Ch.50 – She Decides

The curtain of my treehouse moved at midnight.

I was awake. The Blessing had been keeping me half-alert since the night patrol, the absorbed senses picking up the settlement's rhythms while I lay on the moss bedroll. Elves sleeping on platforms above and below. The fungi lanterns cycling low. Mila's soft breathing from the next room where she'd curled up hours ago.

And now a presence at my door. Familiar. The weight of a body that moved like a fighter, the faint creak of the platform under boots that were trying to be quiet and mostly succeeding.

The curtain pulled aside. Leonora stepped through.

She'd taken off her armor.

That was the first thing. No plate. No gauntlets. No leather breastpiece or sword belt or any of the layers she wore like a second skin. She was in her undershirt, grey, sleeveless, and her trousers, and her boots, and nothing else. Her sword was on her back, the only concession to readiness, and she held the strap with one hand like she was thinking about putting it down.

Her hair was down.

I'd never seen it down. She wore it tied in a severe knot at the base of her skull during the day, always, without exception. Down, it fell past her shoulders, dark and straight, and it changed the shape of her face. Softened the jaw. Made her look less like a commander and more like a woman standing in a doorway at midnight trying to look like she had a plan.

She put the sword against the wall. Leaned it carefully. Turned back.

"I need to understand this power," she said.

Her voice was steady. Her hands were not. The left one was clenched at her side and the right was flexing, opening and closing, fighting the reach for her blade.

I sat up. The moss bedroll shifted under me. The fungi lantern in the corner was low, gold-white light casting her in warm tones and deep shadows.

"Is that what you need?" I said.

Her jaw tightened. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't make this into more than it is. I need to understand the Blessing. How it works. What the transfer feels like. It's tactically relevant."

"You came to my room at midnight with your hair down to gather tactical intelligence."

The muscle below her eye twitched. Her fists clenched tighter.

"Yes," she said.

"Okay."

She stepped inside. Let the curtain fall closed behind her. The treehouse was small. Two steps and she was in front of me. I was sitting on the bedroll and she was standing over me and from this angle the light caught the line of her throat and the width of her shoulders and the lean muscle of her arms and the fabric of the undershirt was thin enough that I could see the shape of her body underneath.

She kissed me.

No buildup. No hesitation. She bent down and put her mouth on mine and her hand went to the back of my head and she kissed me with control. Precise. Like a technique she'd drilled. Her lips firm, her pressure measured, the angle calculated. She kissed the way she fought.

Then she grabbed my shirt and pulled me to my feet.

I weighed more than her by thirty pounds but she lifted me like the weight was nothing. One hand in my shirt, one on my arm, and I was standing before I'd decided to stand. My feet were on the floor because she'd put them there.

She backed me against the treehouse wall. The living wood was warm against my spine and her body was in front of me and her hand was flat on my chest and she was breathing through her nose, controlled, the same breathing she used in combat.

"I'm stronger than you," she said. Looking at my face. "I could stop this at any time."

"I know."

"This means I'm choosing this."

"I know, Leonora."

She undressed me first.

Pulled the shirt over my head. Her hands on my skin, evaluating. Her fingers traced the muscle of my shoulders, my arms, the lines of my stomach. Not the way Lucie had touched my face in the clearing, all curiosity and wonder. Leonora touched me like she was learning a weapon. Grip width. Balance point. Where the stress fractures would form.

Her fingers found the scratches. Filia's nail marks on my shoulder, faded to pink now but still visible in the lantern light. She traced them. One finger along each line.

"Hers?" she said.

"Yes."

Her jaw tightened. Her finger pressed harder along the scratch line. Not enough to hurt. Enough to feel.

"She marked you."

"Not on purpose."

"It doesn't matter if it was on purpose." Her eyes were on the marks. "They're there."

She pulled her hand back. Looked at my face. Her eyes dropped. To my chest. My stomach. Lower. My cock was hard, visible through my trousers, and she looked at it with the same assessing focus she'd given the scratches.

She pulled her own undershirt off.

I'd seen her in training clothes. I'd seen the shape of her body through fabric during sparring. But the undershirt coming off was different. She was built from years of sword work and military training, her arms defined and her shoulders wide for a woman and her stomach flat with visible muscle and her breasts bound by a chest wrap that she unwound in three efficient turns. Under the wrap her breasts were fuller than the binding suggested, firm, the skin pale where the sun hadn't reached. A scar ran along the bottom of her left ribcage, thin and old.

She stood in front of me. Bare from the waist up. Her dark hair over her shoulders. The lantern light on her skin.

She didn't cover herself. She didn't look away. Shoulders back, chin level, like she was reviewing a formation.

"Sit," she said.

I sat on the bedroll.

She straddled me.

Her knees came down on either side of my hips and her weight settled onto my lap and the heat of her body through the remaining layers of fabric was immediate. Her trousers against mine. The press of her groin against my cock through cloth and she was warm there, warmer than the rest of her, and when she settled her weight the friction made her breathing catch for a half second before she locked it down.

She took my wrists. Both of them. Lifted my arms above my head and pressed them against the wall behind me. Her grip was iron. Her fingers wrapped around both wrists and squeezed and I tried to pull free and couldn't. Genuinely couldn't. The Blessing had given me absorptions from four women and the strength to stand against Nol's wind blast and Leonora's grip held me like I was nothing.

"This changes nothing about the chain of command," she said. Her face was close to mine. Her breath on my mouth. Her eyes steady.

"Understood, Commander."

"Don't call me that right now."

"Leonora."

Her grip on my wrists tightened. Her hips rocked forward once. Grinding against my cock through fabric. The pressure and the friction and the heat and her face was right there and her composure was holding but her pupils were wide and her lips were parted.

She rocked again. Slower. Her hips finding a rhythm. The press of her pussy against my cock through two layers of cloth and the warmth was building between us and my hips pushed up to meet her and she inhaled sharp through her nose.

"Don't move," she said.

"Leonora-"

"I said don't move. I'll set the pace."

She ground against me. Controlled. Military precision in her hips, a steady rhythm that built friction and heat and my cock was straining against my trousers and her body was pressing down on it and each grind dragged her pussy along my length through fabric and her jaw was tight and her breathing was getting deeper.

She let go of my wrists with one hand. Reached between us. Undid my trousers. Pulled my cock free. The cool air lasted a second before her hand wrapped around me and her grip was strong, calloused, the sword calluses rough on my shaft and the pressure was exact.

She lifted her hips. Pulled her own trousers down enough. Her pussy was bare against my cock and she was wet. Not soaked, not dripping. The arousal of a woman who'd been fighting it for days.

She pressed the head of my cock against her entrance. Looked at my face.

"This is my decision," she said.

She sank onto me.

Slow. Controlled. Her hands went back to my wrists, both of them, pinning me against the wall, and she lowered herself onto my cock with the same deliberate precision she used for everything. The first inch was tight and hot and the stretch of her around me was different from anyone else. Not the swollen grip of Llusse or the familiar warmth of Filia. Leonora was tight with control. Her body resisting on instinct and her will overriding the resistance and each inch was a deliberate decision to take more.

Her jaw was clenched. Her breathing through her nose. She sank lower. My cock pushing deeper into heat that gripped from all sides and her weight settled heavier on my hips and her thighs flexed against my sides and she took me all the way down and stopped.

Full. Her hips flush against mine. Her pussy clenched around me in a single hard pulse and she held still and her eyes were closed and her grip on my wrists was crushing.

"Nn-"

One sound. Bitten off. Her jaw reclenching immediately.

She opened her eyes. Looked down at me. Her face was flushed and her pupils were blown and her breathing was fast through her nose and she was trying to look composed and failing.

She lifted her hips. Two inches. Sank back down.

The wet sound was quiet in the small room. Her body moved with precision. Each rise measured, each descent controlled, a rhythm as regular as the sparring drills she ran every morning. Up. Down. Up. Down. Her grip on my wrists. Her thighs working. Her stomach flexing. Her jaw locked.

I rocked my hips up to meet her downstroke.

Her eyes went wide. Her mouth opened. A sound came out that she didn't control, a gasp that was louder than anything she'd made since walking through my door, and her rhythm stuttered.

"Don't-"

I did it again. Driving up when she sank down, the depth doubling, my cock hitting deep inside her and her whole body jolted on top of me.

"Ah-"

Her grip on my wrists went white and her hips stuttered out of rhythm and for two seconds she was just a woman on top of a man who'd found an angle that worked.

She recovered. Locked her jaw. Forced the rhythm back. But the precision was gone. Each downstroke was harder than the last and her breathing had switched from her nose to her mouth and she was making small sounds on each impact. Quiet. Catches of breath that escaped between her teeth.

"Nn- nn-"

I kept driving up. Meeting her rhythm, then pushing it. Each time she came down I pushed up and the depth made her gasp and her composure cracked a little more. Her breasts were shifting with the motion, the scar along her ribs catching the light with each rise. Sweat forming on her collarbones and between her breasts and on the flat plane of her stomach.

Her grip on my wrists was tightening. Not loosening. Getting harder. Grinding my wrists against the wall. Her fingers crushing down.

The tell. Forming. The grip tightening as the composure broke.

"Stop- moving-" she said. Through her teeth. Her hips slamming down. "I said I would set the- ah- the pace-"

"You're not setting the pace anymore."

Her eyes flashed. She pressed my wrists harder against the wall. Her hips drove down and she ground against me, deep, my cock buried in her and her clit pressed against the base of my shaft and her jaw was clenching and unclenching and her breathing was ragged.

"I'm- this is my- I said I-"

She was trying to form sentences and failing. Her body was moving faster, the military precision replaced by desperation, and the wet sounds were louder and her pussy was clenching around me in rhythmic pulses and her thighs were shaking.

Her grip on my wrists went crushing. Both hands. Squeezing so hard my fingers tingled.

The tell.

She came with her jaw clenched, fighting the moan, and losing. A choked sound ripped from her throat, low and raw and nothing like her voice, and her pussy clenched around me in deep hard waves and her body went rigid and her hips jerked and her eyes squeezed shut and her grip on my wrists was the tightest thing I'd ever felt.

The Blessing hit.

A pulse. Not gold like Tianne's, not warm like Filia's. A surge. White-hot and massive, flooding through the contact points where my cock was inside her and her hands were on my wrists, and the power slammed into my chest like Nol's wind blast except from the inside. Knight-grade combat attributes. Fifteen years of sword mastery and tactical instinct and physical conditioning absorbed in a single pulse that made my vision white out.

Leonora felt it too. Her eyes snapped open. Wide. The rigid composure gone, replaced by shock.

"That-" Her voice was raw. "What-"

She was still clenching around me. Her body still shaking. Her grip on my wrists still crushing.

"The Blessing," I said.

"That was- I felt-"

"I know."

She looked down at where our bodies were joined. At her hands on my wrists. At my face. Her pupils were blown and her lips were parted and the flush covered her face and her chest and her breathing was ragged and she looked like a woman who had come to gather tactical intelligence and had been hit by a siege weapon instead.

She didn't get off me. She didn't let go of my wrists.

"Again," she said.