A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 53: Scarf

Chapter 53: Scarf

*A very soft chapter but Part 2 begins at Chapter 60*

It was a game they played each morning. Rhysand would prop himself on his elbow to face her, raking the backs of his nails lightly against the side of her face, brushing the thinnest strands of hair towards the crown of her head. Galadriel would lie there, eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. The day before they had played for well over an hour past sunrise—the usual time the Rhys rose to begin his day.

"You're going to cause permanent parts in my hair," Galadriel murmured, her eyes still closed. She could feel the sun against her cheek, warmer than it had been in many days. Winter was beginning to weaken, snow starting to melt. "I'll have bald streaks."

"I'm sure you could start a new fashion. Besides, if one of us has to worry about getting bald patches, I think it's me."

Memory washed over her as he replayed his perspective of last night in her mind—the sharp pain in his scalp when her own hand fisted around a great tuft of his hair. Peeling her eyes open, she smiled at the tanned face before her. "You're a male. You could tell them exactly how it happened and the people would pat your shoulder with cheers of celebration."

The mattress sunk as he swung over her, arms alongside her shoulders. His body hid away her sun, gilding his silhouette. "If you get to leave a mark on me, I get to leave one on you." With that, his face disappeared within the crook of her neck.

Galadriel giggled childishly as his lips tickled the sensitive spot, weakly trying to push him away. It only incentivised him more, lowering until his weight gently rested on her, pinning her to the mattress as his lips and tongue searched for the perfect place to leave evidence of his presence.

Suddenly he lifted his head, eyes searching hers, but she had no idea what for. "What?"

"That laugh," he said. "It's different."

Shaking her head slightly, in both morning delirium and confusion, she said, "I'm not sure what you mean."

"It's the same laugh as when you smashed a snowball into my face." He cocked his head. "I'm trying to figure out why it's not the same."

"As opposed to my other laughs?"

He hummed affirmatively. "It's...lighter. I want to hear more of it. I want to know how to get it out of you."

Galadriel blinked slowly. "I didn't realise it was something you paid attention to."

"I pay attention to every sound you make. For example, I know that when you do this—" he brought his knee up between her legs until it pressed against her "—you take a sharp breath."

Indeed she had, lungs tight. "What about when you kiss me?" she tested.

"Where?" Only half-lucidly, she motioned to a spot on her high cheek. "You sigh," he answered. To prove his point, he pressed his lips to the point of her cheekbone, smiling against her skin when a long exhale came from her. "Have I passed?"

Galadriel stretched her arms overhead, arching like a cat until her muscles shook. "For today," she replied, smiling up at him. Hooking her leg around the back of his, she pulled him closer, pleading for more of the pressure he was giving between her thighs.

Rhys gave in to her will, rolling his body so the muscle of his bare thigh ground against her. "Feel my back," he murmured.

Obeying as easily as he obeyed her, she smoothed her hand along his chest to his back, fingertips intently searching the plane of muscle. They found thin grooves, tracing down, following the curves of his ribs. She laughed—he had kept them from healing, like they were a trophy for him. "You are a masochist," she told him, pulling her head back enough to look him in the face.