In Time

Chapter Twenty-Seven

When he woke the following morning, Amara was still sound asleep beside him, stretched out on her belly, her glorious hair streaming across the cream-colored linen pillowcase. He rolled onto his side, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, the other beneath the pillow itself, and just gazed upon her, much like he had done when he was stuck in bed in the Healing Room at Rivendell. It was just as peaceful, just as serene, and just as fascinating. Light filtered through the treetops to spill into the room, and it danced along those blue-black curls, made them shimmer like satin.

The thought of that skinny stick of a he-elf touching his Amara fired his blood despite the tranquility of his surroundings. He knew what he'd seen on the elf's face, and as he told Amara, it probably mirrored the look on his own face whenever he looked at her. Should the stick even think of touching her... he'd pay with his blood.

His gut churned, and he closed his eyes, trying to calm the building rage. It was Mirkwood. It brought out the worst in everyone, but he seemed particularly vulnerable to it. The last time they ventured into Mirkwood, he was angry and disoriented and looking to do battle with someone. He got his wish, but it wasn't quite the battle he'd wanted. Giant spiders? No, thank you.

Little by little, he calmed, reaching out to catch a long curl between his fingers. Her hair was every bit as soft and silky as it looked. He loved touching it, loved the way it felt against his bare skin, and carefully inched toward her, leaning over where her hair parted at her nape, to press his lips to the patch of bared, pale skin.

She sighed softly in her sleep, bringing a smile to his lips. He moved closer still, brushing her hair over one shoulder to trail his kisses outward, along the curve of that shoulder, easing himself over her.

"Thorin..."

Her breathless whisper made him smile again. "What, amrâlimê?" he whispered back.

"What are—oh, that feels nice—you doing?"

"Do you wish me to stop?"

"Do I look mad?"

He brushed his lips over her right shoulder blade. "I am sorry for my words, Amara."

"As I am also sorry," she breathed, the linens rustling as her fingers tightened in them. "Oh, that feels so very nice..."

"It's supposed to."

He lifted himself off her so she could shift onto her back and as she did, she slid her arms about his middle, trailing her fingernails along his back, which made him shiver against her. He couldn't help himself. Her touch was so light, so gentle, and yet it fired his blood almost as much as her touch on other, far more sensitive parts of his body did.

She gazed up at him, her unusual eyes soft. "Now? I thought you wished to leave at first light?"

"I don't mind being delayed a bit," he replied, catching the blue ribbon lacing her chemise, which slid free easily. Her eyes darkened ever so subtly as he then caught the edge of the muslin to slowly ease it aside. Mahal save him, she tempted him beyond belief and as no other woman before her ever had.

He bent to brush his lips along the inner curve of her left breast, smiling as she sucked in a sharp breath, then let it out slowly. Her fingers slipped into his hair, her fingernails grazing his scalp to send a sharp tingle through him. He moved along that curve, easing the muslin from his path to bare her breast completely. Her fingers tightened in his hair, her back arched, her nipple already a tight bead when he kissed his way to it.

"Thorin?"

Amara jumped, yanking sharply on his hair, which stung across his scalp and he bit back an oath as he called, "What is it, Bofur?"