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Fenesvir jolts the desk as she rolls to a stop beneath it, breathing hard. Solas barely glances up - well, down – from his book, peering down at her in the darkness between his legs.
“Vhenan, can I help you?”
“Dignitaries,” she hisses. “You never saw me here.”
Solas nods, amused, then simply returns to his book.
Fenesvir waits. She can hear the familiar click of Josephine’s heels growing louder, the tempo urgent. Bordering on frantic, even, but the elf knows she’ll hide it well. Josephine handles it all far better than she would. Which is why Josephine will be entertaining the dignitaries, and she will be hiding under the desk for the foreseeable future.
“Have you seen the Inquisitor recently?” she asks.
Solas’ eyes slide almost imperceptibly back to her, before he raises his gaze from the book to reply. “Yes,” he starts, and she glares daggers. The bastard keeps his face serene, but she can see the slightest smirk twist at his lips.
“Where?” Josephine is, as ever, polite, but Fenesvir can hear the impatient edge to her voice.
“She passed through here a while ago. I could not tell you where she was going.”
Josephine exhales loudly. She can practically imagine the sight of the woman pinching the bridge of her nose. “Well,” she says, now fully resigned to entertaining the dignitaries solo,” it was worth a try.”
“Good luck, Ambassador,” Solas says, as the sound of her heels fades into the distance.
A blissful silence falls over the rotunda, but Fenesvir does not dare to move.
“Is she gone?” She asks, after a while.
“Long gone,” Solas replies.
She smiles, then pops her head out from under the desk and rests her hands on the elf’s thighs. “I owe you one,” she says, patting his leg.
He goes to put his book down, but Fenesvir stops him. “Don’t let me distract you.”
“Do you intend to stay there?”
Thoughtfully, she strokes her hands up and down his thighs, kneading the flesh just enough to leave him sitting up just a little straighter. “Would you have me leave?”
“Vhenan, I—” He closes his eyes and exhales firmly. “We should not be doing this. Not here.”
“Fine,” she says, moving to unfurl herself from the space between his legs. His hand finds her cheek as she rises, guiding her in for a kiss. Her hands are still on his thighs. With the hand holding the book now hanging limply from the armrest, she can see – in stolen glimpses between kisses – the way he starts to stir in his breeches. She parts his legs a little wider and hears him make the tiniest noise against her lips as she steps even closer.
“There’s a lot of things we shouldn’t be doing,” she says between kisses. “Allow me just this one.”
“Fenedhis, Fenesvir,” he breathes. “You are insatiable.”
“You’re free to do as you wish, Solas,” she replies, resting her forehead against his to provide him respite from her attentions. “If you don’t want this, we can st—”
The next word is practically growled, moments before his lips crash against hers. “No.”
One of her hands wanders, palming him through his breeches, and he rocks his hips against her touch. His kisses are a maelstrom of lips and teeth and tongue. She’s already breathless, even without his length in the back of her throat.
“One request,” she pants, as she sinks to her knees in the recess beneath the desk. “Read to me.”
The book is still hanging from his hand. It’s almost impressive that, despite everything, it’s not yet in a crumpled heap on the floor. He twists his wrist to return the tome to a readable position, and turns the page.
The contents are something about the fade, or dreams, or both, but Fenesvir doesn’t really listen. She busies herself with the laces of his breeches instead, sliding them down just far enough to free his length. He barely stumbles over the words, even as the cool air hits sensitive skin. The book takes on an almost lyrical quality as the words slip from his lips, still flowing even as she strokes him, learning the lines of him.
The first stumble comes when she lowers her lips to his tip and takes it into the warmth of her mouth. His free hand finds the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. He coughs, primly, then starts reading again. She lets him go with a slick pop, then traces a line from base to tip with her tongue. The effort is admirable, but – truth be told – she’s never heard him sound so unsure of the words before him as she laps and kisses at him.
She smiles to herself before continuing with her attentions.
Each gentle kiss, each swipe of the tongue, draws noises from his lips that seem to echo round the rotunda between the words of the book, as quiet as they are. He wouldn’t dare be loud in such an exposed space. But then again, she hadn’t expected him to be so eager for this.
And, he’s still reading the damned book—
Determined to finally stop that halting trickle of words once and for all, she takes him deep into her mouth – into her throat, even, and starts to move her head in earnest. The words suddenly stop, strangled into submission.
Good.
But then Solas’ hips jerk, and she almost chokes too.
“Ir abelas, vhenan,” he says. “I’m sorry—”
Don’t be, she thinks, taking him just as deeply once more. And then, to add to his troubles, she reaches a hand into his breeches and starts to play with him. The hand in her hair tightens its grip as he slumps down in the chair to meet her mouth more comfortably. He tries to be gentle, even as his hips seem to take on a mind of their own.
He mutters her name, and ‘vhenan’ when the extra syllable seem too much to handle. She lets him hear how much she’s enjoying him, too. It makes his fingers twitch against her scalp and his hips jerk skyward, and in response he mumbles something in a language she doesn’t quite catch.
For all she knows, it’s nothing coherent. And then—
“Stop—” he pants. His voice is so raw, so vulnerable, that it stops her in her tracks. She lets him slip from her mouth, then looks up at him. The book drops from his hand. The fingers of his other hand withdraw from her hair, brushing across her cheek in a way that’s so heartbreakingly tender that her pulse seems to stall. He breathes heavily, brow furrowed and head tilted back. He looks undone, beautiful.
“Closer, vhenan,” he says.
She stands, cradling his head in one hand and brushing her thumb over the point of his ear. He kisses her again, paying no mind to his own taste on her lips. Haltingly, he gets to his feet, almost falling against her. The weight of his body, off-kilter as it is, pins her to the desk, and his length is still hot and hard between them.
The kisses evolve – at first slow, reverent, and then more desperate. Like a man starved. It’s difficult to know how long he was alone before her, but the way he kisses suggests an eternity.
Solas grasps her ass and kneads the flesh with both hands. His grip is almost bruising, for someone with such long, slender fingers.
She wants those fingers inside her.
“Turn around,” he says into her ear, voice low. Before drawing back, he nips the shell of her ear. She does as he says. He pulls her in tight as she turns away, pressing his need against her backside and pressing a kiss to the most sensitive part of her neck. He marks her, over and over, vocal in his affections. And then, he places a hand between her shoulder blades and folds her over the desk.
Her leggings slide easily over her thighs, pushed down far enough to spread her legs and reveal her slickness. She curses quietly into the papers on the desk as his fingers explore her, spreading and teasing and circling. He focuses his attention on her clit, and her legs shudder. He huffs a quiet laugh.
“Solas—” she starts, half a threat.
“Yes, vhenan?” The clarity in his voice is startling, considering the way he’d uttered the word moments prior. He slips a finger into her, and she clenches involuntarily around the intrusion. Once satisfied, he adds another, and starts moving his hand in such a way that his fingertips are soon coaxing a litany of moans and gasps from her.
“Fenehdis, Solas—”
He laughs, drawing her closer and closer to the precipice with a touch so intense – yet so gentle – that her legs shake. The temperature drops, suddenly; he must be cooling his hands with magic as his fingers pump in and out of her. She presses back against his hand despite the chill.
She needs him.
Gods, it makes her ache. He keeps on going, though, pushing her further and further until suddenly something snaps, and she comes around his fingers with a cry.
“Good,” he coos, still stroking her as she comes back down. Eventually, he withdraws his fingers, leaving her body clenching around nothing. He lines himself up behind her, the tip of his length bumping gently against her entrance, but then hesitates.
“Solas,” she whispers, “please—”
“Ma nuvenin, vhenan,” he replies, sinking into her. “As you wish.” Her fingers curl at the fullness, grabbing futilely at the papers scattered across the desk as he starts to move. His hands find her hips, positioning her just so, and she arches her back to find the perfect angle. Every stroke sends sparks through her, and the quiet grunts and gasps of pleasure from behind her suggest that her lover feels much the same.
“Faster—” she urges, pressing back against him. “Harder, please—”
“Well, since you asked so nicely—” He sinks into her so hard that the desk moves, scraping across the stone. Even then, it seems that being so deep inside her is not enough to sate his hunger. His arm loops round her body, angling it towards his. The jawbone pendant is trapped between them, digging into her back as he leans in to kiss her neck again. His hips snap against hers, the pace punishing. He growls softly, lost in the sensations of skin against skin, then mutters something in a language she can’t quite understand.
“Put your hands on the desk, vhenan” he says, after a moment. She does so, and is instantly rewarded as the hand not wrapped around her body slips between her legs once more. Pinned between his body and his hand, she feels the ache in her core start to build again, faster this time. It’s almost as if he can feel it too – every touch, every rock of the hips, seems calculated to unravel her and turn her bones to water. His hips crash against hers like a wave. His kisses are almost feverish, worshipping the patch of skin that’s already darkening with the marks he’d left.
He strokes her clit, stoking flames inside her that threaten to consume her entirely.
“Let go,” he whispers.
And she does.
The air rushes from her lungs as she clenches around him, and his strokes start to lose their rhythm. He removes his hand from between her legs once more and places it down hard on the table, bracing his weight to take her properly. The desk shakes once more as he chases his own release. He mutters and murmurs as if in prayer, and kisses her neck so intently, so viciously, that it’s almost more bite than kiss.
He seems so lost in her, so focused on the meeting of their bodies, that he forgets for a moment where they are. His grunts of pleasure grow louder and louder, until he spills himself inside her with one final curse.
Spent, he sags forward, leaning hard against the desk. “Vhenan,” he pants. “You are…quite the temptation.”
He remains inside her as they come to their senses, his body wrapped warm and heavy around hers like a pelt. She feels a cool wash of magic – almost like a draft – skim across her neck. It takes some of the sting out of the marks there.
“Ir abelas, vhenan,” he apologises. “I was…too far lost to be gentle.”
She laughs. “If I wanted you to be gentle, Solas, I would have said.”
******
At dinner that evening, she comes across Dorian.
“Are you feeling alright, Fen?” he asks. “You’re walking awfully…tenderly.”
“I was training with Solas,” she replies, a little too fast. “Staff combat. I slipped.”
“Let me guess,” Dorian says, leaning in close under the guise of taking some grapes from the fruit bowl. “You slipped and fell right on to his staff?”
Fenesvir turns as red as the apple in her hand.
Dorian smirks. “You might be able to hide from Josie, darling, but you can’t hide from me.”