The deck smelled of salt and warmed rope. Link had his forearms crossed on the rail, watching the horizon slide past, when he heard Tetra's boots behind him. She didn't announce herself. She never did. Just the creak of the boards under her weight, and then the smell of her—salt and the faint citrus of the soap she'd used that morning—arriving at his shoulder.
"You're brooding."
"I'm watching the water."
"Same thing." She leaned her hip against the rail beside him, close enough that her elbow brushed his. The wind caught her hair, the yellow strip holding it back fluttering against her throat. "You've been quiet since we weighed anchor."
He didn't answer. The truth was he'd been thinking about the way Aryll had pressed her hand flat against her belly, and the small awed sound she'd made, and the way she'd looked at him afterward like he'd given her something she didn't know how to name. He'd been thinking about his sister's blood on his thighs and the way Tetra had kissed the top of Aryll's head like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"She's fine," Tetra said, reading him the way she always did. "She was fine when we left. She waved from the dock. Grinning like a fool."
"I know."
"Then stop chewing on it. You'll wear out your teeth." She pushed off the rail and turned to face him, blocking the sun. Her shadow fell across him, and there was something in the set of her mouth that he recognized—the same look she'd worn yesterday, right before she'd asked him if he meant it. "You're not the only one who's been quiet."
The ship rolled gently under them. Somewhere forward, the sail snapped in a gust and settled. Link looked at her—the fierce amber-green of her eyes, the freckles across her nose, the purple scarf knotted at her throat—and felt the day's heat settle into his skin.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know." She shrugged, but it was a deliberate shrug, theatrical. "Something. Nothing. Whatever you've been thinking since we cleared the harbor."
He turned to face her fully. The rail pressed against his lower back. She stood a hand's width away, her hands on her hips, her head tilted at that angle that meant she was daring him to say something real.
"I've been thinking about yesterday," he said. "About the way you looked at me after. Like you'd found something you'd been looking for."
Tetra's grin flickered, and for a second something softer showed through. "That's a big word for a sailor."
"I'm not a sailor. I'm a hero."
"Same thing, different hat." But she stepped closer. Her fingers found the collar of his tunic, toying with the salt-stiffened fabric. "You're also a boy who hasn't had his hands on me since yesterday. And I'm a girl who's been on a ship for a day with nothing to do but remember what it felt like."
His breath caught. "Tetra—"
"Don't 'Tetra' me." She tugged him forward by the collar. "The wheel's lashed. The wind's holding. There's not a soul within a day's sail who'd look for us here." Her voice dropped, low and rough. "I didn't get enough of you yesterday. I'm not going to pretend I did."
The words landed in his chest like a strike. He looked past her shoulder at the ship—the lashed wheel, the rope tied off, the sail full and straining, the deck canted slightly as she ran before the wind with nobody steering her straight. The water stretched blue and empty to every horizon.
"Here?" he said. "On deck?"
"Where else?" She was already shrugging off her coat. It hit the boards with a soft thump, and she stood in her thin linen shirt, her arms bare, the scar on her forearm pale against her sun-kissed skin. "You got Aryll on a blanket under the palms. You can have me on my own ship, under my own sky, where I can see everything coming."
He reached for her. His hand found her waist, and she came into him like she'd been waiting for the invitation, her mouth finding his with a hunger that surprised him. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and she kissed him like she was claiming something—like she'd spent a day at sea thinking about exactly this and wasn't going to waste another minute.
They broke apart, breathing hard. Tetra's eyes were bright, wild. "That's better. That's—"
He kissed her again, harder, and she made a sound against his mouth that wasn't quite a laugh. Her hands found his belt, working the buckle with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent years untying knots. The leather came away, and she dropped it on top of her coat, and then her fingers were at the laces of his trousers, pulling them open.
He was already hard. She noticed, because of course she noticed—her grin widened, and her hand closed around him through the fabric, and she squeezed once, deliberately, watching his face.
"Missed that," she said. "Missed you."
"Tetra." His voice came out rough. "If you keep doing that—"
"What? You'll do something about it?" She stepped back, still holding him, and pulled her shirt over her head in one motion. The sun caught the curves of her, the lean muscle of her stomach, the small firm breasts with their dark nipples already tight in the sea air. She wore no smallclothes beneath. Of course she didn't. "I'm counting on it."
She came to him again, and this time when she kissed him, her bare chest pressed against his tunic, and he could feel the heat of her through the fabric. His hands found her waist, then slid up her ribs, and she shivered against him—a small, honest tremor that she didn't try to hide.
"Get this off," she said against his mouth, tugging at his tunic. "I want to feel you."
He pulled it over his head. The sea wind hit his skin, cool after the warmth of the fabric, and then her hands were on him—flat on his chest, sliding down his stomach, tracing the line of muscle that led down to where his cock strained against his smallclothes. She looked at him, open and hungry, and he thought that this was what she'd looked like as a girl, standing at the prow of her ship, watching the horizon for something she couldn't name.
"You're beautiful," she said, and it wasn't a joke. There was no irony in her voice. Just a flat statement, like she was naming the color of the water.
He didn't know what to say to that, so he kissed her instead. His hands found the laces of her trousers, and she helped him—kicking off her boots, shoving the salt-stained fabric down her hips, stepping out of them. She stood before him in nothing but the purple scarf at her throat, her skin bright in the sun, and he thought he'd never seen anything like her.
"Where?" he asked.
She looked around the deck. Her eyes found the lashed wheel, the coil of rope beside it, the hatch cover that lay flat and wide in the sun. "There," she said, pointing. "On the hatch. It's warm from the sun."
She led him by the hand, and he followed like a man in a dream. The hatch cover was broad and weathered, worn smooth by years of bare feet and salt. Tetra lay down on it, her hair spreading out beneath her, and looked up at him with those fierce amber-green eyes.
"Come here," she said. "I've been waiting a long time for this."
He knelt over her. The ship rolled gently, and he braced a hand on the hatch beside her hip, feeling the sway of the deck through his knees. She looked up at him, and there was something in her face he hadn't seen before—not the pirate's swagger, not the dare. Something quieter. Something that looked almost like fear, except it wasn't fear at all. It was wanting, and not knowing what to do with it.
"You had a day to think about this," he said. "What did you decide?"
Her grin came back, sharp and quick. "That I want it. That I want you. That I've been thinking about the way you felt inside me since yesterday and I need it again." She reached down between them, her fingers finding him, stroking him slowly. "And that I want you to fuck me until I can't walk straight."
The words hit him like a wave. He leaned down and kissed her, and she opened to him, her legs falling apart, her hips tilting up to meet him. He could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her smallclothes—she was already wet, already ready, and the knowledge of it made him ache.
He slid his hand down her stomach, beneath the waistband of her smallclothes, and found her bare and slick. She gasped against his mouth, her hips bucking into his hand, and he stroked her slowly, deliberately, watching her face as she felt it.
"That's it," he murmured. "That's what I wanted to see."
"Fuck," she breathed. "You—that's—" Her hand found his wrist, holding him there, pressing his fingers harder against her. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."
He didn't. He worked her slowly, circling her clit with his thumb while his fingers slid lower, into the slick heat of her, and she arched off the hatch cover, a sharp sound escaping her throat. The ship rolled, and she rolled with it, her body moving like she was made for the motion of the sea.
"I want to taste you," she said, and before he could answer, she'd pushed him onto his back and was on top of him, straddling his hips, her mouth finding his in a kiss that was all teeth and hunger. Then she was moving down his body, her lips trailing over his chest, his stomach, lower, until her breath was hot on his cock and he had to grip the edge of the hatch to keep from groaning.
"Tetra—"
"Shut up," she said, and took him in her mouth.
The world narrowed to the wet heat of her tongue, the suction of her lips, the way she looked up at him with those fierce eyes while she worked him. She was learning him—finding what made him gasp, what made his hips buck, what made his fingers curl into fists against the wood. She took him deep, her throat working around him, and he had to close his eyes against the pleasure of it.
She pulled off, panting, a strand of spit connecting her lips to his cock. "Good?"
"You have no idea."
She grinned and took him again, faster this time, her hand wrapped around the base of him, her mouth working the head, and he felt the heat building in his belly, the familiar pressure that meant he was close. But he didn't want to come like this. He wanted to be inside her.
"Tetra." His voice was rough. "Stop. Come here."
She pulled off, licking her lips. "What?"
"I want to be inside you."
Something flickered in her eyes—the same something he'd seen yesterday, when she'd taken him inside her for the first time. A mix of hunger and wonder, like she still couldn't quite believe this was real. She moved up his body, straddling him, and he reached between them and found her slick and ready. She was already so wet, and the feel of her against his cock made him shudder.
"Do it," she said. "I want to feel you."
He guided himself to her entrance, and she looked down at him, her eyes bright, her breath coming fast. He pushed inside her slowly, an inch at a time, and she took him with a sound that was half gasp, half moan—her body opening to him, her hips sinking down until he was buried inside her to the root.
She stayed there, perfectly still, her hands braced on his chest, and for a long moment neither of them moved. The ship rolled. The sail snapped. The world went on around them, and none of it mattered at all.
"There," she breathed. "There you are."
He moved his hips, a slow, shallow thrust, and she gasped, her nails digging into his chest. "Fuck. That's—"
"Good?"
"Better than good." She started to move, a slow, rolling rhythm that made him see stars. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this. How long I've wanted you."
They found a rhythm together, slow and deep, the ship swaying beneath them like the whole world was moving to the same pulse. She leaned forward, her mouth finding his, and he kissed her while she rode him, feeling her body clench around him with every stroke.
"I'm close," she said against his mouth. "I've been close since you put your fingers inside me."
"Then come," he said. "I want to feel you."
She did. Her body convulsed around him, her inner walls clenching hard, and she made a sound that was almost a sob—her head thrown back, her hair wild in the wind, her hands gripping his shoulders so hard he knew there'd be bruises. He watched her come apart on top of him, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
She collapsed onto his chest, breathing hard, her body still trembling around him. "Fuck. That was—"
"I know."
"No, you don't." She lifted her head, and there were tears in her eyes, though she was grinning. "You don't know what it's like to want something for so long and then have it be better than you imagined."
He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Tell me."
She shook her head. "Not yet. Maybe not ever." She kissed him, soft and quick, and then she sat up, still impaled on him, and started to move again. "But I can show you."
She rode him hard, her hips slapping against his, her breasts bouncing with the motion, and he let her take what she needed. His hands found her hips, guiding her, and she braced herself on his chest, her head thrown back, her mouth open, the sounds she made raw and unfiltered.
"I want you to come inside me," she said, her voice breaking. "I want to feel it. I want to feel you fill me up."
The words undid him. He thrust up into her, hard, and she cried out, her body clenching around him. "Tetra—"
"Come inside me," she said again. "Do it. I want it."
He did. He buried himself deep and came with a groan, his cock pulsing inside her, spilling into her in wave after wave. She held him there, her body tight around him, taking everything he gave her, and when he was spent, she stayed where she was, breathing hard, not moving to clean up, saying nothing.
The ship rolled gently beneath them. The wind sang in the rigging. And Tetra sat astride him, full of him, her hand flat against her own belly, and looked down at him with something in her eyes that he couldn't quite name.
"Well," she said finally, a slow grin spreading across her face. "That's one way to start the day."
She didn't move. She stayed exactly where she was, his cock still inside her, his seed still warm in her, and the deck swayed under both of them like the whole world was breathing.
He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You said you hadn't had your fill."
"I lied." She laughed, low and rough. "I've had my fill. But that doesn't mean I'm done with you." She leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, and when she pulled back, there was a calculation in her eye that he recognized. The pirate's look. The one that meant she was already planning her next move. "The day's young," she said. "The ship's holding her course. And I haven't even started with you yet."
Steam curled off the water and beaded on the rocks. The hot spring sat cupped in a hollow of grey stone, fed by a spring that came up warm from somewhere deep, and the air smelled of sulfur and wet pine. Zelda had already shed her cloak and her boots and was standing at the water's edge in her shift, her hair pinned up off her neck, watching him with that look she got when she'd made up her mind about something and was waiting for him to catch up.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're standing in a hot spring."
"I'm standing beside a hot spring." She reached back and worked the pin free, and her hair came down in a heavy fall of gold. "Get in, hero. Before I change my mind about the company."
He got out of his tunic and his boots and his trousers, and the cold of the mountain air bit at him for the space of three breaths before he stepped down into the water. It came up to his ribs, hot enough to make his skin sting, and he let out a sound he hadn't meant to make.
Zelda laughed. "There he is." She stepped in after him, her shift going translucent where the water took it, clinging to her hips and her thighs, and she waded until she stood close enough that the steam was between their faces. "Better than a cold river."
"Considerably."
She reached for him under the water, her fingers finding his wrist, then his hand, drawing it to her waist. "I've been thinking about the spring all the way up the mountain. About how warm it would be." Her voice dropped. "About how much of my clothes I'd take off."
"And?"
"And I decided the shift was a waste of everyone's time." She pulled it over her head and dropped it on the rocks behind her, and the water lapped at the undersides of her breasts, and the steam rose between them and made her look like something out of a story. "There. Now you can look properly."
He looked. The long line of her throat, the soft swell of her breasts, the pink of her nipples gone tight in the cool air above the waterline. The pale smoothness of her belly under the surface. She watched him look, and her chin came up, and her breath went shallow.
"Say something," she said.
"I don't have the words."
"Then use your hands."
He came to her through the water, and she met him halfway, and when his hands found her waist she made a small sound against his mouth. She was warm from the spring and warm from herself, and she kissed him like she'd been holding it in all the way up the mountain. His hands slid up her ribs, and she arched into them, and when his palms closed over her breasts she broke the kiss and let her head fall back.
"Oh," she said. "Yes. Like that."
He cupped her, felt the weight of her in his hands, the soft give of her under his thumbs. Her nipples dragged against his palms, and she pressed into him, and her hands came up to cover his, holding him there. "Don't stop," she said. "I like your hands on me. I've liked them since the first time you put them on me."
He bent his head and took one nipple in his mouth, and she gasped and her fingers went into his hair, holding him to her breast. The water rocked around them, and the steam rose, and he sucked at her and felt her whole body go loose and hot against him.
"Link," she breathed. "Link, that's—" She pulled him up by the hair and kissed him hard. "I want you inside me. Now. In the water."
He lifted her, and her legs came around his waist, and her back found the smooth stone of the spring's edge. She reached down between them and guided him, and he pushed into her slowly, an inch at a time, and her mouth opened against his shoulder and she made a sound that was half gasp, half relief.
"There," she said. "Oh, there."
The water made it easy and strange both, the heat of her and the heat of the spring, and he thrust up into her and she took him with a rolling of her hips that matched the lap of the water against the rocks. Her breasts pressed against his chest, slick and warm, and he got his hands on them again, cupping them, his thumbs working her nipples while he fucked her slow against the stone.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, keep—keep doing that." Her head fell back against the rock, and her hair spread out in the steam. "Harder. I'm not made of glass."
He gave her harder. The water slapped against the stone, and she cried out, and her nails dug into his shoulders. "That's it," she panted. "That's—fuck, Link."
The word out of her mouth, the princess's mouth, undid something in him. He drove into her, and she met him, and her breasts bounced in his hands, and he bent and took one nipple again and sucked hard while he fucked her, and she came with a sharp cry, her body clenching around him, her heels digging into his back.
He kept going, riding her through it, and she clung to him and gasped, "Inside. Come inside me. I want to feel it."
He buried himself deep and came, and the pleasure rolled through him in long waves, and he felt himself spill into her, hot and thick, felt her body take it and hold it. She stayed wrapped around him, breathing hard, her forehead against his, and the steam curled up around them both.
When he finally pulled out, she reached down and pressed her hand flat against herself, holding it in, and she was grinning, flushed and bright-eyed. "Well," she said. "That's the mountain climbed."
--
The stable was warm and dark and smelled of hay and horse. Malon had a lantern hung on a nail, and it threw long shadows up the walls, and she was sitting on a bale of straw with her boots off and her skirt hiked up to her knees, and Zelda was sitting beside her, and the two of them were looking at Link like he was the last apple in the barrel.
"You're sure about this," he said.
"I'm sure," Malon said, and her grin was wide and easy and a little bit wicked. "Zelda and me had a talk. Didn't we, Zelda."
"We did." Zelda's hand was on Malon's knee, and her thumb moved in a slow circle. "We decided we'd like to share. If you're willing."
"I'm willing."
Malon laughed and reached for him, and he came to them across the straw, and they pulled him down between them. Malon kissed him first, her mouth warm and tasting of the cider they'd been drinking, and then Zelda's mouth was at his throat, and four hands were working at his clothes. They got him out of his tunic and his trousers, and Malon's hand closed around his cock and she made a low, pleased sound.
"Well," she said. "Aren't you a fine thing."
"He is," Zelda said, and kissed Malon over his shoulder, and the sight of the two of them kissing—Malon's red hair and Zelda's gold, their mouths soft and sure against each other—made him ache.
Malon lay back on the straw, her skirt shoved up around her waist, and she pulled him over her. "Come on," she said. "I've been waiting all day."
He pushed into her, and she took him with a happy little sigh, her legs wrapping around his hips. "Oh, that's good," she said. "That's real good." Zelda lay down beside her, and her hand found Malon's breast through the thin fabric of her blouse, and Malon turned her head and kissed her while Link moved inside her.
He fucked her slow and steady, and she moaned into Zelda's mouth, and Zelda's hand slipped lower, under Malon's skirt, and Malon gasped and bucked. "Both of you," she said. "Oh, both of you at once."
He felt her tighten around him, and he kept going until she cried out and her body clenched, and then he pulled out and she reached down and finished him with her hand, and he came across her belly, and she laughed and smeared it with her fingers.
"My turn," Zelda said, and she lay back and pulled him over her, and he pushed into her still slick and hard, and she took him with a shudder. Malon leaned over her and kissed her breasts, and Zelda's back arched off the straw, and it was only a little while before she came too, and he spilled into her, and she held him there with her hand flat on her belly.
They lay in the straw afterward, breathing hard, and Malon propped herself up on an elbow and looked at the two of them. "I've got an idea," she said. "Something I always wanted to try."
She pulled her blouse open and shrugged it off, and her breasts came free, round and full and freckled. "Zelda," she said. "Come here."
Zelda sat up, and Malon pressed herself against her, chest to chest, and the two of them laughed and shifted until their breasts were stacked one atop the other, soft and warm and slick with sweat. "There," Malon said. "Now, hero. You get up here."
He straddled them, and Malon reached up and fitted her breasts around his cock, and Zelda pressed hers up beneath, and the two of them made a warm, soft channel of themselves. He thrust into it, and the slide of their skin and the sight of them beneath him and the two of them looking up at him with bright, pleased eyes made his breath go short.
"That's it," Malon said. "Fuck us both."
He did. The soft give of their breasts, the slick of his own seed and their sweat, and the two of them pressing and shifting to keep him snug between them. Zelda's hand came up to stroke what his thrusts left bare, and Malon bit her lip and watched him, and it wasn't long before he came, spilling across their chests, and the two of them laughed and pressed together and smeared it between them.
"Well," Malon said, and licked her thumb. "That was worth the wait."
Malon rolled onto her side and propped her chin on her hand, and the lantern light slid across the freckles on her shoulders. "You know what I've been thinking about since the spring thaw?" she said. "I've been thinking I'd like to watch the two of you. Just watch. Is that strange?"
"No," Zelda said, and her voice had gone soft and low. "It isn't strange."
"Then get up here, hero," Malon said, and patted the straw beside her. "And don't you dare be shy about it."
He lay down, and Zelda came over him, her hair falling around his face, and she reached down and took his cock in her hand and guided it into herself with a slow, deliberate sinking of her hips. She was still wet from before, and hot, and she took him to the root and sat there a moment with her palms flat on his chest and her eyes shut.
"Oh," she said. "Oh, that's—Malon, he fills me up."
"I can see that." Malon's hand found Zelda's breast and cupped it, and Zelda's back curved into the touch. "Ride him. Let me see you ride him."
Zelda did. She lifted herself and came down, and the slap of her thighs against his was loud in the quiet stable, and Malon watched with her lip caught between her teeth and her hand working slow circles on Zelda's breast. "That's it," Malon said. "That's a pretty sight. Look at him. He's got his hands on your hips like he's afraid you'll float off."
"He should be," Zelda gasped. "I might."
He got his hands on her breasts the way he'd wanted to since the hot spring, cupping them, his thumbs dragging over her nipples, and Zelda made a sound that was almost a sob and rode him harder. The straw rustled under them, and the lantern swung a little on its nail, and Malon leaned in and kissed Zelda's shoulder, her throat, the corner of her jaw.
"I want to feel it," Zelda said. "When you come. I want to feel you spill into me."
"You'll feel it," he said, and his voice came out rough. "Keep going."
She kept going, and her rhythm went ragged, and Malon's hand slid down her belly and found her, her fingers working where they were joined, and Zelda cried out and her body clenched and she came with her head thrown back and her hair loose down her spine. He held on through it, and then he drove up into her once, twice, and spilled into her, and she felt it—he saw her feel it, her whole body going still and her mouth opening around a breath she didn't finish.
She slumped forward onto his chest, and Malon laughed softly and smoothed the hair back from Zelda's face. "There," Malon said. "Now me. And I want the same. Don't you dare pull out on me."
Zelda rolled off and lay in the straw, flushed and breathing hard, and Malon pulled him over her and got her legs around his waist. He pushed into her, and she was slick and ready and she took him with a grunt of satisfaction. "There's a good lad," she said. "Now give it to me proper."
He gave it to her. She was sturdy and warm and she met him thrust for thrust, her heels drumming his back, and Zelda lay beside her with her hand on Malon's belly and her mouth on Malon's breast, and Malon's fingers knotted in Zelda's hair. "Oh, that's it," Malon panted. "That's—both of you, don't stop, don't you dare stop—"
She came with a shout that startled the horses, and he kept going, and she grabbed his hips and pulled him deep and said, "Inside, inside, I want it inside—" and he buried himself and came, and she held him there and shuddered around him.
When he finally drew out, she clapped her hand over herself and lay back in the straw with her chest heaving. "Well," she said. "Now I know what all the fuss is about."
"You knew before," Zelda said.
"I suspected." Malon grinned up at the rafters. "It's better to know."