at his past. That night, at the Hanged Man, he remembered that — getting drunk with her, even demanding she take him back like she promised. But somewhere between when they exited and when they reached the stairs before the mansion, he’d lost it.
He remembered standing before the stairs, glaring at them as he would an enemy. And he remembered waking the next morning. His foot had ached, and he’d determined that he’d broken a toe somehow. He deduced that Marian had to have been the one to bind it, but the rest of the night was blank. He couldn’t make sense of why he’d awoken so late in the evening to damp, cold bedsheets, completely naked.
He’d assumed that, in a drunken stupor, he’d tossed his clothes off before getting into bed. And he’d assumed that he’d gotten a fever from it and sweat all the night. He’d also assumed that he’d needed upwards of twelve hours to sleep off the effects, which is why it was nearly dusk when he’d opened his eyes.
He’d disregarded the stuffy feeling in the room, the new smells, as the house being old and possibly something to do with the drunkenness. He’d even considered the possibility that someone else had been squatting in the house while he’d been out, and he and Hawke had scared the newcomer away.
In the end, though, he’d written off everything. He was happy enough to have awoken without a “hangover”, though he’d had to thank Hawke for that one. She’d told him ahead of time to drink water to counteract the effects the ale would have the next morning.
But that wasn’t all. The first night with her — the first one he remembered — had been full of odd feelings of familiarity. Kissing her had been surprisingly easy, as if he’d known how to. The way he’d touched her had been familiar too, though at the time he hadn’t been able to analyze it. Her entire body had felt familiar, and he’d known where to touch her and when, where her entrance was despite no memory of exploring a female before.
He even recalled one specific moment: when he moaned her name and thought to himself that it was the first time he’d ever used her first name. The thought had felt vaguely like a lie, and she’d jerked underneath him at the sound. At first he assumed that her reaction proved his thoughts; now, he realized that nostalgia must have seized her.
The way she’d looked at him right after, so hungry for him, so wicked. . . He shuddered just to remember it, and how he’d realized then that he was lost. That one look had undone him completely, and now he knew that he’d given her that look.
With his thoughts in a jumble, he joked, “So that’s why you pushed me into the wall? Because I did it to you first?”
She laughed, hard, tilting her head back as the sounds rang out. He could only chuckle, still halfway lost in his own mind. Of all the things he’d discovered she could make him remember, why couldn’t he remember this? It was, after all, the only thing he wanted to remember. He’d gladly forget his entire life as a slave.
“Perhaps,” she agreed as the laughs died down. She gave him a wicked smile. “I wasn’t thinking of it at the time. But, Fenris,” he voice lowered to a conspiring whisper, “I promise you can push me into walls all you like, provided your intentions remain the same.”
He groaned at the image she conjured. Nuzzling her ear, he replied, “You tempt me.”
“Only because you seduce me so completely,” she murmured.
Ah, Maker, when she spoke like that. . .whispering to him. . . It maddened him. Not an hour ago they’d been thrashing on this bed, moving together, seeking release. Now he wanted more. In fact, he found himself jealous of her memory of him.
That time, they’d kept touching and kissing and making love for hours. She had a memory of being with a man for so long, until both of them had been soaked in sweat and she’d had a liberal coat of seed on her stomach and thighs. He didn’t have the same memory, so it was something like her being with another man.
He wanted to be that man, so he moved over her, roughly placing himself where he wanted to be. She gave a startled gasp, and when her hands pressed against his chest, he seized them, pinning them above her head. Placing his mouth against her ear, he growled out, “If I can’t share that memory with you, then I’ll be making one even more potent. You’ll forget all about that night after this one.”
She shivered. Then he set to work, determined to deliver on his promise.
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Love Affair