HARPER
He may not understand it with anyone else, but with Maeve it's easier. Knowing that their love takes the shape needed of it, constantly shifting and reforming. Solid and unbreakable even when pressure was exerted against it. In fact she may be the only person he could conceive of having sex with while not being in a relationship together, and it's only due to years of watching over her as a Halenani worker, as a friend and confidant. He knows there are no expectations of him here, where there are so many beyond that door.
The shirt bunches up and over his head easily, the muscles below scarred skin rolling with the motion of helping her do so. Even the brief lapse in attention to his otherwise rigorously kept training regime would do nothing to soften the hard lines of his body. A machine made for war and protection. A body not used to being touched gently or with any degree of reverence. Each touch of her hand draws a shiver or a twitch, anticipating everything the wrong way around, keyed up without knowing where the energy should go.
Exhaling slowly against the curve of her shoulder, Harper tentatively reaches to snag the silken end of the robe's tie in his scarred fingertips. There's a comparison to be drawn there, and included in it should be the aching gentleness he exhibits as he pulls on the fabric. The robe opens easily, and falls just as smoothly from her shoulders to the floor in a puddle of fabric that shines in the dim light of the room. And he holds her waist gently, marveling silently at how small she is in his hands, and yet how he feels just as small in hers. Thumbs tracing vapid shapes on each side of her navel, disturbing her satin shirt until it rucks up just enough for the pale sliver of her skin to be seen between the hem of it and the band of her shorts. Unhurried as he lets her touch him, and touches her in turn.
The shirt bunches up and over his head easily, the muscles below scarred skin rolling with the motion of helping her do so. Even the brief lapse in attention to his otherwise rigorously kept training regime would do nothing to soften the hard lines of his body. A machine made for war and protection. A body not used to being touched gently or with any degree of reverence. Each touch of her hand draws a shiver or a twitch, anticipating everything the wrong way around, keyed up without knowing where the energy should go.
Exhaling slowly against the curve of her shoulder, Harper tentatively reaches to snag the silken end of the robe's tie in his scarred fingertips. There's a comparison to be drawn there, and included in it should be the aching gentleness he exhibits as he pulls on the fabric. The robe opens easily, and falls just as smoothly from her shoulders to the floor in a puddle of fabric that shines in the dim light of the room. And he holds her waist gently, marveling silently at how small she is in his hands, and yet how he feels just as small in hers. Thumbs tracing vapid shapes on each side of her navel, disturbing her satin shirt until it rucks up just enough for the pale sliver of her skin to be seen between the hem of it and the band of her shorts. Unhurried as he lets her touch him, and touches her in turn.
lord don't let me break this, let me hold you lightly
give me arms to pray with instead of ones that hold too tightly
give me arms to pray with instead of ones that hold too tightly
