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“You want me,” he says, those eyes knocking down the iron gates to her mind.
It is so blatant and in the face that Brienne, taken aback for a moment, steps aside without a word when he enters their shared dwelling for the night. Is it his cocky confidence that bothers her more than the assertion itself? Or would it be the accuracy with which he spells out her desires? Jaime’s past criticisms come back with a vengeance to her head, each a knife through her heart. Another cutting jape, perhaps—his way to cope with the bleakness that awaits him when he reaches home?
Wherever he is taking her with this, it warrants treading with caution.
“Why do I get the impression you’re drunk, Ser Jaime?”
She can make out ample visible evidence of the contrary which makes this near-useless surmise just a means to carefully cut him off this subject. Those eyes are brimming with alertness, alternating between dark and bright. His breathing is steady, and bears barely any scent of intoxication. But for her to believe his assumption was born of a clouded head is easier than accepting what might most likely be a return of his insulting side.
“Because I am,” he agrees, filling the space between them with his strapping presence despite the sorry state he has been reduced to. He stands before her, mesmerised—at least, that’s what she can gather from the piercing intensity of his handsome features. “Drunk in your eyes, Brienne.”
The dramatic way in which he gets this across gets under her skin, and almost sure this is not his usual self, she makes to leave, but he holds her back. When convinced she won’t try and flee, he loosens his grip, warm fingers dropping her wrist to stroke her chin. She tries to pull away and break out of this strange dream, but his eyes pin her in place, freezing her. “I dreamed of you,” he hoarsely goes on, his gaze rushing down to her mouth which suddenly feels unnaturally parched. “You were naked.”
This seductive revelation is an echo of his need; his loins talking, not him. Yes, that’s the only thing that makes sense. None of his words mean anything at all. This fantasy of his does not have to have anything to do with her. “Men often dream of women when they are unable to engage in their carnal urges—”
“Not any woman, wench.” He brings his thumb to her lips, his touch and this attempt to explain dislodging a good deal of her doubt. “Only the ones we—”
She can’t quite point out the moment where his words smoothly transition into a kiss.
There’s a sudden lull all around; no hooting of the owls outside, no insects claiming the dark of the night as theirs. The gentle scraping of his dry lips on hers—this she can hear. Loudly. Distinctly. She searches those hungry lips, expecting to find a trace of wine or maybe the remnants of cheap ale, but nothing except the taste of him, she is hit with, and a powerful scent of sweat and leather.
The intimacy hits her in the belly, and startling though it is, her body promptly embraces it. Her lips parting, she leans into the kiss, giving herself clumsily to him. If this night is to unfold like this, it is the Seven’s bidding. Who is she to stand in fate’s way? Who is she to resist the cravings of her heart?
The music begins somewhere in her head—the beat has, perhaps, lain buried in there for a while. Only, she has been unable to hear it until tonight. It soars to a steady rhythm, bringing to her recollection, his invitation to a dance. That moment, she can feel is lurking somewhere around the corner, coming alive around her, and within her. Willing it to embrace her, she closes her eyes, and from then on, she is left with nothing but the fingers in her hair, those lips that pluck at hers, lingering at the corner of her mouth, sucking softly before letting the delicious intrusion of his demanding tongue trail past her lips. His breath has her name. His kisses are the passionate continuation to the explanation he had begun and left unfinished. He gives and seeks, persuading her, coaxing her to let go and give in. Not that he has to try too hard.
Sweet and sour and burning hot—his desire is all of this. Her mouth, his kisses pursue, but her nipples, they make it to, then descend even further, penetrating the depths of her belly before reaching... Blood rushes there, and with this gushing flood, comes a stronger surge of need. A jolting cry from somewhere inside that brings every hair on her skin to its full height.
Can everything change like this in just a matter of moments?
He draws away, his flushed lips reluctantly detaching from hers, and when he finds her eyes, she finds exactly what she has been looking for in them. In her maiden fantasies, it had always been Renly’s eyes. And when she woke, the sweetness wore the ugly garb of pain and a heartache.
But not anymore.
“I don’t dream of doing this to any woman who catches my eye,” Jaime says, his hand drawn to the knots keeping her shirt together.
“I don’t fancy Renly anymore,” she says, de tangling his bandaged arm from his neck. “You were not entirely wrong when you claimed that I—” Burning beneath the blush creeping up her neck, she fumbles with the laces on his tunic. “I—”
His fingers wrap around her wrist. “This—if we go on—this will change everything. For both of us.”
This unshakable hunger for him is her courage; her determination. “So be it then.”
He is silent for a second; then he circles her waist with his arm. He pulls her back against him so she can feel his hardness. “So be it, my lady.”
She gets him out of his shirt, then uncovers the rest of his perfectly sculpted form, and after, takes a lustful moment admiring him. She can feel his eyes returning the favour, and despite being fully clothed, she feels a shiver ripple through her, then another. This heat of desire in a male gaze feels unfamiliar, a foreign sensation she is keen to explore more of, but the beauty of his body, though blemished with countless scars and bruises, is not.
“I knew you were always interested,” he teases, then goes on to rip her shirt open, teeth and fingers, both doing his wanton bidding. His mouth seeks hers again when he tugs away at the waist of her pants. Flushed and distressed, he works frantically—lips on hers, hand on the rest of her clothes.
When her clothes hit her floor, he leads her to the unmade bedroll, pressing wet kisses to her mouth and her nipples as they collapse together on the floor. The last time they’d been thrown together in a naked embrace, she had held him. Now it is his turn. No one has ever held her the way he does—hells, no one has held her at all!
This is all so unfamiliar, yet, she feels at home with him. The soft brush of his lips to hers is an invitation to this journey of aching need, and she lets him take her.
Then, none of it feels unfamiliar anymore. Not his passion. Not the arms that hold her like she is far more precious than she is. Not the kisses that gently comfort her whilst blatantly seducing her at the same time while his hand attends to the need between her legs.
He keeps going. She needs more. He's relentless. She doesn't want him to be anything else.
He works up a rhythm. She sways her hips to it. He's panting. She's breathless.
“Brienne,” he whispers.
And she shudders, giving in with a harsh cry.
“Brienne,” he whispers in her ear again, gently entering her when her tremors have died down.
“Yes,” she whispers back, embracing him, drawing him in further.
Another smooth transition from prick to pleasure—this does not feel out of place at all. Nor does the grip that tightens on her waist, clamping her down to the bed, the thrusts that slowly begin to rock her world.
The music is still on. The drums are still playing somewhere in her head.
It feels like she has always been in those arms, more than once, felt those hips crushing hers. Those whispered words and hushed promises don’t feel like the first to caress her ears.
He pampers her with kisses, sweet and hot, sometimes on her lips, the others seeking residence on her teats. Breaths lost in him, she whimpers when he’s devouring her; moves when he moves. He feeds her, not with his usual mockery, but loving words she’d never thought capable of touching lips like his. And she moans his name into his skin; letting his body, his mind and his heart know of the pangs hidden in hers.
Him, warm and slick and thick between her legs, pushing deeper between her thighs, every thrust tossing her out of her body and taking her higher than the previous—this sense of disconnection from her body, yet a connection to his core is something that will never let go of her. Every note of his breath is going to remain with her. Every quiet moan is here to stay. Every hoarse cry of her name will be a permanent reminder that a man desires her, too.
Not any woman, he had pointedly corrected her. Now she understands what this means.
His hand shifts from her breast to grab a fistful of her hair. Waves corner her from all sides, climbing to a torrid intensity as they swing to the rhythm in her head; the burning sensation when his nails tear down her skin, the bruising fullness when he stretches her—is this what pleasure feels like? Is this what music really sounds like? She has never been through this before, yet it feels so exhilaratingly familiar.
When it is time, the pitch soars through the roof. She breaks with an indecent cry that would have shamed the hell out of Septa Roelle, her release ripping through the emptiness of the night, and when he goes still, pressing close to her, pressing soft whispers of her name to her lips, it is both her surrender and a victory.
The melody softens, but only for a brief instant.
His hand tightens on her shoulder; his face contorted, he presses hard. Squeezes. She holds her breath, smothered under his furious aggression, letting go when he eases, then pulling it back again when he pushes into her. The music in her head escalates with his mounting tension and the tightening of his muscles, his cries mating with the drumbeats that shoot up to a hectic peak.
Another grunt of her name. Another kiss that is both tender and frantic.
She lets him drown her with his release. The first gentle caress, every thrust and every spasm of her cunt, the sticky culmination of their union trickling down her thighs—this is one mark they’ve left on each other—one that can never be wiped away.
Gently floating through her now are the soothing notes of calm.
The hand that once aimed to strike her down now strokes her cheek fondly. The gaze that once reeked with disgust for her looks now caresses her form as if she is a goddess descended to be his.
All this and him, she wants to familiarize herself with. His eyes tell her he cannot wait either. The soft pressure of his kiss tells her that while this night might end in a few hours and their journey in a few more, their song will go on.