[ Is that right? She remembers it to the day? He laughs, quiet, surprised and yet not. She's far more sentimental than she'll admit, except sometimes she does—in moments like these—and he thinks, this is the real reason he would come back. This is why they would come back to each other, why when they were apart, she would never quite leave his thoughts.
He slips the dress off one shoulder, then the other. The fabric is rougher than the fine silks she would wear from the castle, made to withstand the elements than for a life at court. She does smell like fish and mud and alehouses. A spot of dirt mars her forehead. He couldn't give less of a fuck. He remembers Rinde, the crumbling shithole of a house, her rumpled dress and tangled hair. He's never wanted her more than when she's let herself unravel, willingly or otherwise.
This inn isn't much better, frankly, but at least they've a bed as opposed to a pile of rubble and broken glass. The sheets are thin here, too, the shuttered windows barely containing the cool night breeze outside.
For now, he doesn't take advantage of any of it. Instead, he helps her undo the buttons on his trousers, one by one, the hem of his shirt coming loose from its confines as their fingers tangle and bump into one another's. There is, as usual, nothing else beneath his one layer of linen and leather.
He lets her draw him close. Closer. So close that her body heat leeches through to him and she can no doubt feel his desire pressed against her. He kisses her throat, her collarbone, pushing the rest of her dress off so it can fall to the dusty floor. They turn and spin—and whether he finds himself up against the wall or she does, it makes no difference. ]
nsfw ↓
He slips the dress off one shoulder, then the other. The fabric is rougher than the fine silks she would wear from the castle, made to withstand the elements than for a life at court. She does smell like fish and mud and alehouses. A spot of dirt mars her forehead. He couldn't give less of a fuck. He remembers Rinde, the crumbling shithole of a house, her rumpled dress and tangled hair. He's never wanted her more than when she's let herself unravel, willingly or otherwise.
This inn isn't much better, frankly, but at least they've a bed as opposed to a pile of rubble and broken glass. The sheets are thin here, too, the shuttered windows barely containing the cool night breeze outside.
For now, he doesn't take advantage of any of it. Instead, he helps her undo the buttons on his trousers, one by one, the hem of his shirt coming loose from its confines as their fingers tangle and bump into one another's. There is, as usual, nothing else beneath his one layer of linen and leather.
He lets her draw him close. Closer. So close that her body heat leeches through to him and she can no doubt feel his desire pressed against her. He kisses her throat, her collarbone, pushing the rest of her dress off so it can fall to the dusty floor. They turn and spin—and whether he finds himself up against the wall or she does, it makes no difference. ]