A/N: After the psychological trauma of the story I will not mention here (this one is too special for me, the King and his Zundush to even mention another man, and also I'm still tearing up after the last chapter :S), I finally decided to venture into the description of the night you all have asked about!
Since it was mentioned and talked around so many times, some of you might have some memories and your own ideas of what happened. Please, in your reviews share what seemed memorable and what you imagined, and then see how it unravels in the story :)
He is sitting at a table, a mug of ale in front of him, large hand swirling a small shiny object on the table. You take another step down the stairs and understand that it is the clasp from his cloak. The dinner is untouched in front of him, brows frowned, curved lips pressed together sternly.
You are suddenly trembling, your skin hot and cold at the same time, and you put your hand on the rails to support yourself. This is the last evening, they are leaving for Erebor tomorrow. Most of his warriors are healed, and he has nothing to do in Dale. Just as he has nothing to do in the common room of your inn, but nonetheless, there he is.
You exhale sharply and decisively go down the stairs. You approach his table and slip on the bench in front of him. He jerks and stares at you. His brows hike up. You are behaving inappropriately. You do not care.
"My lord," you lick your lips. He slightly tilts his head in a familiar mocking gesture. "Honourable healer," his voice is rumbling low, and you press your knees together under the table. You are so desperately in love with him that he could be reading draught recipes, and you would be aroused. To think of it, combining these two pleasures would probably make you burst into flames.
You are desperately looking for something to say, he is smiling a small derisive smile, and one of his brows is slowly crawling up. It is black, smooth, just like the beard you are dying to touch, and the two thick braids on the sides of his face. And his chest hair, as you were unfortunate to find out when tending to his wounds you had to cut the tunic on him. You gulp.
The pause stretches, and he takes a sip from his mug. "Can I offer something, honourable healer? Some ale, perhaps?" You shake your head. Your eyes fall on his plate, and he slightly pushes it towards you with his index finger. You pick up a piece of apple and bite into it.
And then you realize that he is staring at your mouth. The revelation is so inconceivable that you doubt your sanity. Then his eyes move to your nose, examine the freckles, and he is finally looking straight into your eyes. And something in you snaps.
You throw the apple back on his plate, get up and stretch your hand to him in a clear invitation. Your palm is open. He is looking at it, his lips slightly open, a strange little smile on them, his eyes soft, and then he gets up, and puts his large hand into yours. You start walking to the stairs pulling him after yourself. He is following, willingly but unhurriedly. You are walking up the stairs and feel his eyes on your nape and shoulder blades. Your back covers in goosebumps, and you shiver.
You stop in front of your room and have to let go of his hand to look for the key in the pockets of your skirt. He is standing still, his massive arms hanging along his body, his eyes on the back of your head. You can almost feel the warmth on the skin that you know his body is emanating. You slightly turn your head and look at him from the corner of your eye. There is a strange mixture of tenderness and peevishness on his face. You unlock the room and step aside letting him in. He enters, you follow and lock the door behind you.
He swirls around after hearing the lock click, and his blue are fixed on your face, cautious and sharp. You gulp, but you already forgot all reason by now. You make a big step ahead and place your hand on the silver buckle of his belt. The brows jump up again. You know you are behaving rashly, but you have your decision, and you will not yield.
You mentally tell yourself to slow down and enjoy this moment. He might halt you or plainly reject you at any moment. Your head is swimming, and your mouth is dry. You hear strange ringing in your ears, and throwing all caution aside you pull the buckle. Its clank seems deafening in the quiet room, and you are left with a heavy belt clenched in your hand. He sharply inhales.
You momentarily think that he is dressed in so many layers that if he does not rush out of your room right away but in twenty minutes, you will have plenty of time to savour what is happening now, until you get to the terrifying part. His eyes are on the belt, and then he looks at you again. You drop it on the floor, lift your hands and push his velvet waistcoat off his shoulders. Both of you follow it onto the floor with your eyes.
You suddenly realize that he has not moved since he stepped into your room, and you bite your bottom lip in mortification. What in the name of Maiar are you doing?! At what point will he step away from you, berate you for inappropriate behaviour and leave your room in disdain? And then his large palms lie on your shoulders, and he leans in and presses his lips to yours. It is gentle and chaste, and he closes his eyes, while you are cheating and peek.
And the realization that you are being kissed by Thorin Oakenshield floods you, and the flurry of sensations erupts in your head. You moan and wrap your arms around his neck. His hands jump onto your waist, there is something endlessly endearing in how tentative and gentle his movements are. The hot palms are burning your skin through the fabrics of the dress and the undertunic, and you deepen the kiss, open your mouth wider, and then push his lips to open with your tongue.
You two have kissed before, in Erebor, in the middle of the battle, and you internally agree with what you thought then. He has no experience in kissing a woman. He is a quick learner though, and obviously has not forgotten what transpired in the pantry. He slightly tilts his head and sucks in your bottom lip. Maiar help you, you are going to light up like that firework they call Dwarf candles.
You place your hands on the sides of his face, and it takes an immense amount of willpower not to whimper in ecstasy. You can finally feel the roughness of the black beard, you tread your fingers through it, your thumbs rub his cheekbones, and he suddenly bites into your bottom lip. You gasp, and he immediate moves away. "Forgive me..." His voice is gruff, this is the first thing he said since he offered you a drink, "The beard is sensitive..."
Your hands are still on his face, and you scratch it gently with the tips of your fingers and short nails. He closes his eyes in an astonishing imitation of what cats do when you scratch them behind an ear. Apparently, the beard is indeed sensitive. You feel light-headed and suddenly very brave. You lean in and kiss him yourself. This time you take your time and savour it. His breath is fresh, and he slightly tastes of ale he has been drinking. The smell of his skin is earthy, grassy and spicy, and your head swims.
One of the large palms lies on your back, on the shoulder blades. The second one is still hanging impassively along his body, you pick it up and place it on your waist. Perhaps, slightly below, and his fingers twitch on the curve of your lower back. You press into him more, and the hand slides from your back into your hair. His fingers meet the braid there, and suddenly he growls. It is such an unexpected sound that you still in his hands.
He moves away, and you have a good look at his face. The pupils are dilated, cheeks flushed, and remarkably he looks even more irritated than before. You momentarily wonder if he is even enjoying what is happening. "Could you?..." His voice is tender though, and he touches your braid with the tips of his fingers, and you nod. You pull out the pins and untwist the plait from around your head. You untangle it with your fingers, and the hair scatters around your head and on your shoulders in commotion of curls.
Suddenly he smiles gently and pushes both his hands into them His fingers graze the back of your head, making you shiver, and he treads them through, letting the copper strands run between them. You bite into your bottom lip. His eyes follow the ringlets, and there is still this small smile on his lips.
You feel suddenly bashful, and your cheeks are burning. All your courage is gone, and you feel cold. He places his hands on your shoulders again and tries to look into your eyes, but you lowered your face and are staring at the floor. "Wren..." Your eyes fly up, and you give him a shaky smile. He presses his mouth to yours, and then his lips slide on your jaw and proceed lower, to your neck. You tilt your head, and you feel him exhale into your skin.
"Have you ever been with a woman, my lord?" He grows still, his lips on the frantic pulse on your throat, and you hold your breath in horror. You do not know why you asked and where the boldness came from, and you are mortified. He straightens up and lifts his chin. He looks very haughty, and you guess the answer to your question. "Is it that obvious?" "No, it is not! That is not why I asked," you rush to reassure him, "I seem to have heard something about the Dwarven traditions..." He nods, and then shakes his head. You stare at him in confusion.
He chuckles, "You heard right, and no, I have not." His back is very straight, and he seems to almost be daring your to commentate on his confession. You are not certain what you feel, so you do what seems the most natural in this situation. You throw your arms around his neck and greedily kiss him.