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Diana learned new things from Steve's touch: how a man could be thorough, and desperate, and sad, all at once. He stretched out next to her on the lumpy feather mattress, and Diana sighed and tangled her fingers in his hair when he kissed her mouth, stroked her side. When he brought his mouth and fingers together between her legs, Diana moaned and arched her back and felt as sated as a cat in a patch of sunshine.

She smiled at Steve, after, and used the pad of her thumb to smooth out the furrow between his brows, but he stayed solemn even when he gasped and came against her thigh. A pity; she'd grown fond of the light in his eyes when he smiled.

Diana learned new things from touching Steve, later: when the night sky was fading, the first sign of dawn's approach. Neither of them had slept; neither of them would sleep, though Steve was spread out beneath her on his belly, loose-limbed and eyes closed. Diana satisfied her anatomical curiosity, learning the back of his left thigh and the crook of his elbow and the scars, whip-thin, that cut across Steve's lower back. He shivered when she kissed him there, hips hitching against the mattress, though his penis remained soft.

But she decided that her favourite spot was the stretch of skin between Steve's shoulder blades, where a scattering of freckles linked bone to bone. Steve was paler here than elsewhere—Diana had the vague idea that people here didn't go nude in the open-air palaestra as she and her sisters often did—but Diana liked it. It made the freckles stand out all the more.

With tongue and fingertips she made idle constellations of them, tracing the path of the ones she'd grown up with on Themyscira but that didn't shine down on this place. Yet each one of the constellations Diana knew was linked with a story of the gods: a celestial hunt, a daughter chained, an eagle ferrying the deadly thunderbolts of Zeus. She frowned and sat back on her heels and thought, no: let this not be a tale of theirs. Let Steve be marked out as something other than an Atlas for a new generation.

Diana bent her head, and breathed out over the nape of Steve's neck, and bit the tender, freckled skin there. She bit hard enough that a bruise would bloom there within a few hours, dark against the pale skin, darker than the freckles. The thought pleased her, as did the way Steve moaned beneath her and said her name. Diana bit again, harder, and Steve let her.