Quilleran couldn’t remember how long he had been standing in his library, head tilted to one side, eyes glazed over as they passed from title to title. The words had long since stopped registering, and the only thing grounding him was the sound of workers bustling about the courtyard beyond the walls of his quarters. His feet were frozen to the floor, arms permanently crossed against his chest, thoughts unfocused.
It had only been about three hours since his return from the towns below. Today, Saruya had introduced him to the systems of barns that connected the continent, offering services for travelers of all kinds including boarding and transfers. He had met her horse as well, Piuni she was called, a tawny brown mare with a star marking that reminded him of the pointed mark on Saruya’s forehead. Something about the coincidence made them feel like more of a perfect fit for one another.
His visits below were increasing drastically. He found himself waking up earlier, eager to take care of his required duties as quickly as possible so that upon the end of his work day he might venture a trip below the tree line. She seemed progressively happier to see him, and the first time she had greeted him with a smile he felt moonbound.
At this moment, however, he feels almost ill. He can picture her so clearly now, from the top of her flaxen head that smells like sawdust and petrichor to her feet, calloused and dirty, attached to the toned, tanned calves of a person with running and climbing encoded in their veins. The blood that courses through her is hot with generations of passion and determination, and he feels his own chest ache in response to it. From her gaze he has watched apprehension gradually transmute into intrigue, each new encounter deepening her trust in him.
Intrigue? Wonders the twisting feeling in his abdomen. Something else broods there, something dark and instinctive. It doesn’t feel like intrigue anymore, it hasn’t felt like that in quite some time. There is more now, the sparkle in her eyes is innocent but it yearns.
Quill shakes his head firmly, prying it loose from its position facing the books. That was untrue. It was not yearning. It merely seemed that way through the lens of whatever evil was lurking in the depths of his skull, creeping to the forefront with spindling tendrils ready to possess him. He chides himself, calling it wishful thinking. She is naive. He hopes the physical movement of his head would do something to rid him of the idea, let it fly out of his ears into the ether. The churning in his abdomen is so painful he wishes he would retch.
She is naive, and her innocence comes with a purity that he could do nothing but soil. In his mind he knows it is unjust to ruin her.
Despite himself, he feels his breeches grow uncomfortably tighter.
Chastity was not a virtue strongly held by the Sordid population, but his position in proximity to nobility required such a high level of self-control that it had bled into other areas of his lifestyle. Yet another practice of discipline to suit the high standards placed upon him, as well as the standards he placed on himself. In his daily life on Talon Hill it had never been an issue, surrounded by men and politics and research, but the more that he thought of her, the more aware he became of the ache of desire long left on its leash. A rumble resounds from his throat as he fixes himself beneath his waistband.
It doesn’t help. In the back of his mind, images race faster than he can stop them. It’s not his own hand adjusting himself, it’s her hand, her slender fingers sending electricity through him with every trace, he can imagine the roundness of her breast and the flush of her cheeks, he contemplates what her nipples might look like as the skin tightens and perks, the warmth of her center—
It’s dizzying. He presses his forearm against the bookshelf and leans his forehead against it for purchase, the clamminess of his skin making the whole room seem humid. His eyes squeeze shut but the vertigo still spins behind his eyelids.
He would only defile her. She didn’t deserve to be the subject of his hunger; even now he could feel the tension in his jaw ready to snap. Her spirit is too beautiful, and he is unworthy.
Something in Quilleran’s will weakens. His hand, still cupped overtop his bulge, twitches. Moments later, he frees himself.
Quill’s eyes open again, and though his vision feels cloudy, he is faced with the view below. He sighs through his nostrils and the hot air adds to the mugginess of his surroundings. The only time he ever sees himself like this is early in the morning, when his only thought is how inconvenient it will be to use the washroom with an erection. But it’s different now, the head is swollen so tightly it almost has a shine to it, and the color is deeply flushed.
Again, his imagination gets the better of him. He thinks about what it must look like pressed up against her, pushing inward centimeters at a time, splitting her apart. In his mind it’s flushed pink, shiny and wet, coating his cock in her sweet nectar with every movement.
His hand moves without warning, gliding up and down his length and sending a shock through his legs whenever it passes over the crown. It’s so much more sensitive now that his fantasies are here to torture him, and precum has already started trailing, slicking his palm. The furrow in his brow is so tight it hurts, spreading like a headache through his temples. Behind them, his brain still flashes images of her, hair tousled and sticking to her shoulders and neck. He wants to bite her there, wants to hear her whine and plead for him, wants to watch the blush spread across her cheeks all the way to the points of her delicate ears. Her eyes will glisten as she tries to catch his gaze, to tell him how much she needs him. He needs her, too.
She smells so good, a thick pheromone weighing his limbs down and fighting to bring him to his knees. His hand is pumping faster now, eyes drifting shut so he can focus on the sweetness of her voice. He hears it in his ear, rough pants being pulled from her throat as he fucks her, mixed with cries of pleasure. She can be as loud as she wants, and all he desires is to draw each moan out from her, or perhaps to crush his lips against hers and absorb them. Her mouth tastes like maple, her tongue is warm as he pushes past it with his own, ready to devour her from the inside out.
Quill’s hips jolt, once again threatening to send him to the floor. He feels his own tight grip around his member and thinks about how easy it must be to dig his fingers into her hips, or the plump of her haunches. She’s so lightweight, he could lift her with ease, press her against a wall so firmly they become one with it. He sees himself sheathed up to the hilt, his length disappearing into tufts of blonde hair. She’s dripping for him, all over the floor, and her breasts, glistening with a thin layer of sweat, bounce every time he bucks forward. He wants nothing more than to lick them bottom to top, beginning right where the undercurve meets her sternum and passing over the peak so he can watch it pull taut from his influence. And then he would take it again, with his lips this time, suckling her skin until it’s clean, until the nipples turn as flushed as he is. Every mark on her body he would claim with tongue and teeth, so that her skin burns hotter than the mountain forges.
He imagines her face as she comes undone, what she must look like when clouded by desire of her own. She looks as desperate as he feels, the stimulus pushing her closer to the edge, pleasure still dripping from her. Her small body is so tight around his girth but still he pushes into her as deep as he can go. For a moment it doesn’t matter to him if she breaks (a sentiment he would later find quite frightening to have even conceived).
And then, the ultimate ecstasy is found, her voice ringing through him as she bursts, the trembling in her limbs almost violent. She is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, or heard, or felt, even if only in his mind.
He’s called back to reality as he spills into his hand, the spend seeping between his fingers and onto the floor below. A ragged sigh is finally released, and Quill opens his eyes to see that his final strokes have coated him entirely, his mess of a cock still throbbing in the aftermath. After catching his breath he stands upright again, relieving the bookshelf of his weight, and regards himself with a huff. Clarity folds over his body like a heavy curtain.
You beast. Got it out of your system?
The cleanup is awkward. He feels dirty in more ways than one, pitying the books, as though they were alert enough to have borne witness to this lapse of sound mind. The demon coiling in his stomach slinked away to the depths of his subconscious, but even still, he knew he could no longer deny.
He wanted her.
He needed her.
And he was damn near ready to risk everything for her.
