Page 167 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

When night falls, I am as restless as I was previously.

For a brief time, I work on my project, my gift for my Carrie.

I have gathered the leather I will need from our supply, choosing toughened pieces that will survive much use.

I have cut them to size and begun the process of securing them together, all the time thinking about what design I will cut and stamp into them.

My grandfather could create the most beautiful pieces - delicate swirls and patterns worked into the surface of the leather.

I do not have his talent, nor do I have close to the number of hours he dedicated to honing his skills, but I will be able to make something.

I have spare off cuts to practise on first.

But I find my concentration is lacking. It is not just that the dark is not ideal to work in. It is that my heartspace will not settle. I keep thinking of my Carrie and it will not be reassured until I have seen her face. That she is okay.

It is as though as soon as I have decided not to keep my distance, I have become addicted to her closeness.

I think perhaps I have always known this would be the way of things, that this knowledge in part kept me away from her.

Better to never have a taste than to have one and then be refused another.

You cannot miss what you have never had.

And yet, this feeling I have now of missing her - I think I have always known this, also. There has always been a hole in my heartspace in the shape of her smile.

The urgency to see such a smile, to ensure that she is not too badly troubled by Larzon, grows overwhelming.

With everyone else in their beds, I am free to walk around the village without being observed.

I could go to her hut and Darran’s brothers would not be aware, and therefore they could not challenge me about it, or judge.

I am not concerned about their judgement so much, but I do not wish any of them to give Gregar cause to tell me to stay away from my female.

I am out of my hut before I consider that maybe my Carrie does not wish for late night visitors.

That she might think it is Larzon come to her once more.

I arrive at her door as the thought starts to form, and I hesitate, my fist raised to knock, wondering if it is the right thing to do.

It feels right in my heartspace, but I know in so many ways that what feels right to my heartspace is not the same as for other people.

In the end, I tap quietly. If she does not answer within a few moments, I will assume she is asleep, or not desiring visitors, and I will leave her be. I may not be the most regular of males, but I am not so blind to the ways of others to push when I am unwelcome as Larzon has.

I am almost turning back to my own hut when my Carrie’s door cracks open a tiny amount. I can only really see her eyes as she peers out, but when she sees me, they grow wider and she steps back, pulling the door fully open and greeting me with the smile I have so desired to see.

My heartspace thunders at the sight.

I point to her, then make the ‘okay’ gesture.

My Carrie nods, but she makes the head spinning gesture.

Me, also , I gesture.

Cannot sleep?

I have not even tried.

Me, also , she gestures when I shake my head, her smile growing wider.

Then, abruptly, she slaps her hand over her mouth, performing a rapid series of gestures through, then repeating them a second and third time before their meaning becomes clear to me.

I am not happy that you cannot sleep. I am happy to see you.

She is partway through the sequence again, so I catch her hand gently in mine, halting her.

Her skin is soft beneath my fingers, the heat of her palm soothing.

My skin does not buzz and squirm, but rather sings with the rightness of the feeling.

I never wish to let her go, but I am conscious that she has already been frightened by a male who does not know her boundaries today, and I will not repeat Larzon’s mistakes.

So, I release her, then repeat the second half of her gestures back to her.

I am happy to see you are okay.

My heartspace should be satisfied with this, and yet I do not turn to leave.

I just stand at her door, looking down at her, captivated by the way the moonlight shines off her hair and glints in her eyes.

I clasp my hands together to stop myself from reaching to brush a finger along the curve of her cheek, and feel a strange residue on my skin.

It startles me out of my rapture, and I raise my hand to my face to examine it.

In the dark, I can only see that something pale has covered my skin in places.

“Oh!”

It is not a word, but a soft sound of surprise. Still, I am enraptured once again to hear it. My Carrie’s voice. It does still reside in her chest, then, even if it does not like to come out.

She reaches for my hand, tugging on it gently, gesturing for me to enter her hut. My headspace thrums, not the usual buzzing accompaniment to my days, but a pleasant sort of noise. Then, as I step into my Carrie’s space, her scent and her presence enveloping me, my headspace quiets, goes silent.

I almost groan at the pleasure of it. The deep comfort that being around my Carrie brings.

She guides me over to her sideboard, where she has set down her slate and chalks.

She picks up one of the chalks, holding it up to me and pointing to it.

Her fire does not cast much light, but between it and the bright, almost fullness of the moons, I can see that there is dust from the chalk all over her hands.

That when I touched her, it passed onto my skin.

She dips her hands in her sink, rinsing them clean, then drying them off with a small, coarse pelt. I do the same, delighting in this domestic moment between us.

“ Letters ?” I ask, gesturing to her slate.

To my surprise, her cheeks darken, and she shakes her head, reaching for her slate and turning it to show me.

On it is a rendering of the flower Larzon has given her.

For a brief moment, my body tenses with displeasure that this is something another male has given her, that it is in her home.

But the displeasure races out of me as I register how finely she has copied the flower’s image onto her slate.

It looks real, almost as if I could pluck it from the surface and set it in the cup beside the other.

My Carrie blushes as if this is something she should not be doing, and I do not understand it, for such a fine talent should be celebrated.

I point to the image and give her the ‘good’ sign, though it is hardly sufficient.

My Carrie shrugs, setting the slate down again. She points to herself, then presses her palm over her heartspace, then mimes moving the chalk over the slate.

I like to draw.

I like to look at your drawings , I gesture back.

The colour in her cheeks grows deeper, but she smiles at me, touching a hand to my arm in what I think is a gesture of thanks.

I am struck suddenly by a vision of this being our life. The two of us together, sharing our space and our things and our interests. I have always wanted her, but in this moment, the intensity of my longing overwhelms me.

I do not know how it is possible to want so much something I would never have imagined wanting before laying eyes on her

Something must show on my face, for my Carrie gives me a questioning look. I wonder if I have been too intense, too obvious, but a quick examination of her features tells me there is no fear in them. I know what she looks like when she is afraid. I know every configuration of her face.

But as I look down at it now, I see there is something on it that is not usually there.

Where she clapped her hand to her mouth, there is a dusting of chalk.

I reach out slowly, giving her time to move away, to gesture for me to stop. She only lifts her brows, not flinching or retreating from me. I know, especially after Larzon’s treatment of her today, that this is a precious gift she is giving me. Her trust.

I press my thumb to the corner of her mouth, brushing along her jawline until the chalk dust is all gone. I mean to show her, to explain that is what I was doing, but my attention snags on the way her lips part just a little, a soft gasp escaping from between them.

The reaction of my body is almost violent, my cock instantly hard, straining against my leathers.

I want to grab her to me, hold her tight to my body and explore all the ways I can make her make more sounds.

I restrain my desires with effort, almost clenching my fists at my side.

I will not grab at her when she has already suffered such demanding attentions from another this day.

Stiffly, I nod to her, then head for her door. It is a wrench to leave her side, but I force my feet to keep walking.

Sleep well , I gesture to her from her doorstep, before closing the door between us and heading back to my bed - no doubt to dream of touching her all night long.