Page 157 of Bound

And then she was moving. Onto her back with Braum over her.

And he was kissing her.

Which was familiar and welcome, and it was easier not to worry when she was engaged in that instead.

Made all the more delicious by the way his hand had access, her legs parting in welcome without her conscious decision to do so at all.

It wasn’t fair. That he seemed to know what to do while she didn’t. She’d never had to think about her anatomy, if it looked any different, felt any different than a Harquil man might expect.

But from the way he could make her squirm, make her tense, make her feel as if he was playing her body as if he knew precisely what would please her most...

Oh.

Oh.

He had the bond. And she... didn’t.

He had some mystical essence deep within him that told him how to stroke, how to touch—when to kiss, when to pull away and let her breathe. When to hold her hand and when to let her grapple with the bed linens and pretend there were still thoughts in her head.

But that was cheating.

She meant to say it aloud.

Meant to chide him because that truly was unfair, and he was going to be very unhappy when she tried to please him back and he had to cope with all her fumbling and uncertainty because she was not tethered to...

Except she was.

With something deep and ancient and glorious in its own rite. That perhaps was not tangled with blood and birthright, but something simple and profound all at once.

That she loved him.

And he loved her.

She was crying. She hadn’t meant to, but then, she wasn’t particularly in control of any of her responses at the moment. He stilled, coming from his attentions he was paying to her breasts so he could whisper in her ear. “You all right?”

“Can you... can you be with me?” It wasn’t what she should say. Wasn’t direct enough and he wouldn’t know what she meant. But how exactly did one ask for...

Maybe some things did need words.

So she reached for him instead.

And was rewarded with a groan as she curled her fingers about him. He was surprisingly warm. And it wasn’t at all like her mother had tried to tell her—in stilted language when a young Wren had grown curious about the differences between men and women, and was it quite as unpleasant as it looked when the grimbles were at it?

She’d tried to talk about slits—the ones insides, the ones with parts that came out. Of eggs and not-eggs, and it all sounded about as magical and mystical as the bonds the Harquil claimed were real. But there were fledglings and babies, and she supposed that meant it was real after all.

She was doing it all wrong. Her hips weren’t angled right, and Braum wasn’t moving to assist her, and she supposed that meant she should settle down and stop trying to push him inside of her. But now that the idea was in her head, it was a tangible sort of need. Like when she knew she needed just one more cup of tea before she started the rest of her chores. Like she knew when the syrup for the lozenges needed another teaspoon of herbs, just off the smell alone.

“Wren, why are you crying?”

He nuzzled at her cheek, and it was tender and sweet and only made things worse because she rather loved him. Rather needed him. And it hurt to think that maybe he didn’t need her quite as much, wasn’t quite as desperate for her as she seemed to be for him.

She wiped at her eyes with her free hand. “Do you not want to?”

“Oh, I want to,” Braum corrected. “But I’d rather be certain you’re all right.” He kissed her cheek. Nibbled at her jaw. “Are you?”

“Yes,” she murmured back. “Truly. Just... please.” He came back to her mouth. Kissed her slowly. Until she wanted to kick him just a little for teasing her, when she’d been perfectly plain about her desires.

Then he was purring. A low sound on the exhale. It did not alter what she wanted, but soothed her. Made the tears stop and calmed her breath until her words were a bit more herself. “Mine,” she whispered, her fingers in his hair as she looked at him. “Only mine.”

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