She had ached from their morning — well, fucking is the proper term for what they did, wasn't it, but somehow in the memory of that rosy pre-dawn glow of morning, fucking simply feels too harsh a word — from when Eskel had settled himself between her thighs and they rocked together still half-asleep and then later, just before she took her leave of him properly, when he had bent her over the table in his cottage and left bruises in the shape of his hands on her hips that lingered for nearly a week after.
The memory of that little cottage had been a bright spot in an otherwise bleak year. It's hard for her to remember that it was only autumn when they parted. It feels like a lifetime ago.
"I see," she drawls, curling her fingers under the buckles and straps that stretch across his chest, settling herself with the familiar shape of him under her hands. "So you thought you'd come riding down from your mountain and saunter into my path because...you couldn't stop thinking about fucking me?"
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Date: 2020-09-12 04:03 am (UTC)The memory of that little cottage had been a bright spot in an otherwise bleak year. It's hard for her to remember that it was only autumn when they parted. It feels like a lifetime ago.
"I see," she drawls, curling her fingers under the buckles and straps that stretch across his chest, settling herself with the familiar shape of him under her hands. "So you thought you'd come riding down from your mountain and saunter into my path because...you couldn't stop thinking about fucking me?"