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"I don't want to go to dinner, Thorin."
"Are you not hungry?" he purred, kissing her jaw - and she felt the fingers of his left hand move on her throat nimbly, opening the first button on her collar.
"I am," she answered, "just not for mutton, or root vegetables… Or bread and butter… Or… Oh!"
She gasped when he nipped her skin on her neck. There will be a mark, she thought and immediately forgot about it. The second button slipped through its loop.
"How about you let me satiate your other 'hunger' again, and then we go for dinner?" he asked, and Wren felt him undo the last button.
His fingers lightly stroked the dip between her clavicles, and then the tip of his tongue retraced the caress. He was once again looming over her, supporting himself on his right elbow. His left palm slid along her sternum, onto her ribs - and then he pushed it up, cupping her breast, and squeezing it gently. Wren moaned and arched, her body seeking more of his heat, as if without her will.
"So, how about it, my heart?" he asked, and his hand travelled lower.
He once again jerked her nightshift up, baring her legs and then her stomach. She felt his scorching, calloused palm lie under her navel. He rubbed her skin with his thumb, and she was suddenly struck by the difference between their bodies, his much rougher skin and how soft she felt - and then he twisted his hand and pushed it down. The tips of his fingers slid across her curls - and, first, tenderly brushed, and then tapped that little bit of flesh that she knew brought her most pleasure when she touched herself. A small sound erupted out of her, and she clasped her hand over her mouth.
"Do you know what this hamidi is for?" he murmured and drew a circle with his finger, applying the lightest of pressures.
Wren moaned and shook her head frantically, squeezing her eyes.
"Its only purpose is to bring you pleasure." He kissed her cheekbone, then her jaw again, and then caught her ear between his lips, while his fingers continued moving. "Has anyone ever touched it before?"
Wren once again whipped her head side to side.
"Have you touched it?"
She felt his teeth gaze at her lobe, sending a surprisingly acute jolt of excitement through her.
"Have you?" he asked again, and Wren managed a tiny nod. "Oh good, then you know what to look out for. But have you done this?" he murmured - and dipped his middle finger into her.
Wren's eyes flew open, and before she had any sort of a clear thought, a scalding burst of pleasure, delightful and so sharp that it almost hurt, made her muscles tighten around his digit, and she squeezed her knees together. It wasn't quite the climax she knew her body could achieve, and she wondered, if just this one touch could bring her so much gratification, what would she feel when he put some effort into it?
"My heart, you need to give my hand some room to move," he said with a low indecent chuckle. "And please, don't break my wrist. I have only one working hand left these days."
"No..." Wren exhaled.
"No?" he asked, amused. "No to what?"
Wren gritted her teeth, gathering her wits, and then she put both her hands onto his wrist - and pushed it.
"No to–" She swallowed, unlocking her constricted throat. "No to… this. I don't want it. When it's just me– You play me like a harp," she whispered. "You just need a few touches, and I'm– And I don't want it."
She turned her head and met his eyes. She could see he was confused, and perhaps even vexed.
"Don't misunderstand me," she said. "My body craves it - anything you can give me. But I want– you." She lifted her hand and stroked his thick, coarse beard, and smiled at him shyly. "I don't want to be selfish and have you please me. I want to enjoy our bodies together. And if I'm honest, the anticipation and the yearning I feel for you are quite a treat in themselves. I want to feel it, and I want to satisfy it fully when I'm allowed."
He studied her face, a small crinkle between his eyebrows, but Wren withstood his stare. After all, she was simply being honest.
"It is not something I can understand, I'm afraid," he finally spoke. "Why not?"
Wren felt somewhat entertained. She had just explained it to him!
"How should I describe it to you?" she drew out. She lowered his hand onto her stomach, and covered it with both hers. "It's as if– As if I don't want to spoil my appetite before a meal. Imagine travelling for months, eating nothing but dry bread, and then being promised a large meal, with many courses, and ale, and fruit, and some honey cake," she sing-songed, and saw his lips twitch, a smile hiding in their corners, and mischievous sparks dance in his eyes. "And then, when the feast is almost in your grasp, someone offers you a jar of honey," she continued her frolics, relieved to see his mood lighten. "And honey is good, honey is delicious, but it's best when it's added to your meal, on a slice of bread, or in a cake. A jar of honey on an empty stomach might feel good at first, but soon, you'll still want to have something more filling and substantial."
His shoulders shook in silent laughter, and Wren grinned.
"A jar of honey on an empty stomach will make you sick, galthûna, " he jested.
"It's a metaphor, Thorin," Wen said in a feigned strict tone. "Your 'favours' don't make me sick, but I still want to wait for my feast."
He once again examined her face, and then, as if arriving at some sort of a decision, he shifted and pressed his lips to the top of her stomach.
"Strictly speaking, the only person who is able to 'allow' you to have your feast," he uttered into her skin, "is me . Since you don't seem to require any sort of a legal contract to consider yourself my wife, all you need is my consent."
He swirled his tongue around her navel, and Wren tingled and flushed - in lust and in a sudden hope that she might just yet get a chance to assuage her famine. She threaded her fingers into his locks.
"Do you consent, Thorin?" she whispered.
His hot breath, then his lips, and then the tip of his tongue roamed her abdomen, as if etching lines into her flesh, and then he covered her centre with his mouth. His tongue slid over her folds, in rhythmic gentle strokes - and Wren moaned, and quivered, and opened her knees wider.
"I consent," he whispered, and she felt his fingers replace his tongue. "Do you consent?"
"I do," Wren breathed out. "Please, Thorin… I do..."
"Look at me, Wren," he said gruffly.
She opened her eyes, which she hadn't realised she'd closed, and met his intense, darkened gaze.
"I need to know your history, rakl-gunru. " His tone was commanding. "Was there pain before? I know it's been nine years, and your body hardly remembers it. Has there been anything else after– after you bore Mira?"
Wren blinked several times in slight unease - and then a small giggle escaped her.
"You're suddenly so medical about it," she teased. "I am a healer, Thorin. I know the bodily side of coition. You were right when you said I was ignorant in physical love, but only in the sense of firsthand experience. And no, there was nothing after those three nights." Wren bit her bottom lip and gave him a flirty look. "I might not have much to base my fantasies on, but I do possess anatomical knowledge and a vivid imagination."
The King's face lost its determined, sombre expression, and he chortled.
"I still manage to forget how spirited you are, galthûna, even after all this time." He quickly kissed her stomach again. "So, what do your knowledge of anatomy and your imagination suggest?"
Wren laughed, grasped his hand, and pulled.
"Come," she murmured, and he obeyed and aligned their bodies.
Wren lifted her shoulders off the bed and caught his mouth in a kiss. She could taste the trace of his earlier caresses on his lips, but she didn't find it unpleasant.
"Are we staying then?" she asked.
"Your maid knows I'm here," he whispered and placed a long lick along her neck. "She'll ensure our privacy."
Wren shortly wondered how many Dwarven couples, including the Durin's heirs that had come before the King, had been in the same situation, since it seemed the maids knew the protocol for such happenstances - and then she forgot about anything but the King.
Soon, she lost herself in his busses. He held her face and angled it, deepening his kiss, more and more greed and lust replacing the initial tenderness and playfulness. Wren embraced him tightly around his neck, pulling him even closer - and then her hands flew to his face, and she stroked his beard, and ran her palms over his nape and neck. Her fingers lingered over the pulse beating in his throat - and she whispered, "How's your heart, my heart?"
He laughed softly and lifted his face from her sternum. "Ah, yes, I remember that."
Wren smiled at him. "I think I was already enamoured of you then."
"I was definitely enthralled," he said and then rose over her, pressing his left hand into the bed. "Or at least I was lusting after you," he jested.
He sat on his knees, opened his palm in front of her, and helped her to sit up when she took his hand.
"I resisted, of course, but then one day, you were getting something out of the cellar, and your pert bottom was on display. I considered jumping into an icy river," he purred and picked up the hem of her chemise.
Wren pulled the other side up, and together they removed her nightshift.
"I hadn't had these urges for years, and there I was, bewitched like a youngling and tortured by lewd dreams," he murmured and looked her over. "I'm relieved I don't have to suffer thusly anymore."
Wren felt somewhat bashful, and thrilled, and aroused, and anxious - but ultimately, endlessly anticipative. The tingling of blush spilled onto her neck and her breasts. His gaze explored her, he tilted his head, lingering on her peaks, and then rising to meet her eyes again.
"You're exquisite, my love," he said ardently.
A shuddered exhale fluttered on Wren's lips.
"May I undress you?" she asked.
He opened his arms wide, a flirtatious smirk curling his lips, and Wren picked up the clasp on his collar. His doublet and his tunic were quickly thrown to the side, and she scooted closer to him, and her fingers lay on the buckle on his belt.
"Wren." He pushed her chin up with his index finger. "Your cheeks are flaming. I don't wish you to feel uneasy."
"I'm not uneasy," she answered. "Well, perhaps a bit," she added shyly. "I know what to expect. And not just because I've treated so many male bodies. I've seen you in thin breeches too."
She abandoned his waist and gingerly put her hands on his shoulders. His body bore so many more scars than before! A wide jagged one, running from his right shoulder to the left, down to his stomach, branching out into numerous others, fanning over all of his right side, was the most striking of them, although there were more, all over his torso and his upper arms. The tips of her fingers hovered over the widest part of the mark, over his right scapula. What sort of a weapon could inflict such a wound? she asked herself in horror. She could see now what had affected the movement of his arm.
"Wren," he called to her in a dark tone.
She looked up at him and smiled - both because of how easy she found it to read his mood and his insecurity he thought he hid so well; and because of how confident she felt that she would be able to reassure him.
"If you don't mind, I would like to examine your injuries and talk to you of what had been done and what could help," she said and then pressed her finger across his lips, because he inhaled, clearly intending to say something. "But not now ," she stated most firmly. "You aren't my patient. You're my lover and my husband. I don't see muscles and ligaments. I see the man I desire." She placed her hand on his chest. "Your body–" She licked her lips. "I've been bewitched by it and tortured by lust as well," she said. "And your scars are the marks of a warrior and a victor. I find the idea of bedding a champion fighter quite titillating," she murmured and wrapped her arms around his neck.
His features relaxed, and his hand opened on her shoulder blades - and then he pushed her down onto her back. His coarse chest hair scraped at her breasts, and she moaned loudly.
"Maiar, I've dreamt of this," she whispered frantically. "Of you. Thorin..."
He lifted his hips above her, and she quickly opened his belt and pushed his trousers and his breeches down. She had to twist her body on the bed to move them lower, mindful of his erection, and once the clothes were almost off, he kicked with his left leg, shuffled - and was now bare above her.
Both of them halted, just for an instant, and she cupped his face and smiled at him, and he returned the smile, just as loving and tender and excited. Both almost said something, and then they didn't - and he carefully lowered his body onto hers.
"I'm suddenly nervous," she exhaled, and he met her eyes. "I'm not questioning it. Just the act– I can't even remember how it felt. And I'm wary of pain. And of being a disappointment," she blurted out.
"That's a lot of worries about something so natural," he said with a warm chuckle.
His forearms lay on two sides of her, and he rubbed her shoulder with his thumb. Wren smiled at him shyly - and then stretched her hand and wrapped her fingers around his left wrist again.
"Could you, please–" she stumbled over her words, and her cheekbones heated up. "Could you… touch me again?" she whispered and gave his hand a pointed nudge towards her stomach.
"What an ingenious idea, my heart," he murmured. "We need to wake your body again."
He shifted his weight onto his right forearm, and once again his fingers stroked her flesh. Wren closed her eyes and melted into the pleasure of his caresses. Soon, her body felt flushed, and warm, and it was harder and harder to breathe, and her back arched - and she grabbed his hand, halting him.
"Too– much–" she exhaled. "You almost– Again–" Her thoughts jumbled. "I'm ready now…"
"We could proceed, of course," he said, and Wren caught some sort of mischievous note in his tone. "And if you ask, I'll bed you," he deadpanned. "Or–"
"Or?" Wren asked, opening her eyes.
"Or you could allow me an… indulgence."
A salacious smirk curled his lips. His eyes were darkened, hungry, and muscles clenched sweetly in Wren's lower stomach, answering to the fire burning in them. All she could manage was a small nod, and he leaned in and caught her peak between his lips. Wren squeaked, unprepared for the sharp sensation that as if fizzed through her torso. He sucked, and then licked, and moved lower along her body, leaving a trail of heat on her skin - and then once again, his lips and his tongue moved between her legs. Wren moaned, and squirmed under his ministrations - and he pinned her down roughly, his hand on her hip. The more she tried to move, the stronger his grip grew, his fingers now digging into her haunch. She was certain he'd stop if she asked - but she was almost sure she didn't want him to stop. On the other hand, the sensations were so acute that she couldn't bear them for more than a trice, and then she'd try to escape - only to seek more an instant later. His tongue dove into her now, again and again, and then he pushed a finger into her. Wren sank her teeth into her bottom lip to suppress a loud scream that no doubt would have erupted out of her, and then she realised it was the King's index digit inside her, because he curled it and rubbed her wall - and not even the one where, as Wren knew, that little patch was hidden that could bring a woman an especially opulent rapture. The finger moved in and out of her, more and more pressure was added, and Wren's head spun. She had heard of course of attentions being paid to a person's other orifices, but such topics were too lewd to ever be discussed in her books or among the healers.
"Oh Maiar," she rasped out. "What is– So much– Hot inside… So sharp…"
"Oh that's how it is then," the King purred. "I'll remember this."
His tongue brushed across her folds - and then he withdrew, leaving her without any contact whatsoever!
"What?! Thorin!"
"I think I've indulged enough for now," he said, and a quiet coarse laugh rumbled in his chest. "I'll have some more of it next time."
Wren watched him lick his lips and wipe his beard with his palm.
"I'm starting to think the chastity of the Dwarves is grossly exaggerated," Wren grumbled, feeling even more insecure now. "I don't feel like a long-awaited feast anymore. I'm– nothing but a boring common bowl of stew."
He guffawed and asked, "Are you jealous, my abad-bunt? "
"Of course I am," Wren bit back and frowned. "Not of your other lovers, you have to understand. Of your experience and your confidence. I'm simply unsure of myself, and of what I can–"
"There haven't been any other lovers," he said and smiled at her. He lay near her and pulled her to him, seeking her lips. She arched into him, still somewhat uneasy. "There have been dalliances of youth, but I've never touched another woman like this," he murmured and tenderly brushed his fingers along her spine. "Nor have I… tasted another."
This news didn't bring much relief. The question of his amazing talent between the sheets, which she worried she couldn't match, remained. On the other hand, if he was just as inexperienced as she was, perhaps she could try to see if she possessed an equal skill when it came to satiating him.
"Is this a natural gift then?" Wren asked and stroked his bottom lip with the tip of her index finger.
"And a bit of theoretical knowledge, but aye," he said and kissed her nose. "I find you inspiring, galthûna. " He picked up her hand and pulled it to his lips. The whiskers of his moustache scraped at her knuckles. "It must be that magic of yours."
Wren hummed, and then lifted and bent her leg, and rubbed the inside of her thigh to his hip. Her curls bumped into his erection, and he jolted.
"Since we don't seem to be in a hurry–" It was her turn to purr suggestively. "Allow me a similar indulgence, my King."
"Hm, but I thought we'd already proceed to the feast," he jested.
Wren clutched his left shoulder - and in one swift movement dropped him on his back and straddled him.
"Mahimrêl! "
"Ah, here's this word again." Wren laughed. "We'll get to it, but first–"
She mimicked his earlier actions, skipping kisses and touches on his chest, unwilling to make him uncomfortable, although she found nothing repulsive about his scars, just as she'd told him - and then she swirled her tongue on his stomach, just above the thick curls surrounding the base of his member.
"Oh no, we aren't doing this!" he barked, grabbed her shoulder, and stopped her from lowering her mouth onto his flesh.
"Why?" Wren looked up at him.
"That would be the equivalent of a trough of honey for me, Wren," he gritted through his teeth. "I don't know I'll be able to–"
He bit his tongue - and a realisation dawned on Wren. He was just as uncertain of himself as she was!
"We're being rather silly, aren't we?" Wren exclaimed and burst into happy laughter.
"I can't be silly, insolent woman," he said - and it was he now who masterfully manoeuvred her onto her back. It was more of a throw, really. "I'm a King and a Durin's heir."
Wren spread her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Perhaps, just when it's the two of us, alone?" she asked.
"Perhaps," he conceded.
"I desire you, Thorin," she exhaled. "Please..."
His palm cupped her hamstring, shifted under her knee, and he opened her even wider. Wren gasped, in anticipation, but a glint of worry flashed through her mind as well - but thankfully, he didn't hesitate. His length slid into her, in one smooth forceful movement - and she cried out, and moaned, in pure and adulterated ecstasy.
"Mine," he growled and rocked his hips and thrust into her again. "Mine… Finally… Mine… Rakl-gunruê …"
He punctuated each phrase with a hard stroke - and Wren squeezed him with her legs, drawing him even closer to her, acting on pure instinct, unable to think, but only feel. Her nails sank into his shoulders, and then raked down his back. She desperately clung to his body, wide and strong and so very heavy, and she realised she was muttering something too, but her whole being was burning too hot for her mind to perceive the meaning of her feverish chanting.
He was shifting on the bed, hunching his back, lifting her hips, helped by his hand, still holding her under her knee. He was rising higher and higher, and she gripped him even more tightly with her legs, and soon only her shoulder blades remained on the sheet, and he rose on his knees, and grabbed her hip, and drove his length into her even more roughly. Wren screamed raspily, and shoved her fist to her mouth, and bit into her index finger.
His movements hastened, but didn't grow shallower. Something deep inside her was starting to ache. Short, faint mewls were now falling from her lips, her hands desperately clutching fistfuls of the sheets. She could hear the snapping sounds when his flesh met hers, and she dug her heels into him.
"More… Thorin, more…"
He growled loudly, seemingly unable to form a single word, and crushed her hip in his hand, jerking her towards him, and she sobbed from the pain and the pleasure. His seed spilled, in a hot, powerful surge, hitting her walls.
They froze, their bodies shaking and their muscles quivering, and then Wren burst into loud crying. His eyes flew open, and he released his grip. She fell on the bed, and scampered, and rushed to him, and pressed into him flush.
"I love you," she sobbed. "Maiar, I never– Never felt– so– complete…”
She heaved a constricted breath, her cheek against his burning skin, his heart drumming, as if somewhere between - or in - both of their bodies. He made some low grunt-like noise, and his left arm went around her. He buried his face into her hair, and they started keeling on one side - and they both laughed weakly, because neither of them could stay upright.
"I feel drunk," he muttered. "And half-dead."
"I feel happy," Wren said.
"So do I."
He dropped on his backside awkwardly - and then after a short consideration, he continued falling, pulling her after him. They lay across the bed now, uncomfortably, their legs intertwined, her arm under him. She had no strength to move.
"And drunk," he repeated.
"So do I," Wren said.
"Why are you crying?" he asked and wiped a tear off her cheek.
"I stopped already," Wren said gleefully.
"Did I hurt something?" he asked at the same time, furrowing his brows.
"I'm pretty sure I'll have five purple bruises on my hip from your fingers, but I couldn't care less," she answered and grinned. "I've never felt better in my life."
"I apologise," he said concurrently.
"Don't you dare," Wren murmured and snuggled into him.
She felt his fingers thread into her hair.
"But you did cry," he pointed out a few seconds later.
"I think it's just the release," she said and yawned. "Just too much–" She couldn't find the word and just wiggled her fingers in the air vaguely.
"You didn't have one, though," he commented.
"I'm not sure," Wren answered and laughed. "Maybe I did. Or not... I think it's for the best. I don't think my body would have coped with any more of the fervour. I already feel like I could sleep for a week after what happened."
"And I distinctly remember you saying that a fortnight of being alone and partaking in this exact pastime wouldn't be enough," he teased and kissed her forehead.
Wren finally gathered just a morsel of strength and liberated her arm from under him, immediately slackening back into his embrace, shaking from exhaustion even after such tiny effort.
"Well, perhaps, a half an hour nap would suffice," she said and stroked his arm, from the shoulder to the inside of his wrist with the tips of her fingers. "Now that I know what it feels like, I don't think I'd be able to stay away for long."
"Good," he said. "Considering that I'm about five minutes away from wanting to repeat the act."
"What?!" Wren winced away and gawked at him.
A playful carefree smile danced on his lips, and Wren revelled in the view of his softened features and unburdened expression in his eyes.
"I will consider it," she declared in feigned haughtiness and settled back into his arms.
"I love you too," he said simply.
Wren gave it a thought and then climbed on top of him.
"May I?" she asked, and he guffawed.
"Help yourself."