She taught him how to read maps with his fingertips, not that he needed to know, but she weaved it thick with intimacy, leaning over his chair, her breasts pressed against his back as she guided his hand slowly over the curves and contours of the sea.
Isabela was the sea—changeable and unconcerned with borderlines. When she wanted something, she swelled up and took it, like a tidal wave raking shells off the shore, gathering them into itself without giving them a choice. With him she was more subtle, but when they ended up together, half-drunk and captivated, he felt as though it was as unavoidable as the tides.
There is a distinction between “captive” and “captivated,” and it is an important one for Fenris. The former is loathsome while the latter, while somewhat unfamiliar, is undeniably welcome.
He taught her to read the boundaries of his body, showing her the roadmap of his scars and letting her find out where they lead. There were rules; she was not to touch the one on his shoulder blade—the one that looked, for all the world, like a brand—but the rest were fair game.
That wasn’t to say that Isabela ever played fair—he intended for her to use her fingertips, as he had, but it was her tongue instead that she used to traverse the lyrium pathways on his neck, on his collarbone, and down his arms until she sucked lightly on the tip of each finger, waiting to see what she could find in those pretty eyes when she did so.
Most of all, he wanted to touch her neck, a request that puzzled her, especially when he refused to explain himself. He thought it was clear—for as lovely as she was, for as much of her succulent skin that he’d seen, and touched, that gold collar was always in the way. It was the tantalizing unknown, a precious prize covered by worthless metal.
She bared her neck for him, and he brought his lips to it, amorous and reverent, just gently mouthing her skin at first, until his tongue flicked out to feel her pulse pounding against it. He held it there, sucking blood to the surface of her skin, marking her in a place that only he would see, and that intimacy was both precious and maddening.
“Always on top,” were her words, and he was more than willing to respect that, as she was more than willing to respect his desire to not be held down. They could work together; she could kneel above him as he held the weight of her breasts in his hands, his tongue feather-light and quick as it circled her nipples. He could unlace his trousers to be ready when he felt her open for him, warm and wet like Seheron summers, but more worthy of desire than they had ever been. She could move slowly, not lowering herself entirely at first, just holding his cock and brushing it against her lips, while her mouth met his and they groaned into one another, his fingers in her hair and on the back of her neck.
They fit together well—at another time, one where their minds were clear and not drunk on the smell of rum and lyrium, she would make a joke about it, something like: “Elves have pretty eyes, but they also have perfect co—“ and he would cut her off with a flat glare, but the corner of his lips would curl into the slightest smirk, and she would know that she hadn’t overstepped his boundaries, that she had read him correctly.
Fenris never quite got the hang of reading maps, but he learned, with great enthusiasm, exactly how to read her, a skill that he found eminently more useful.
Sated and sweating, clutching to him while crushing her mouth to his, Isabela was inclined to agree.
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