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The small bottle makes a plumph sound as Sara tosses it onto the quilts, but Nyssa barely looks up from her book. Sara throws herself onto the bed next; attaches herself to Nyssa, who simply lifts an elbow so that Sara can stick her head through without Nyssa’s having to move her arm. With her head situated on Nyssa’s shoulder, Sara looks up and chirrups, “Hi.”

Nyssa doesn’t glance away from her book, but Sara can see a smile tugging at a corner of the woman’s lips. “Hello,” Nyssa replies.

“Watchu reading?”

“Villette.”

“Oh,” Sara answers bemusedly. “Is it good?”

“Adequately so,” Nyssa replies. “And why are you not in your quarters? Are you here to interrogate me on my reading habits?”

“Nope. I wanted to let you know that while I was down in Beijing three days ago, I bought oil.”

“I see.” Nyssa eyes her. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“It’s massage oil. Want a massage?”

“Ah.” Nyssa idly flips a page. “I do not ‘do’ massages.”

“Have you even had one before?”

“No,” Nyssa acknowledges. “But that’s a vulnerability I wish not to possess. It’s not that I don’t trust you, habibti, but simply the idea of a massage…”

“Huh.” Sara ponders that. “But you live in Tibet. I thought there was that health/therapy massage and all that shit goin’ on.”

Nyssa gives her the quelling look which always translates into, Sara, stop being such a culturally insensitive asshole.

“Just because I live in Tibet doesn’t mean I call at the doors of masseurs,” Nyssa says. “Even if I had wished to—which I have not—when would my conscience have allowed me such luxury?”

“You have a point,” Sara agrees. “But hey, I’m not a regular masseuse.”

“You seem eager about this, Ta’er al-Sahfer.”

“Well—yeah,” Sara splutters. “Why wouldn’t I be eager to give you a massage?”

Nyssa exhales loudly through her nose. “Very well,” she says, and Sara knows Nyssa’s really only humouring her. “We may give it a try one day.”

“Why not now?” Sara insists.

“Because I’m reading now.”

“Well, who says you can’t read and be massaged at the same time?”

“Is that what they teach you at massage school?” Nyssa jests.

Sara chuckles. She says, “No, but I bet I could pull it off. You should let me try. Please. Please please pleaaa—”

“Alright, alright,” Nyssa cuts in. “I doubt you would let me rest if I refused. What do you want me to do?”

“Just … lie back,” Sara answers cheerfully. “Oh, before that: Let me put down some towels.”

She clambers off the bed to fetch the necessary apparatus and returns with a few black towels, which Nyssa allows to be laid down on the bed. Still, Nyssa shoots Sara a bewildered look as she lies back. “Do you not need me to strip?”

Sara laughs. “Well, your robe will keep you warm, if you don’t mind it getting oily.”

“I suppose I don’t,” Nyssa concedes. “It’s practically a rag by this point. There will be no untoward questions asked, either: This robe is touched only by my hands.”

“And mine,” Sara interjects.

Nyssa shakes her head in fondness. “And yours, my playful one.”

“Okay.” Sara sits crossed-legged at the far end of the bed and pulls Nyssa’s feet into her lap. “I’m ready now. Continue reading. Out loud.”

Nyssa gives her another look, but complies: “For what I felt there was no help, and how could I help feeling?”

Sara tunes Nyssa out after that, because she isn’t interested in the novel at all. Instead, she concentrates on the cadence of Nyssa’s breathing and the low hum of Nyssa’s voice. Nyssa never breaks stride, not even when Sara uncaps the bottle of oil, tips some into her palm, warms it, and rubs it over the woman’s feet. Sara kneads particularly into the heels—which she knows ache after Nyssa has stood for the whole day—and scrapes over the calluses born from years of endless battle.

Her brave heroine.

Nyssa may have forbidden her from voicing it—“My rank demands respect, Ta’er al-Sahfer, not admiration. You could do better than to idolize a mortal,”—but Sara secretly still puts her on a pedestal: Nyssa has the kind of inner strength that Sara could only hope to someday forge.

Sara rounds her palms into a vice now and pushes upwards around Nyssa’s calf; first the left, numerous times, and then the right. It isn’t until she touches the back of one knee that she hears the hitch in Nyssa’s breath. With a wicked grin, Sara tips a little bit more of oil into her palms and reaches beneath Nyssa’s robe.

The woman shoots her a dirty look before continuing: “How sweetly, for the jealous gibe…”

God, the skin on Nyssa’s upper thighs is so soft.

It’s such a contrast to the façade she presents: The hardened armour she wears in the morning, when she assumes the public role of Heir and commands a legion of League members.

Here, in this room, Nyssa is just Sara’s.

And Sara is well-aware of how privileged she is to witness these depths to Nyssa: This relaxed side that the rest of the world doesn’t see; this trusting side that the rest of the world misses out on. Nyssa is hard and soft and strong and vulnerable and demanding and giving all at once—but Sara is the only one who holds the key to every single facet of her, and Sara loves her for it.

Sara relishes now in the give of Nyssa’s flesh under her hands; feels the grain of Nyssa’s skin, warm to her touch and alighting with goose-bumps the gentler her brushes—a tiny gasp escapes Nyssa’s lips at one point, and then Nyssa puts down her book and glares at Sara.

“It’s not a massage you’re after, is it?”

Sara winks. “I never said it was the only thing I was after.”

“Sara—”

She shushes Nyssa. “Read your book,” she says dismissively. “I won’t get in your way. We can totally keep this read/massage thing going.”

“Ta’er al-Sahfer,” Nyssa warns—her eyes narrowing—but she continues anyway, the rise and fall of her rich voice music to Sara’s ears.

Sara moves on to Nyssa’s abdomen. Strong muscles undulate under her touch, but Nyssa recites without pause. Dissatisfied with the way her movements are restricted by the robe, Sara grabs hold of Nyssa’s thighs and hauls: Nyssa slides off the pillows without reaction. Doesn’t even appear to notice when Sara wraps Nyssa’s legs around Sara’s own waist and scratches lightly at Nyssa’s skin because fuckfuckfuck, she knew that Nyssa wore no underwear to bed but—

Ugh.

Ughhh.

Sara should have foreseen the minx using it to her advantage.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Sara undoes the knotted belt and parts the robe to reveal Nyssa’s stomach. Bypassing the soft, flat plane for now, Sara moulds her hands around the harsh curves of Nyssa’s waist instead; runs her hands in upward strokes, once, twice, thrice—until Nyssa’s back arches ever so slightly. And then, she gentles her touch, grazing her fingers in loops and swirls across Nyssa’s abdomen. It flexes.

With a smirk, Sara traces where the lines of toned muscle had appeared. Nyssa stops mid-word for a full second; when she proceeds onwards, she’s distinctly breathless.

She’s just as stubborn as Sara is, of course—if not more.

Pouting, Sara lifts the book and sticks her head through the gap in between Nyssa’s arms so that she can kiss the woman. When she draws back, Nyssa is beaming smugly.

“Feeling neglected, are you?” Nyssa queries.

“If I said ‘yes,’ would you fuck me?”

Nyssa chortles at her boldness. “Again with the swearing, Ta’er al-Sahfer. I thought you just wanted me to read.”

“You wanted to read,” Sara points out. “But fine. Two can play this game. Watch me.”

And watch, Nyssa does.

She watches as Sara withdraws into a sitting position.

She watches as Sara parts the robe farther.

And then, she goes back to her never-ending book.

Huffing with frustration, Sara slides her hands under the flaps of the robe and rounds the full curves of Nyssa’s breasts. She mocks impertinently, “I thought you were gonna read out loud.”

And the other woman obeys, “So oblivious was the house…”

Nyssa’s voice only gets more unsteady after that.

Sara perversely gains pleasure from it: From watching the articulate soldier be reduced to incoherence because of the heat of Sara’s palms and Sara’s errant fingers and Sara’s questing-questing-questing hands.

By the time Sara has knelt on the uncomfortable stone floor and pulled Nyssa to the edge of the bed, the brunette is barely even able to talk anymore.

Before she can touch Nyssa, though, Sara hears a loud smack.

She rises in alarm—discovers that Nyssa has dropped the book onto her face. Sara swallows back her laughter, but Nyssa still looks embarrassed when she removes the book. Mortified, even. Sara knows how much it pains Nyssa to make a fool of herself, especially—maybe even ironically—in front of Sara: As vulnerable as Nyssa is willing to be with her heart, she seems to think that any slip in dignity would cause Sara to run for the hills, as if Nyssa were unlovable as an imperfect woman.

Sara catches hold of Nyssa’s hand and entangles their fingers and brushes her lips over the back of Nyssa’s work-worn knuckles. “You okay?” Sara asks softly when Nyssa has met her eyes.

“Yes,” Nyssa answers just as quietly.

“Good,” Sara says, “because I wouldn’t want you to think that you being so turned on isn’t completely doing it for me.”

Nyssa’s lips part, but no words exit. She looks stunned, just as she always does—more than six months into their relationship, Sara still manages to say things that strike awe onto her face.

Pressing one last kiss to the knuckles, Sara relinquishes Nyssa’s hand and sinks to the ground again. She hooks her arms under Nyssa’s thighs and swings them over her shoulders; and then, she nudges her nose into the musky scent of Nyssa’s arousal.

The first taste always takes a little getting used to, Sara thinks, not because it’s undesirable but because it’s so very strong. It’s thick and it’s sweet and Nyssa’s really sensitive—maybe only because it’s Sara, but Sara will never know. She’s Nyssa’s first and, as Nyssa isn’t shy to tell her, Nyssa’s utmost.

Part of Sara does cherish that: The way Nyssa looks at her as if she hung the moon. Sara likes knowing the person she is can be loved so absolutely. The other part of her thinks she doesn’t deserve a love that extreme—but maybe it’s no different to her putting Nyssa on a pedestal.

Nyssa writhes now, both towards and away from the tongue Sara lashes on her, and something inside Sara soars at that because Nyssa had been so afraid of being too wanton at the beginning.

The first time Sara had gone down on her, she’d lain still and impassive, like she had felt nothing; Sara had had to stick her head up and enquire point-blank if Nyssa didn’t enjoy it after all. Nyssa, with eyes dark and fingers clenched into the sheets, had gritted out twisted logic of how she feared that too much enjoyment would lead to a lack of second opportunities.

Sara had been horrified by Nyssa’s words.

Still, she had understood them even then: It’s simply the way Nyssa lives. The warrior holds everything—everything—she herself does to impossibly high standards, and those high standards had once included a measure of discipline and reservation even during sex.

Sara had wanted to prove Nyssa wrong, and so Sara had simply stuck her tongue into Nyssa once more and eaten Nyssa out until her tongue was sore and her jaw was ready to lock and her fingers were almost breaking and Nyssa came—came hard, despite trying not to. Afterwards, Sara had cuddled up close to Nyssa and told Nyssa that watching the woman orgasm had been ‘hot as fuck.’ Nyssa had turned redder than a tomato and chastised Sara for her language.

But Nyssa had seemed relieved and Sara knows that she had been, because multiple trysts and an endless amount of reassurances later, Nyssa no longer holds back.

Sara feels all the more rewarded for her patience—

Because an uninhibited Nyssa? An uninhibited Nyssa really is hot as fuck.

She doesn’t moan or groan or scream: She’s the least vocal person Sara’s ever encountered.

But she does clamp her legs around Sara’s head despite Sara’s best efforts to keep them apart and dig her heels painfully into Sara’s lower back and tear nearly every strand of Sara’s hair out with her frantic, frantic fingers. She’s not a lover of great prowess, yet she is a lover of great passion once she’s chosen to give herself over.

She’s passionate in the shudders that rack through her body.

She’s passionate in the nonstop jerking of her hips.

She’s passionate in the uncontrollable little ohohohoh gasps that escape her lips, barely audible from where Sara kneels but always just loud enough spur Sara on—

And Sara loves being spurred on.

It’s the most exhilarating thing in the world, to see—and hear—and smell—and feel—a woman so ridiculously in control just lose her head to her desire.

Yeah, it does make Sara work harder to please: She’s always been one to give only as good as she gets, but damn if she doesn’t get a kick out of knowing that the harder she presses her tongue through Nyssa’s folds, the more Nyssa’s hips will twitch; the deeper her fingers go, the more erratically Nyssa will clench; the lighter the touch of her mouth, the wetter Nyssa will get. Nyssa’s really sensitive—maybe only because it’s Sara, but if it is so, then Sara is all too damn lucky.

Because sometimes—late in the middle of the night during the long weeks that either of them is away on a mission—Sara gets to spoil herself with the image in her mind’s eye of Nyssa at her peak.

It’s the most exhilarating thing in the world, to know that Nyssa would put her body—again—and again—and again—into Sara’s hands; unflinchingly, unhesitantly,  just confident that Sara would carry her through her lust without fail.

All moments must come to an end, though: Nyssa’s quickly approaching her crest. Sara makes one last-ditch attempt to titillate by giving Nyssa’s clit a light nip and watching as the other woman practically flies off the bed. And then, when Nyssa has settled down a little, she steadies her movements, rhythmically curling her fingers against hot, tight walls and repetitively lapping with her tongue at Nyssa until Nyssa starts to pulse. Nyssa always comes silently … but it’s the best moment, in Sara’s opinion.

Because when Sara lifts her head, it’s to the view of taut, sweat-slickened skin and twistingtwistingtwisting hips and a chest heaving in its violent scrabble to catch a breath.

Add to it Nyssa’s ragged pants—rasping dissonantly against the quiet of the room—and it’s just … well, shit. Fuck. God help her, but Sara’s more than a little gone.

It’s the most exhilarating thing in the world, to realize that here, in this room, Nyssa’s body—and heart—and soul—belong to Sara, and to Sara only.

Sara always feels shaken by the time Nyssa’s hips have stopped pushing into her hand.

When Nyssa’s body quietens, Sara finally withdraws her fingers and climbs onto the bed.

Nyssa is slow to drift back down to Earth, but she opens her eyes eventually—with her pupils still blown and a pretty blush still colouring her bronzed skin—and unsteadily reaches out to stroke Sara’s cheek.

She looks stunned, just as she always does—as if she can’t believe that, more than six months into their relationship, it can still be this good.

With neither fuss nor fanfare, Sara closes her mouth around Nyssa’s slim digits and sucks away the traces of arousal that had come off with Nyssa’s touch.

The first taste always takes a little getting used to—

But the last? The last is Sara’s fatal addiction.

“So, I guess you ‘do’ massages after all,” Sara quips softly.

The blush on Nyssa’s face ripens to a fifth degree. “Only if it is to be with you,” Nyssa admits, yet she seems gladdened by that thought.

Sara sketches her fingers around the curve of Nyssa’s jaw. “I think I can live with that,” she answers.

“Which is just as well,” Nyssa replies breathily and with a nod, “because one might even accuse me of fervently anticipating it henceforth.”

Sara laughs aloud at that.

Yeah, she’s more than a little fucking gone.

In her defence, so is Nyssa.

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