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How Far: The Wedding Night

Title: How Far: The Wedding Night
Series: Tales of the Abyss
Length: 5025 words
Genre: Romance, Porn
Pairing: Guy/Natalia
Summary: An explicit version of the wedding night scene from Chapter 17 of How Far.

Along with helping Natalia out of her reception gown and removing the many pins from her hair, Sera had drawn the princess a rose-scented bath. The gesture was appreciated, but Natalia had planned to simply don her nightdress and wait for Guy like any other new bride.

Although... a bath did sound lovely. A quick soak to wash off the day and relax her. “Well, perhaps for a second,” she decided, then dismissed Sera for the night.

Natalia sank into the warm water and let out a long sigh of pleasure. All right, perhaps more than a second.

Once finished with her soak, Natalia wrapped a plush towel around herself and returned to her bedroom, where Sera had laid out her nightclothes. More white and lace, the princess observed with a twist of her lips. She'd never worn so much white and lace in her life.

The goddess-style silk gown had thin shoulder straps and draped dreamily to her ankles, looking quite demure. Once on and standing before the mirror, however, she could see just how high the slit went up one side, revealing the scrap of dainty, wispy lace that had barely covered anything to begin with. She bent her exposed knee in a sultry pose and tossed her head, then made a face at her silliness. She was acting like Anise.

The bath had relaxed her, but bubbles of nervousness began bouncing in her belly. To find her calm again, she sat at her dressing table to pull her brush through her hair, counting the strokes. Any moment Guy would knock on her door.

She laid her hairbrush down and twisted her wedding band around her finger. Maybe Guy had taken a moment to relax and wash off the day like she had. Maybe he was standing under the shower, leaning his head back and reaching up to push his wet hair out of his face, the water sluicing over his lean body and--

Oh, the bubbles were back. She pulled off her ring as a distraction. After they'd chosen their matching bands, she'd sent a note to the jeweler requesting a simple engraving. Like a secret, the words "with all my love" were etched inside his ring, and she wondered when he would discover them.

She ran the tip of her finger along the inside of her own ring, then held it beneath the lamp to examine it more closely. To her delight, he had inscribed a hidden message as well.

your eternal servant

That was so much better than hers.

She replaced her ring and stood again, almost to the point of pacing now. She unlocked and opened her connecting door between their two rooms. The door on his side was closed.

Somehow she had to situate herself, didn't she? She considered sitting on her bed, but that might look too posed and overeager. Perhaps she should return to her dressing table and brush her hair again, though any more brushing would pull it right out. Standing in limbo, halfway between all options was sure to look awkward, yet that's where she was when Guy's door opened.

He walked through, wearing a set of navy blue pajamas with white pinstripes, his feet bare and his hair slightly damp. Her little fantasy had been correct.

Partly to cover her lack of poise and partly to tease him, she dipped in a low curtsy. "Your Highness," she intoned with cheeky reverence.

She raised her head to see him shaking his. "That still sounds weird," he said. "Every time Merton called me that, I turned around looking for you."

She laughed and stood once more, keenly aware of the crackle between them, the thinness of her nightgown and the heat of his gaze upon it. The silk did little to disguise the shape of her underneath.

With a nervous gesture, she smoothed her hair behind her ear, and his gaze followed her fingers. "Aw, what happened to the little braid? It was cute."

"If you like, I can call for Sera and have her recreate it for you," she replied.

"Nah," he said, stepping close to her. "Because then I couldn't do this." He repeated the same gesture she'd made, and something quivered inside her. As his fingers twined in her hair, his lips found her cheek, her ear, her neck.

She sighed and wrapped her arms around him, inhaling the fresh, soapy scent of her husband.

Her husband.

Her shoulders started to shake, and she pressed her face to his shoulder to muffle a new rush of laughter.

Her husband.

If she could go back in time and tell the child version of herself that one day she’d fall in love with the untouchable servant boy… if she’d told the boy that one day he’d marry that spoiled brat of a princess….

Her laughter couldn't be contained, and so when he asked, she revealed her thoughts aloud. "I can't believe I married you!" she said before dissolving into giggles again.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Hey, this was your idea, you know."

"I know," she said, and as he grinned at her, her giggles finally subsided, merriment replaced with contentment. "I'm just... I'm so happy."

"Good," he replied, and as his blue eyes held her, she had no further desire to laugh. "Me too."

"Thank you for saying yes."

"Thank you for asking me."

His arms were strong around her, his hands warm on her back through the thin silk of her nightgown, sliding up and down, then staying low to cup her bottom. Even with an additional layer of fabric there, she could feel their heat. His mouth found her neck again, and so she sighed again. Perhaps her laughter had been a symptom of her nervousness, her excitement, this knowledge that the anticipation was over, that they belonged to each other now, that no one could interrupt what would follow these marvelous kisses.

She wanted to run her hands over him, too, feel his skin beneath her fingers, and started working at the buttons of his pajama top. In her haste and excitement and lack of experience undressing a man, she accidentally pulled the second button completely off, but let it fall to the floor as she moved on.

It was his turn to laugh. “So, you’re just going for it, huh?”

Her hands stilled above the middle button. “Should I not?”

“You should,” he replied. “I like it.”

A little self-conscious, she continued, as he returned to his task of sucking lightly at this one particular spot, this place where her neck and shoulder met. He could tease her with his words and his smile, he could tease her with his lips and his tongue; either way, she shivered and wanted more.

Her hands freed the last button and spread the striped cotton wide. Eager fingers trailed up and down his chest, along his sides, exploring, daring. That day in the whirlpool, she’d thought of doing this with embarrassment and curiosity, reminding herself that acting on the impulse would not be ladylike. So glad was she that such no longer mattered, and her mouth met his as she pushed his shirt first from one shoulder, then the other with an urgency that made him flinch.

“Sorry,” he said when she stepped back. “Didn’t mean to do that.”

There was a blur of purple on top of his right shoulder, and she made him turn around so that she could see it continue on the other side. “Oh, Guy, my poor darling,” she murmured as ginger rather than eager fingers touched him, and he flinched again. Reality came back in a flash, the attack in the coliseum, the way he’d hit the ground. She gently pressed her lips to the bruise, a time-honored way of healing. “Does it hurt?”

“Not enough,” he assured her, facing her again. Worry must still have been in her eyes, along with irritation at herself for forgetting his injury. “I’m fine, I swear. I’ll prove it.”

Before she could protest, his arms were back around her, one beneath her knees as he swept her off her feet. Her own arms looped around his neck again for stability. In all her life as a princess, no one had ever picked her up like this. And that was unfair, wasn’t it? Fairy tales were always full of romantic scenes like this, though those princesses had been a bit dippy and helpless, and she’d prided herself on being more capable and independent than those flimsy characters.

However, part of her had always longed for a prince to carry her.

If he insisted that he was fine, far be it from her to contradict him. Careful not to touch his bruised shoulder again, she nestled into him and enjoyed the ride over to her bed.

"Wait," she said as he was about to set her down. "Can we go in your room?" He hesitated, adjusting her position in his arms. She knew what he was thinking: A bed was a bed, so what was the difference? "I spent all that time decorating it, and it would be a shame to let my efforts go to waste."

"Well," he answered, pivoting toward the open connecting doors, "the last thing I want to do is spend my wedding night arguing with my wife over which room she'd prefer to ravish me in."

She nuzzled his neck in approval.

The roses and ivories of her bedchamber were replaced with the browns and blues of his, the darker woods, warm and masculine. The new pillow was plush and inviting beneath her head, the new mattress firm and solid beneath the cushy cradle of the feather duvet. A bed was not a bed, not in this case, when everything was new for them both, for them to discover together.

Her neck arched and her mouth opened to welcome his tongue, to stroke it with hers. His hands were on her waist, his fingers pressing into her hips through the silk sheath. Her own fingers danced up and down his back like she was playing a xylophone to accompany the music of their wordless murmurs and the syncopation of their heartbeats.

Her nightgown began bunching beneath his hands, sliding up over her thighs, revealing her stomach. Heat spread all though her, even as cool air tried to soothe her flesh. Each place he touched her felt marked by him, searing, an invisible brand. She squirmed, her legs kicking at the heavy duvet and pushing it out of their way, and his hands returned to her hips to hold her still. She didn't want to be still, not when his tongue was licking along her neck, then lower... until he was the one who was suddenly still.

With his mouth against her skin, he muttered, "Damn them."

She frowned at this unexpected change in events. "Who?"

He raised his head to meet her eyes. "Luke and Anise."

"And dare I ask why you're thinking about them at this particular moment?"

"It's stupid," he answered.

"Now I really must know."

His arm stayed slung across her hip as he rolled onto his side, sharing her pillow. "They said we're going to have scary little Largo babies."

"I see," she replied, even though she didn't.

"And that's okay, I mean, I don't care what our children look like, it’s just...." He sighed and shook his head. "I can't stop picturing it."

"You're picturing our children?" She'd done so often since their engagement, imagining miniature versions of themselves, a blue-eyed boy with stubborn hair and a clever grin, a girl with a haughty chin and a crown of golden curls. Factoring in their predecessors, including those of imposing stature, did cause those images to distort somewhat and create a distraction not easily banished.

"Yeah," he replied sheepishly. "Quite the bucket of cold water, huh?"

"Perhaps," she said, "but I think it's incredibly romantic." She laid her hand over his heart, felt it beat against her palm. Her husband was a true romantic, and while this might have thrown cold water on the proceedings for him.... "And I think I just fell a little more in love with you."

How wonderful marriage was going to be if every day they discovered more reasons to love each other.

To bring him back from his imaginings, a greater distraction was in order, and so she kissed him the way she liked being kissed. Her lips brushed over his ear, her mouth opened against his neck, a bit of flesh being sucked between her teeth. She smiled to herself when she heard him groan, when the arm across her hip pulled her more tightly to him, his hand crawling under her nightgown and his fingers pressing into her bottom, that second thin layer of silk and lace hardly a barrier to their heat. Her tongue made languid swipes along his neck like she was licking cream from a strawberry, wanting him to feel what she felt, to drive everything but this from his mind.

Her efforts must have been successful, for he pushed her down onto her back again and covered her mouth with his. Her hands went into the thickness of his hair, but this time he didn't flinch and only opened his mouth wider to slant hungrily across hers. Her body reacted as far down as her toes, which curled into the disheveled duvet like she needed to hold onto something else to keep from being drawn completely into him.

Though why that would be a problem, she was sure she didn't know.

He leaned up, but not to pull her nightgown over her head as she hoped. "I have to tell you something else," he said.

She could feel her body crying, but she did her best to focus her hazy eyes on her husband's face. "My, so much talking," she teased, her voice breathy and belying her insouciance, "I should begin to think you don't enjoy kissing me."

"After this, I won't say another word for the rest of our marriage, if you wish," he said. "But the thing is, I'm not going to be very good at this." When she opened her mouth to protest such foolishness, he laid a finger across her lips. "I'm just not," he insisted, "and I need you to know that that's no reflection on you, because I find you to be absolutely exquisite. But I promise--I promise you--I will get better."

"Well," she answered, tracing her own finger along his jaw, "if you continue to use words like 'exquisite', you shall be allowed the occasional sentence."

He chuckled at that, was chuckling still as he kissed her again.

As it was, she wouldn't know the difference, nor would she care. All she wanted was to be with him.

Once more his hands grasped the silk at her hips, pushed it up as he wedged a knee between her thighs. Much as she loved the feel of his weight above her, she rose so that finally, finally he could lift the fabric over her head. A chill came over her flushed skin, the cool air contrasted with the heat within her, heat from desire and a belated sense of modesty. She needed this, to have his skin against hers, to have nothing between them, yet the propriety she was raised with caused flushing in her cheeks, too.

He wouldn't notice. His eyes were focused lower on her newly revealed breasts, full and round if not exceptional in size, gently rising and falling with her quickened breathing. They did not share her shyness and instead strained for the touch of his gaze and his hands.

One hand did reach for her, one finger making its first exploration, tracing the curve of one breast as his eyes followed the trail. She trembled and thought of closing her eyes to appreciate each new sensation blooming within her.

The tip of his finger circled the dusky center before ascending the rosy peak, the softest touch having the greatest effect and turning everything inside her to liquid. The tip, then the full pad of his finger rubbed back and forth like a bow across strings. Her eyes fell closed as the rhythm both lulled and stirred her, her body both slack and alert, these delicious contradictions he was creating.

His finger dragged down the peak once more to be replaced by his tongue, just the tip like before, just the tip like he was catching a snowflake. His hand cupped and molded her breast, and she gasped as his mouth closed fully around it, sucking and tugging and making her insides clench with need. Her own hand went into his hair again and held his head to her, and her legs shifted restlessly beneath him. No, it wasn't at all possible to be still.

Her other breast felt cold and lonely in comparison, and he must have sensed this, as his hand and mouth turned their attentions to it and lavished it with the same care. Everything was connected, every feeling ricocheting throughout her body, the tug of his lips on her breast making her knee bend and her foot slide along the sheets, their smoothness turning to wrinkles, just as the poised and proper princess turned desperate and quivering.

He raised his head and waited for her to open her eyes. She did, because she wanted to know why he had stopped. "Exquisite may have been an understatement," he said.

"You are too charming by half." Her voice was husky, and they had only just begun. "But that's why I love you."

"I love you," he replied, and she saw in his eyes that he wasn't as nonchalant as his tone would let on. His own need shone there, the blue darkened like the ocean before a storm.

Ignoring the protests of her body, she would tease out the waves building in his. She wanted to touch and kiss him everywhere, as much as she wanted to be touched and kissed. She wanted to feel him react, hear his breathing change, make him come close to shattering.

Her mouth brushed his with a careless glance, then along his jaw, his neck, kisses like raindrops bouncing off and down his chest. Her fingers fluttered over the flat little discs of his nipples, the centers slightly raised like button candy. She did as he had, skimming them first with her fingertips, then taking one between her lips, licking and tweaking with soft suction, the taste of him becoming an addiction.

When her hands drifted lower, finding the waistband of his pajamas, his hands tangled in her hair, and his hips moved with the same restlessness she had suffered beneath his attentions. Her fingers gripped the cotton, holding it tight in her fists as he let out a choked sound, a laugh of impatience and disbelief that the woman who had torn the button from his shirt was now in no hurry to finish undressing him.

But he was wrong, wasn't he. She was as impatient as he, yet there was an irresistible thrill in holding back, letting these ripples of pleasure ebb and flow, savoring what they had while craving what was next. Knowing he wanted more made her want more, and making him wait made that desire swell deep within her, creating a pulsing between her legs.

So before that pulsing could override her wish to continue exploring his body, her fists shoved the cotton downward, and he kicked the pants away as if they'd been nothing but a nuisance.

This was her first proper look at a man. There had been drawings in books, insubstantial ink lines, and works of art in the galleries, presenting the male anatomy in paint or marble, compelling in an abstract and aesthetic manner, tactile but with a cool distance.

Eyes and fingers were both curious to see and know for herself, and she heard him suck in his breath at her first touch. Art, literature, and medical explanation led her to believe that he would be hard, and he was, but there was a suppleness, a warmth. She had also expected rigid straightness, not this slight curving. It reminded her of holding a bow in her hands, the strength and flexibility of its arc, the power of it that she could unleash.

Her hand slid along its length, pressing lightly, finding it as much like an arrow as a bow with its proud, sure head, and she traced the groove made for the tip of her finger. She heard him groan again, a sound low in his throat, and she looked up to see his eyes closed, his head back against the pillow. When she made the motion a second time, she watched as pleasure looked like pain crossing his face. Her finger swooped in a little circle, finding the small opening at the very, very tip of him, and he turned his face into the pillow as his hand came to cover hers.

With slow, deliberate motions, he moved her hand along the length of him, showing her how to pull and tug with just the right amount of pressure. Back and forth their hands moved together, letting her learn what he wanted, what he liked, what brought those groans from him, what made his other hand rake through her hair, bringing her face to his so his open mouth could bump against hers, not kissing, but something else, something more fierce and exciting than simple kissing.

She squeezed him, her touch bolder now, and he shoved her hand away, pressed his mouth to her shoulder and shook with everything she'd given him. She tried to take him into her hand again, but with an unyielding grip, he held it away.

"Nat, baby...." he whispered, his voice unlike anything she'd heard before, strangled and dark. "I don't want this to be over yet, okay?" His hand remained closed around her wrist, his breathing labored against her shoulder. "Give me a second to calm down."

All those years she teased him about not wanting to be touched, and now not touching him was almost too much for her. The pulsing between her legs had become more demanding as she'd moved her hand over him, and she wanted to whimper with pent-up longing.

He let go of her hand, placing his on her waist as his breathing slowed, and before she could reach for him again, he leaned over her, forcing her onto her back. As his fingers skimmed the band of silk across her hip, thin as a ribbon, her legs shifted, and the whimper escaped her throat.

Touching him had been lovely, but if he didn't touch her, she was going to die.

Just as she'd done, he hooked his fingers into that last bit of fabric between them and tugged it down. The dampness that had been trapped there was replaced by cool air, and her legs fell open like a dropped book. She sought the soothing of the air against her wetness, and it never occurred to her that she was behaving shamelessly, baring herself and her need to his eyes, his hands, his body.

He kissed her breasts again, light tugs of his lips, quick swipes of his tongue, and the hand on her hip drifted lower, gliding over the outside of her thigh, up and down, and her back arched, pushing her breast into his mouth. He sucked the peak as she wanted, mimicking the slow rhythm of his fingers as they traced the inside of her thigh now, brushing so close to the dewy curls that veiled her desperate flesh.

Her knees bent, her hips lifted, her body begged for contact.

Then his index finger found her, running along the edge of her open petals. His mouth left her breast so he could kiss her fully, but she could only moan, making him swallow her sounds.

His finger moved around and around, the circles growing smaller until he finally found the aching bud waiting there. At his touch, sparks shot all through her body, and she moaned again into the mouth that kept kissing her with gentle sweetness. She couldn't kiss him back; it was too much just to keep breathing.

The whole of his hand splayed over her, all of his fingers rubbing back and forth. There was one spot, this one place where everything in her gathered, where everything she felt was concentrated, where she needed him the most. His fingers would pass over it, making her gasp and toss her head, then they would leave again. Each time he touched her there, the sensation was more intense, but all too brief.

Her hand covered his, just as his had covered hers before, and she pressed hard, holding his middle finger right where she wanted him. She released him and pressed down again, harder yet, and her breath came in short, quick pants, her heart racing, pounding.

And somehow, he had it in him to laugh, a rumbling against her neck. "Good, I was afraid I wouldn't find it," he murmured, and he took her cue to keep his finger there, rubbing, stroking, back and forth, faster, making her hips jerk like he was pulling on a string. She twisted and tried to claim what he was giving her, her hips canting higher and higher so she could reach it.

Fireworks exploded in a thousand colors behind her closed eyelids, and rain washed over her, soaking her entire body, leaving her limp and helpless as wave after wave of pleasure carried her away.

His finger slowed, creating smaller ripples, a bliss that warmed her inside and out, contentment and love and everything she ever wanted all right here.

But still his finger moved, regaining its speed just when she'd thought she'd had as much as she could take, and he stroked her hard, keeping the fire he'd started burning even hotter and brighter. That first climax should have consumed her, and he was pushing her toward a second. Her body responded, even as it should have been spent, vibrating with the knowledge of what was waiting for her at the top.

When he kissed her, she took his breath as her own so she could speak. "Guy, I can't... it's too...." Any more she might have said was lost in the cry torn from her throat. Her hips moved to press herself fully against his hand, her body no longer something she could control, pure physical craving more powerful than exhaustion and driving her into mindless spasms. How could something she'd never known before become something she couldn't live without?

As she drowned in that second flood of pleasure, he raised himself over her, settling between her thighs, his hand still there, his fingers smoothing her curls, spreading, holding her open for him.

With the first thrust inside her, her body bucked, reeling still from pleasure, aching now from the unfamiliar intrusion, and all the way in her soul, a calm of completion, of the love she had for her husband and the knowledge that this was the beginning of the rest of their lives together. She had expected pain, but any discomfort paled before all else.

Just as her hand had learned the size and shape and length of him, so did her body, her muscles stretching and learning the feel of him inside, how to squeeze him tight and close. Her arms twined around him, and he lowered his head next to hers, his breath coming in rapid pants. More than desire or pleasure, she had an overwhelming urge to comfort him, to protect him, to keep him safe and cherished within her.

His hips moved faster, as his hand had before, and she raised her own to meet him with a primal instinct. Her legs spread and bent and moved however they needed so that he could find what he was seeking, the completion and love she'd experienced at his touch, the explosion of light and color, the electricity that would hum throughout his body and reinforce everything they were to each other.

And then he shuddered, groaned into her ear, those last thrusts deep and slow, filling her. Her fingers massaged his back with a delicate, soothing pressure, coming up to find his neck damp with sweat. His skin was hot, his limbs went slack, his heartbeat was urgent against hers.

He dragged his open mouth over her shoulder and slipped out of her, rolled onto his side, pulling her with him, the length of her body aligned with his. Like this they held each other until the waves stopped crashing and left them lying on the shore.

When he could speak again, he did so with a wry shake of his head. "Damn, I wanted to last longer than that."

She ran her fingers over his cheek, his jaw, loving that she had free rein of his body, that he was hers to touch whenever and however she wished. "Exactly which part of that was I meant to find disappointing?" she asked.

His laugh was breathless and drowsy, but still with his good humor, the twinkle in his blue eyes. "Well, if you don't know, I'm sure not going to tell you." His mouth found hers, and she leaned into him for that sweet kiss. "This is a really good bed," he added, and his words were punctuated by a well-timed yawn. "When are we leaving tomorrow?"

"Whenever you want. You are the prince now, after all."

"And for the next week, it'll be just the two of us alone on a tropical island."

"Just the two of us, a contingent of guards, and a basic household staff." As tempting as it would be to spend their honeymoon completely alone, they needed the security. Besides, they wouldn't survive the week if she had to do the cooking.

"Sounds like paradise." He yawned again, and after one last kiss, closed his eyes, keeping her wrapped in his arms.

As far as she was concerned, this was paradise.