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The land west of the castle is barren but beautiful. The warm afternoon sun gilds the sparse, spare hills with light, turning the few trees into islands of shade in their pastures. It’s restful in a way Castle Staas never is - especially now now, when they’ve surely noticed that Gwen is missing. As she walks down the dirt road she can’t help but smile at the thought, exchanging a nod with a passing shepherd. The youth nods back, clearly unconcerned by the sight of another threadbare farmgirl on an errand.
By the time clouds scud in to interrupt the gentle sun, Gwen has come a full fifteen miles from her starting point: the castle stables, where she had offered the use of her mount to Margo.
Margo, who had still been up to her elbows packing the contents of her mage’s kit, had raised her eyebrows. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” Gwen said hastily. “Well - nothing that’ll backfire on you, anyway, but you need a fast horse, right? Opal can outpace every courier steed we have.”
Margo bit her lip. Whatever magician’s summons she’d received this morning hadn’t been urgent, but Gwen knew full well she was just as impatient as her. “Is it going to piss off Miguel?”
Gwen snorted. “Obviously.”
That made Margo smile, and for a moment Gwen knew they were in perfect accord. “Alright. But this conversation didn’t happen. And,” she added, grin growing, “you better give him a run for his money, Your Highness.”
Gwen held out Opal’s reins and grinned back. “It’s a deal.”
And when the guards were asked where the princess was, some hour or so later, the first thing they would remember was a hooded lady riding off on the princess’s distinctive white mare, headed three towns over to the east. Not the kitchen scullion who’d started strolling down the western road not long after.
Not a complex strategy, by any means. But sometimes simple worked.
As the clouds thicken above, the road turns into a denser patch of woods, green and well-shaded. Gwen had thought carefully about her destination, and at her current pace she should arrive around dusk; still, she winces at the ache that’s growing in her feet, wiggling one in her boot. She’s athletic as noblewomen go, but dusk can’t come soon enough. Maybe when she arrives, she can buy a footrub as well as dinner.
The first time a horse passes her on the forest road, it’s coming from town, bearing an older gentleman who tips his straw hat to her as he ambles past. The second time is a pair of guards, moving at a good pace and coming from the same direction, but they don’t stop to glance at a dust-streaked girl.
The third time - well, she can’t say what it is, besides intuition - but when she hears the sound of a lone, galloping horse coming up the road behind her, it drives her off the road immediately, cutting through the brush so she can hide herself deeper into the forest.
Intuition is proven right thirty seconds later, when in the distance Miguel yells, “I can see you, dammit!”
“Not for long!” is what Gwen wants to yell back, but she saves her breath. She sprints into the densest cluster of trees she can find, zig-zagging her path and putting on a burst of speed before leaping into the low branches of an oak as the hoofbeats drum ever closer. The exertion makes her lungs burn sweetly.
Low becomes high as she ascends, swarming up the aged tree to heights that would dwarf most houses. Here, she’s more careful, because a fall could mean death or worse - but more comfortable, too, as only a born climber can be. What are trees to bored girls who grew up scaling towers?
She only stops once she reaches the highest, most concealed branch she trusts her weight on. Tucked amid the leaves, she waits, holding her breath until several minutes later, when the faint glint of armor below her reveals Ser Miguel of Eaghra, picking his way across the uneven forest floor. The trees are so close he’s had to dismount and lead his horse by the reins - incidentally making much more noise and leaving more tracks than she left behind.
The ground is too far away for her to see his face, but the set of his broad shoulders is visibly frustrated as he examines the surroundings. So are the mutterings that drift up to Gwen’s ears, if much more colorful. Very short-tempered, is her bodyguard.
At least Miguel doesn’t bother calling out her name. Gwen really might not be able to resist giggling if he does that. Buzzing with both adrenaline and nerves, she stuffs her hand in her mouth. Instead, he circles the area slowly, moving out of Gwen’s line of sign so gradually she wants to scream. Yes, please, let him think she’d gone deeper still. Only the nickering of his horse tells Gwen when he moves away from her tree, and slowly her white-knuckled grip on the branch begins to ease.
Until, of course, there’s the rattle of armor as Miguel steps up to the trunk, directly under her, and looks up. “Are you really going to make me climb after you?”
Gwen lets out a curse as foul as any of Miguel’s. “How did you know?!”
“Are you going to make me come up there.” It’s more of a threat than a question.
Still cursing - just internally - Gwen gives into the inevitable and starts her climb down, swinging from branch to branch. “How?”
“Nothing in this forest smells like soap, Your Highness.” The title definitely comes with a sarcastic edge. “And bare feet would have left less of a footprint.”
“You know I’m just going to use that next time, right?”
“I don’t tell you everything,” Miguel says blandly. Though despite his apparent carelessness, he can’t restrain a flinch forward as Gwen drops to the ground in front of him - as if she needs to be caught. “Also, there’s not going to be a next time, because I’m going to recommend your father triples your guard and put them on full watch duty for the next year. And he’s not going to need much convincing.”
“Good,” Gwen says. “Then I can make fools of all of you.”
Miguel’s lips thin, but he doesn’t vent any of his anger - just turns and guides his steed up to them, a stubborn but steady bay gelding Gwen has ridden many times before. He grabs at her hand, and Gwen pulls it back. “I can walk just fine, thanks.”
Miguel snorts. “I’m not giving you a chance to slip away on the road.” He pulls himself up into the saddle, then, with contemptuous ease, bends down to snatch her up by the waist and seat her sidesaddle across his thighs. Gwen wobbles precariously before she gives in and puts her arm around him for security, glaring up at him. They’re never ridden on the same horse before. He doesn’t even bother looking down at her as he steers his horse back towards the road.
Gwen manages to stretch the pause into several minutes of stewing in silence as Miguel urges his horse into a trot, uncomfortable but bearable. Disappointment and frustration are equally intense, and to distract herself she snaps, “So where’s the lecture about irresponsibility?”
“It’s a work in progress,” Miguel says dryly, “until I figure out why you would intentionally send the entire castle into a panic. Even you usually have a better reason for that kind of stupidity.” Before he was assigned as Gwen’s personal guard, he had been soldier-commander for one of the borderland castles; the disdain for indiscipline practically drips from his words. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me?”
Gwen swallows, not liking the anxiety that dances in her throat. Miguel has only served as her bodyguard and training master for the last year - the latest in a long line of tutors, but perhaps the only one who’s shown Gwen as much respect as he has severity. And honesty - no matter how brutal. “I was…going to Bosheuval. Into town.”
Miguel’s brow furrows. “For what? There’s nothing in Bosheuval except for the temple and the courtes - “
Apparently he has to say it aloud to actually get it, because he immediately pulls back to stare at Gwen with shock. “You were going to the brothel?”
Gwen presses her lips together and doesn’t say anything.
“You were…oh my god,” Miguel says, dragging his hand over his jaw. “Your father would have had me executed. Will have me executed.”
“Are you done?” Gwen demands. “I’m not going to tell him if you’re not.”
Miguel, ever a stickler for chain of command, gives her a baleful look. “The only way I’m not telling him is if you give me your word you won’t pull such a stupid stunt again. Though who knows if I could even trust that.”
“I’m going to be married in less than a year,” Gwen snaps. The negotiations have only just reached the point of surety, and of course the process is going to be dragged out for maximum pomp and circumstance, but it’s still there, a new frontier in her future she can’t see the other side of. “I have a right to know what I’m getting into.”
“What, marriage?”
“In bed.”
Miguel does a double take. “You’re seventeen. Surely someone - ”
“You know my father. And my old nurse, and my ladies-in-waiting.” She can’t pretend they’re not dear to her, but all of them are of the same ring of adults she was raised by - the ones who consider her a child to be guarded, not a charge to be taught. “Dad wouldn’t even let me practice swordplay openly before you offered to supervise. I’m not completely ignorant, but nobody’s direct about it.” And, because she likes being provoking, “Besides, hands-on tutoring is probably much more practical than lectures on ensuring my fertility.”
Miguel makes a face at that. Gwen doesn’t think it’s entirely out of scandal. “I…take your point.”
The silence they fall into is more awkward, this time. Gwen shifts, all too conscious of their proximity, the cool rub of his chain mail and the warmth of the body beneath it. Gods, but she wants to be done with all this adolescent exploration already so she can get on with her life. If someone would just let her find her own footing, instead of chiding her down a steep and narrow road they had paved before she could even walk…
Somewhere in the distance, there’s the rumble of heat lightning. Miguel clears his throat like an echo. “To tell the truth, I’m…surprised you need it.”
Gwen whips her head around to glare at Miguel, fighting the urge to yank on the reins. “When,” she says, “would I have had a chance? Between lessons and dances and dinners and visits? I barely have time to breathe!”
Miguel grimaces. “People manage. Courtiers manage it all the time.”
“I’m not stupid enough to elope with some noble who’s going to use it as an excuse to exploit me,” Gwen says. “Or extort me, or - “ ugh , “ - marry me.”
Clearly Miguel has something about that on his mind, because his gaze shifts over to her on the last two words, eyes narrowed. “You don’t seem upset about marrying this prince.”
“I know Miles,” Gwen says - not defensive, she is not being defensive about this. “He’s smart, and a decent person, and an alliance between us would be extremely useful.” And he has a contagious laugh and artist’s hands and beautiful eyes - “Do you want to deal with another invasion next spring?”
Miguel shakes his head, once and then more firmly. “I - stop trying to distract me. Visiting a brothel is not a responsible excuse for leaving the castle!”
- and I don’t want to look like a fool in front of him. “So I can assume you’ve never visited one, then?” Gwen responds tartly. “Since it’s so irresponsible for nobles like you and me. All the male courtiers that do the same thing are just idiots.”
“You - that’s not - ” Miguel splutters. “They are, but that is not the point! It’s not safe!”
“Well, if you came with me - ”
“You are not going anywhere!” Miguel says, finally raising his voice to a yell - a great act of self-control, that it took him this long.
Violet light flashes above, followed by a much louder crack of thunder. In the same heartbeat, the darkened sky opens up, dumping a veritable deluge of rain that hits the dirt road like hailstones. Even under the cover of the leaves, Miguel’s well-trained horse dances and whinnies its discomfort.
“We,” Miguel amends reluctantly. “We are not going anywhere.”
By the time they make it to the crossroads they must look even worse than Gwen thinks, because the innkeeper barely blinks at them appearing and asking for a room, two dinners, and above all a bath. There’s a common room on the first floor with a bard playing, but Miguel has the food brought up to their room instead. After a long day of riding and walking, half-drenched in mud for the last hour, the heavy trays of bread, cheese, and dried apricots are downright intoxicating; there’s no conversation while they both eat.
The awkwardness comes when the bath does. As the serving woman politely pretends not to notice them, Miguel makes to leave the room, but Gwen snatches at his sleeve to keep him in place. When the woman goes, she hisses, “They already think we’re sleeping together - they’re not going to keep believing that if you act like my knight.”
Apparently that was obvious to her but not to Miguel, because he looks downright poleaxed at the concept. “What - why would they think that?”
“We got one room,” Gwen says. She knows what people will think when they see an armored knight escorting a peasant girl out of the rain. “What, were you planning on sleeping in the stables?”
The expression on his face says yes. Miguel opens his mouth as if to insist, but Gwen crosses her arms and stares at him until he sighs. “Fine - I’ll sleep on the floor. But I’m going to keep my back to - “ He gestures, inarticulate, to the tub full of steaming water.
“Do whatever you want,” Gwen mutters. In a moment of calculated boldness, she starts undoing the ties of her tunic right there in front of him. Miguel makes a choked noise before he turns on his heel and stalks over to the thick glass window.
The pink on Gwen’s skin as she steps into the bath is from the heat. At least that’s what she tells herself.
At the very least, it feels wonderful to scrub all of the dirt off of her. Gwen washes until her skin is rubbed red and every iota of dust is gone from her skin, even if it does make her feel like a drowned rat. Like a gentleman, Miguel is as still as a stone with his back to her, even though she can see the irritated twitching of his hands. When she climbs out and starts redressing in her peasant’s clothes, he holds up a hand. “Wait - “ As Gwen towels off her hair, he skins out of his chain mail, then the gambeson underneath, which he tosses back over his shoulder at her.
The gambeson smells like sage and sweat, but it’s undeniably cleaner than her own clothes. Gwen pulls the oversized garment over her head, tugging the quilted hem down over her thighs and over her braies. “…Thanks.”
Miguel waves his hand dismissively as he turns around; down to just his linen undershirt, he crosses the room to the tub and begins to undress, starting with his shirt. Returning the favor, Gwen averts her gaze from his scarred back. Disappointment is quick to return, though, and she flops onto the bed and rolls over onto her side, staring at the wall so intently it would burst into flames if she had a spark of magic in her.
Miguel washes quietly and quickly. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the decency to leave well enough alone, because he speaks up during the process: “You know, I understand what you’re going through. I was your age once.”
She rolls her eyes. “And here I thought you sprung out of the ground fully-armored.” He’s not even that much older than her.
Miguel ignores her. “Seventeen is an awful age. Being - isolated - makes it worse.” His words are slow, like he’s making an effort to consider each one. “But because of your status, the consequences of your mistakes are much, much worse than others.“
Gwen fists her hand in the coverlet. Water splashes as Miguel presumably rises from the tub, and she does not turn to glare at him in all his smug perfection.
“I know you’re not a coward,” Miguel says. “But being brave doesn’t preclude being stupid. I know you might not always think about the sacrifices you need to make - ”
“I do,” Gwen spits out, fighting to keep her voice down. She can’t keep the bitterness from seeping into her tone, though, a hard knot rising in the back of her throat. “My entire life is a sacrifice. Would it ruin everything if I got to have this one thing for myself?”
Her voice cracks towards the end there. She has to stop and swallow hard, catching her breath. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
It’s quiet. It stays quiet for a few seconds more, and then there’s the soft sounds of movement, cloth against skin. Gwen ignores them in favor of trying to master herself, or at least her face. When an unexpected weight lands on her shoulder, she almost jolts off the bed, twisting around in reflex.
Miguel is kneeling alongside the bed, down at her level. He’s still wet from the bath, modesty shielded by the towel around his waist, and his hand is hovering over her arm, reaching out. He actually looks tongue-tied, and it’s such an alarmingly human expression on him that Gwen stifles a surprised giggle.
Neither of them actually says anything. Therefore, it’s a complete surprise when Miguel leans forward and kisses her.
She’s been kissed before. It’s not an otherworldly experience: the press of his mouth is firm and his lips are chapped, and it’s completely ordinary except for the fact it’s not something Gwen has even let herself fantasize about.
And then Miguel pulls back, and it’s over, and the expression on his face is even more confounding. Embarrassed and wistful and apologetic, all at once as they look at each other. It’s a dangerous moment of vulnerability, in the military sense: if Gwen wants to, she can call a retreat by placing her hand on the scales and tipping them towards this moment having never happened - more weight, further, and consequences for her knight, for daring to offer insult to a royal scion.
Gwen has never been one to run from a fight.
Undressed, Miguel doesn’t have a collar she can haul him around by. Gwen cups her hand around the side of his face instead and uses that to pull him in. She doesn’t flinch back, not even when Miguel’s mouth parts under hers in surprise.
When they break apart, Miguel immediately says, “I can’t - I won’t have sex with you.”
Someone who doesn’t know Miguel might hear that as a rejection. But Gwen can hear what he isn’t saying. “But there are other things you can do without getting with child, right? Teach me those.”
A near-invisible shiver runs through Miguel’s body; she only feels it because she’s still touching him, hand on his cheek. He looks away from her, and she waits, trying to be as patient with him as he is with her. She’s made no promises yet, and she’ll mean them when she does. But this - this can just be for them. For her.
Miguel looks back up.
Her lessons in kissing are so preoccupying that Gwen loses track of time. Miguel keeps her busy: showing her how to start slowly and gently, where to place her hands and where to put his, teaching her the things one can do with tongues and teeth. The whole time, he’s on her knees before her, uncomplaining, and Gwen asks fewer questions than she has in any lesson before; when Miguel finally, gently puts his hands on her shoulders and guides her back, her mouth feels swollen and hot. The space between her thighs is even more so.
“Saints,” Gwen says, because what else can she say? She puts her fingers to her lips as Miguel awkwardly rises to his feet. It’s a good thing her face is already warm, because that towel wrapped around his waist is hiding nothing. Especially not when Miguel joins her on the bed, getting onto his hands and knees.
When he clears his throat, her gaze jerks back to his face, just in time for Gwen to see the corners of his eyes crinkle with laughter. “Do I need to remind you where my eyes are?”
“Well, you’re the one that gave me so much to look at,” Gwen says. She leans back as Miguel crawls forward, between her thighs. She doesn’t know how the entire inn can’t hear the pounding of her pulse.
“Eye contact,” Miguel replies, “can be a very effective tool.” Indeed, his eyes never leave Gwen’s as he lowers himself onto his stomach, so far down her thighs are less than a fingers-width away from cradling his head. One of his hands slides up the outside of her thigh, stopping where her braies sit slung across her hips. “If you take these off, I’d like to use my mouth on you.”
Gwen swallows hard. “So men do that too, then.”
Miguel wrinkles his nose. “The ones that are worth their skin.”
A breath of laughter escapes Gwen’s lips as she does her awkward best to remove her braies; Miguel helps her. The feeling of being so suddenly bare under his eyes sends a wave of gooseflesh up her legs. Miguel squeezes her thighs, teasing the chills up further, and Gwen laughs again despite herself.
Her reward is a warm kiss to the side of her knee. Then another, farther up, and as Miguel continues his trail of kisses Gwen can’t help but relax beneath him, heat melting through her core like she’s the one burning and not the candle.
Miguel devours her like he’s starving. Maybe he is, for all Gwen knows, because she’s never heard him hint at having a lover or a spouse. But the way he guides her legs apart - hands so broad against her thighs it makes Gwen shiver - doesn’t seem inexperienced. Neither does the way he licks her open, pushing his tongue inside her, while the bridge of his nose rubs against her clit. When he moves his mouth up to brush the flat of his tongue against it, stiff and swollen under slow touches, Gwen breaks enough to moan out loud, bucking her hips against his face. Miguel holds her down with ease.
“Come on,” she pants out, “stop teasing!”
Miguel pulls back. His face and chin are wet, so much so they gleam in the firelight. “I’m not,” he says, and the hint of a smirk lifts his mouth. “You want me to?”
“I will execute you,” Gwen says hotly, and Miguel huffs out a laugh before he puts his mouth back on her, lavishing attention on her clit until Gwen is writhing against the sheets. If this is what it always feels like, she understands everything now: all the grass stains on breeches, the bent heads, and couples hiding in dark corners trying to muffle their moans. She doesn’t want to ever stop - she wants to spend an eternity thrusting her hips and riding into Miguel’s mouth like it’s there for her to use.
She manages to babble out something along those lines between her noises - she thinks - which must be what inspires Miguel to scoop her up: one hand on her waist, one on her bottom, and in a dizzying whirl Gwen is the one on top, pulled astride Miguel’s chest with her knees on either side of his face. “I - oh. How do I - ?”
“Just - “ Miguel makes an evocative gesture. “Come forward, sit down.”
“All the way?”
Miguel does actually smirk at that. “All the way. Like a chair.”
Repressing a shiver of lust, Gwen settles her cunt onto Miguel’s face, urged on by his hands sliding under her thighs. Tentatively, she slides one of hers into his loose dark hair. His eyes flicker up to her as she does, and when she tightens her grips every-so-slightly, something lights in them. Oh, she likes that.
“You know, you’re a lot prettier with your mouth occupied,” Gwen drawls. Miguel sucks her clit into his mouth, almost vengefully, and she hisses, grinding down onto his tongue. “S-should have done this a lot sooner. Would have made sparring a lot more f - ngh!”
Miguel’s finger slips into her with no pain and surprising ease, like her body was waiting for it. It’s such a strange sensation, intimate to the point of queasiness; then he crooks his finger forward, stroking forwards inside her, and any trace of queasiness melts into desire immediately. “Again,” she says breathlessly, and cries out when Miguel complies, adding another finger while he does, trying to pay attention to how he moves his fingers and curves them against her. Yes, she could spend an eternity like this, riding Miguel like he’s her last chance out.
Knowing timber buildings, every resident of this inn might be hearing them now. They may even be able to make out Miguel’s name when Gwen starts chanting it under her breath. It’s a good thing, then, that she’s never cared less about what anyone thinks. Miguel is relentless, attentive and unyielding beneath her. Gwen keeps expecting him to stop or falter or hesitate, but he doesn’t. The sweetest, scariest sensation she’s ever felt is building inside of her. Her fist trembles and tightens in his hair; the other, Gwen has to brace against the headboard, balancing against the desperate movements of her hips.
“Yes, Miguel, please don’t stop - Miguel Miguel Miguel - ”
When it hits her, her first embarrassed urge is to pull away and curl up; Miguel holds her hip with his free hand and keeps her there all through it, licking and stroking inside her as Gwen shakes and squeezes her thighs and lets out sharp, broken gasps. Yes, she says, not with her mouth but her entire body. Yes, this is it, that selfish pleasure she wanted. And it was worth it.
She almost topples over onto the bed, but Miguel doesn’t allow that, hand on her back as he lowers her to the bed. For several stupefying, satisfying moments, Gwen stares at the ceiling and contemplates if maybe the gods did exist, if they built her with the ability to do that.
“Gwen.”
“Mhmm?”
“Are you…alright?”
Gwen squeezes her eyes shut and sighs happily. “So alright.” She stretches, arching her back, and then rolls over to hug Miguel with a fierceness she forgot she was capable of feeling. Even this - the feeling of her body, awake and alive and well-sated, pressed against him - is a pleasure right now. Hugging him also reminds her that she’s still wearing his gambeson, and so she pulls away briefly to wiggle out of it before wrapping her arms around Miguel again. If this is being shameless, then she loves it.
Miguel stiffens beneath her. “Gwen.”
Gwen props her chin up on his chest, looking up at Miguel’s flushed face. Eye contact, wasn’t that what he’d said? “How do you have the energy to be embarrassed right now? You just had your mouth on me.”
“That’s not - “ Miguel bites his lip; Gwen’s not lying across his hips, but she knows what she would feel if she reached down and just a little to the left. She presses herself closer against him, watching his expression as she does. The feeling of her skin sliding against his is more luxurious than any silk.
“Mierda, Gwen.”
“C’mon,” Gwen says, as sweetly as she can. It helps that she really, really wants it. “You haven’t had your turn yet. Teach me.”
Miguel mutters something under his breath - even this close, all Gwen catches is the phrase two minutes - and then says, “Give me your hand.”
Gwen does. Miguel takes it in his and hesitates for a moment, then brings it to his mouth; all Gwen can do is watch with a childish grin and adult anticipation as he licks her fingers, getting them slick and wet. Just the act of watching sends something hot and pricking squirming in her stomach. His mouth is wet too when he pulls back, a pretty shine on his lower lip. “You can use your hand on most men. Like this.” He guides her down his stomach, over the trail of dark hair, under the concealment of the towel, until their movement pulls it loose and Gwen can finally see what she’s doing. His penis looks less intimidating than she was expecting, if you can call an organ that.
Following Miguel, Gwen wraps her hand around his cock and begins to stroke it. She does her best to be gentle despite her own impatience and the low, almost desperate, sounds Miguel begins to make. At first Miguel keeps his fingers closed over hers, leading her movements, but as she steadies her rhythm and tightens her grip his hand falls to the side, hips bucking up into her grasp. “That’s - that’s good,” Miguel says. She’s almost forgotten the excuse of her lessons, but he reaches out again, large fingers skimming over hers. “Try using a more open grip at the bottom, then tightening it as you - nngh, not that tight.”
“Sorry,” Gwen says hastily, but Miguel hardly flags, just takes her hand in his again.
“Just keep it steady.” His chest moves under her with a huff of laughter, and Gwen takes heart. “I’m not going to take very long.”
Once she gets going again, she keeps her rhythm slow and thorough, savoring the tender firmness of his flesh under her fingers; after a little while, Miguel moans and buries his face in her hair, body tensing beneath her. The position makes it perfectly easy for her to lean forward and start kissing his collarbone, the same as he did to her. When she experiments by pressing her teeth against the skin of his throat, he throbs in her hand, a drop of pre-fluid spilling over her fingers. She wonders if she can get him as wet as she was. “Still good?”
“Yes,” Miguel says, his voice strained, and Gwen decides she loves the sound of it.
When she bites into the muscle of his shoulder, Miguel makes another delicious noise. His hips shove up again, almost leaving the bed; he’s thrusting fully into her hand now, so that Gwen hardly needs to do anything at all. The mattress creaks below them.
It doesn’t take long after that before Gwen finds out Miguel can get very wet indeed. Miguel arches his back when he comes, exhaling harshly as he spends across his stomach. Gwen slows her strokes, but keeps going, fascinated by how her touch coaxes more and more out, until Miguel makes a more uncomfortable sound and pushes her hand away in a grab for the discarded towel. But he winds his other arm around her waist and, once he’s tossed the cloth away, pulls Gwen in to hold her, head tucked under his chin as he sighs slowly.
As exciting as this night has been, Gwen can’t keep resisting her boneless exhaustion forever. She muffles a yawn behind her cupped hand. Neither of them speaks for a while, until Gwen can feel her eyelashes beginning to flutter. At some point during their assignation, the candle has guttered out.
“You should get some sleep,” Miguel says eventually. His cadence is slow, relaxed like she’s never heard it. “It’s going to be a long day of lectures for you.”
“Yeah, I know.” Still much better than the scolding she might have gotten if her plan had succeeded. She trusted much more in Miguel’s discretion than in that of a brothel employee.
Miguel strokes the back of her head once, fingers lingering before he lifts them from her hair. He taps the displaced pillow alongside her head. “Give that here, will you?”
Gwen doesn’t quite realize why he’s asked for a pillow until Miguel untangles himself from their embrace and climbs out of the bed. She leans over the side, incredulously watching as he settles down onto the floor, tucking the pillow under his head. “What are you - “
Miguel snags one of the blankets from the bed too, and Gwen snatches at the sheets in greedy reflex. “You cannot be serious. I just had my hand - “
“Good night, Princess,” Miguel says obstinately; but even now, his face more shadowed than ever, Gwen can make out the twitch of a smile on his lips.
Protesting would take more energy than she has right now, so Gwen rolls back into bed with more pique than she really feels. Outside the rain in still falling, and even in the unlit darkness of the room, with the lone window shuttered, she can see the dim, gray storm-light outlining Miguel's silhouette on the ground. For once the sight doesn't make he feel quite so claustrophobic. Note to self, per all the lessons she's received today - be more creative about finding solutions closer to home.
Miguel would hate hearing her phrase it that way. She falls asleep still smirking at the thought.