Blackwall watches Arya’s slender hips with besotted appreciation as she strolls toward the stairs. “I’ll be back shortly,” she calls over her shoulder.
The door to her quarters makes a sonorous thunk as it closes, and Blackwall stretches luxuriously in the Inquisitor’s ridiculous Orlesian bed. Arya insists on using the common baths even though Josephine offered her a tub of her own. Blackwall appreciates his elven lover’s principles, but a selfish little part of his mind sometimes wishes she had a bath of her own. They could spend more time together if she could bathe up here.
An enticing image floats across his sleepy mind: a porcelain tub in the middle of the bedroom. His Arya, barefoot and bare-skinned, her dressing gown floating from her fingers to the floor as she steps into the tub. Those slender, callused archer’s fingers stroking the skin of her neck as she lathers up…
His morning wood twitches with interest, and he reaches under the covers and runs his palm along the length of his rigid shaft to calm his rising libido. Arya has been run ragged all week making plans with her advisors, and Blackwall hasn’t wanted to push his luck by seeking her attention in the mornings. She’s got enough on her plate already without his monstrous appetite to contend with.
Unfortunately, his stroking palm has the opposite of its intended effect. As he smoothes his hand along the length of his manhood, the errant hint of fantasy suddenly takes flight. He can see her clearly in his mind’s eye, her soapy hands sliding down over the peaks of her breasts and the sloping planes of her belly, her neck arching back as her fingers aim sharp and true to the heart of her pleasure, her lips parting as she gasps his name…
Blackwall inhales deeply as he grasps his shaft and tugs. He imagines her parted knees, her teeth nipping the edge of her plump lip as she pleasures herself. The friction of his palm against his cock is both soothing and dissatisfying; it’s Arya that he wants, her smooth and slippery heat and her slender weight across his lap, but he can’t ask this of her right now. She’s too busy to spare more time for him. The stroke of his own heated palm will have to do.
He pumps his fist along the length of his cock with increasing ardour as his fantasy Arya arches her back and spreads her legs wider. He tightens his grip and imagines the tightness of her heavenly pussy. His eager hips are lifting of their own accord, lifting into the pleasure of his own hand, and a light sweat breaks across his forehead as he thinks of her curves and her planes, the sharpness of her voice as she comes-
“What’s going on here?”
Blackwall jolts in startlement. He snaps his eyes open to find Arya there, her eyebrows lifted and a broad smile on her face.
He whips his hand away from his cock and hastily sits up on one elbow. “I was just - I - why are you back so soon?” he stammers. He can feel the blood rising to his cheeks, and he’s never been more grateful for his sodding beard. It might be able to hide some of his humiliation.
“I forgot my towel,” she replies. “And I have to say, I’m glad I did.” She steps closer to the bed, then slowly peels the blanket back to uncover his shamefully throbbing cock. Her heated gaze traces lazily over his body, and a fresh flare of perverse desire steals his breath, even as he feels increasingly embarrassed by being caught in the act.
To his surprise, she shifts onto the bed to kneel between his knees and smirks. “Well?” she chirps. “Don’t stop on my account.”
He frowns in consternation and tries to ignore the eager clamouring of his cock. Her arms are folded across her chest, and she looks rather… well, businesslike. “You’re just going to… watch?” he says uncertainly.
Her smirk widens into a saucy smile, and she shrugs. One sleeve of her dressing gown slips off her shoulder, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone. “I might join in. If I feel like it.”
Blackwall swallows hard. Her dressing gown is thick velvet and cotton, but he can still tell that her back is slightly arched. He can feel the subtle shifting of the mattress as she slowly slides her knees apart. Her posture is authoritative and her smile cheeky, but he can detect these tiny signals of her desire, and they’re more than enough to tip his mood from embarrassment back to excitement.
He reaches between his legs and grasps his shaft, and Arya’s impudent expression instantly melts into carnal interest. He watches her carefully as he strokes the length of his cock. Her amethyst eyes glitter with heat as she stares fixedly at his hand. Her lips flush from light pink to a deep rosy glow as she nibbles them unconsciously.
He slides his fist along his length in an increasingly rapid rhythm, then slowly lifts his hips toward her. The rising of his hips is a wordless language she understands well; she swiftly shucks off her dressing gown, then slides her fingers into her smallclothes.
Blackwall pants with increasing urgency as he watches the hidden movement of her hand. This is both better and worse than his fantasy: she’s here in front of him, her golden skin shifting as she arches into her fingers and her eyes hot and heavy on his face, but her smallclothes are a tiny offense. He wants them off. He wants to see.
Through the rising of his pleasure, he finds the breath to speak. “Please, my lady - take those off,” he begs. “I want to see you.”
She smiles wickedly despite the flushing of her cheeks. “Now who’s the one who’s watching?” she teases, but she cedes to his request. She pulls her smalls off and tosses them aside, then kneels between his thighs again and spreads her legs.
He stares at the apex of her legs with unabashed ardency as she strokes a delicate finger between her chestnut curls. Her swollen bud is plump and eager, peeking out coyly from its hood like it’s begging to be touched, and he watches attentively as she runs two fingers carefully along the edges of her clit.
Blackwall’s lust surges higher still as he realizes what she’s doing: she’s teasing herself with a delicate touch. He knows her lustful face well, and he sees the desperation there as she tortures herself with a slow and sinuous stroke. He doesn’t have the same discipline; the sight of her straining body is like tinder to a flame, and his zealously pumping fist is a gentle spark. He strokes himself harder and faster, throwing sparks on the fuel of Arya Lavellan’s lustful arching, her trembling belly and her gasping breaths, the taut column of her neck-
Suddenly she throws her head back and cries out in delight, her fingers swirling between her legs in a furious caress, and Blackwall explodes with all the fury of a vial of Antivan fire. He slams his head back into the pillow and groans as his pleasure makes itself evident in hot spurts across his belly.
He heaves a huge sigh of satisfaction, then gasps as Arya suddenly leans forward and licks his seed from his belly with a firm stroke of her tongue. Goosebumps ripple across his skin, pulling a fresh thread of desire in their wake, and he slips his fingers gently into her pixie-short hair. “You don’t need to do that,” he says breathlessly.
Arya smiles lasciviously and straddles his hips. She braces her palms on his pecs and smiles down at him. “I do whatever I like,” she purrs. “And you know what I’d really like?” She leans down slowly until her breasts are pressed against his chest, then brushes his ear with her lips. “I’d like a second round. And this time, your cock is mine.”
Her words strike him in the belly like a spear of lust, and he inhales sharply. “Yes, my lady,” he says eagerly. “I’m yours to command.”
He feels her smile against his cheek as he slides his hand over her hip and between her legs. A fantasy of Arya will suffice when her duties keep her bound and tied, but no dreamlike image will ever compete with the joy of his Dalish lover’s undivided attention.