We stopped for the night as the sun first touched the horizon, choosing a small glen for our camp. There was a spring at one end, and the surrounding trees offered what protection could be had from the cold winds that came whistling off the mountains. The Halflings set to clearing a circle for the fire while the Dwarf collected dry wood. Few men ever hear the songs Dwarves sing as they wield their axes, but Gimli’s favorite song was becoming familiar to all of us. Just today I overheard Pippin, the youngest of the Halflings, humming it as we walked. Aragorn and I unloaded the pony’s packs under the watchful eye of Master Samwise, careful not to dent his precious pots. Once unburdened, the stout pony was allowed to water and graze as he wished. I would have hobbled the creature, but he did not stray, being much better trained than I would have thought.
I carried my bedroll to a stand of tall, drying grass apart from the others, trampled down the grass and spread my blankets. I propped my shield and horn against a rock, but kept my sword at hand. The others spread their blankets closer to the fire, over the shorter grass in the center of the glen — the Halflings all together, the Dwarf to one side, Aragorn and the Wizard on the opposite side of the fire. Only the Elf did not make a bed for himself, as he never slept, at least that I had ever seen. He took the watch each night, usually sitting against a tree with his knees drawn up, singing sad sounding songs to himself.
At first it was difficult to trust him as a sentinel, but Aragorn assured me that his Elven sight and hearing was far superior to either of ours, and that he truly did not need to sleep. I have never had much to do with Elves, and know nothing of their abilities. Legolas has proven himself a fine archer, his skills adding meat to the pot, and for that alone I would honor him.
The spring fed a rock-bound pool, and we each took a turn washing. Refreshing, I told myself, shuddering at the splash of cold water on my face, wishing for a steaming hot tub to soak in, particularly my feet. I don’t know how the Halflings can keep up, walking barefoot as they do — five leagues a day over this terrain is difficult enough in boots.
It was gloaming dark by the time we ate the simple meal of roasted meat and hard bread. A pint or two of ale would have been welcome, but a mug of strong tea sufficed for our beverage. The fire brought some light to the camp after darkness fell, but the waning moon would not rise for hours, leaving only starlight to see by. The Halflings took to their beds, as did the Dwarf, but Aragorn and I sat with the Wizard as the fire burned down.
“We shall keep to this course,” Gandalf reminded us. “It will take another month or so to reach the Gap of Rohan.” He chewed on the end of his pipe, then blew a smoke ring over the fire.
“As long as we can hunt, we will eat,” Aragorn stated matter-of-factly, “and the streams should be running high enough after the autumn rains.” The Ranger smoked a pipe as well, a habit we had yet to adopt in Gondor. I caught Aragorn’s eye and nodded, then wished them goodnight.
Laying my sword within reach, I shed my jerkin and mail, and pulled off my boots. I looked across the dark shapes of the Dwarf and Halflings at the Ranger and the Wizard, still sitting at the fire. As though he could see me in the darkness, Aragorn lifted his head, the glow of the fire lighting his eyes, and I watched as Gandalf rose to steal away to his blankets. Alone at the fire, Aragorn smiled, and my fingers loosened the fastenings of my tunic under his gaze before I lay down. Though the night was cold, the blankets Lord Elrond had supplied kept us warm, even when wearing a single layer of clothing.
The fire had died to embers when I heard the soft footsteps approach. There was a light touch on my shoulder, and I lifted the blanket to let Aragorn lie next to me. In the darkness his hands found my face, their touch familiar from stolen moments on the trail, his fingers tracing the edge of my beard. I turned my head to kiss his fingertips, then back to find his lips waiting for me. Silently he claimed my mouth, and I opened to him, the heat of his tongue triggering my arousal.
He moved his hands from my face to my throat and chest, and pushed open my tunic. He skimmed his fingers across my nipples and twisted in the hair on my chest, all the while his tongue did delicious and unbelievable things to my mouth. Never had any lover, male or female, treated me as Aragorn did, taking his pleasure in my own.
Gently he pulled away from my mouth, softly kissing my lips before he ducked his head to suckle at one nipple, and lowered his hands to the waist of my trousers. Deftly he pulled the lacings loose and slid his hand inside. He pulled at my nipple with his teeth at the same moment he grasped my growing member, easing it from the confines of my clothing.
My breath came faster, and I struggled to stay quiet, but when he stroked me from root to tip and ran his thumb over the end, I gasped.
“Hush,” he murmured, and raised his other hand to touch my lips. “The Dwarf snores loudly, but we would not want to wake anyone.”
I closed my mouth to keep the sound of my laughter in my chest. “You think we’re the only ones? Have you not wondered why the Halflings bed together as they do?”
“For warmth, for comfort,” The Ranger whispered. I suspected he still thought of them as children, but I had learned otherwise.
“This kind of comfort,” I whispered, and pulled Aragorn into a hard, demanding kiss, then pushed my hips into the hand that still grasped my erection.
He squeezed and pulled, and I almost shouted, but instead I threw my head back and bit my lip. We were still new to one another, neither of us sure of the other, the pace of arousal, the pattern of desire, the peril of need. From our very first meeting I had felt a connection between us, that we belonged with each another.
I was hard — as hard as I’d ever been, but Aragorn rolled away from me and sat up. He pulled his clothing off, and while he fumbled with his belt, I pushed my trousers over my hips to my feet and kicked them off, then shrugged out of my tunic. As I lay back I heard the sound of his belt buckle hit the ground, and the fall of his garments. Then he was next to me again, his body hot against mine. We faced each other, his hands against my chest, my arms around his shoulders. Our hips moved against each other, our erections crossed like swords between us.
He pushed me onto my back and slid down my body, kissing and licking as he went. His fingers teased at the inside of my thighs, higher and higher, and I parted my legs, hoping he would soon grasp what was between them. The teasing kisses and caresses continued until I thought I could stand it no more.
“You would kill me with your teasing,” I whispered. I ached to touch myself, to bring the release we both yearned for, but he pushed my hands away. “Take me, I beg of you.”
I heard a faint hum, and felt his lips curl into a smile. “I shall, dear Boromir,” he answered. “I shall.” He’d lifted his head away from me to speak, and his hair brushed across my loins as he moved.
I thought I would jump out of my skin when he drew the tip of his tongue slowly along my manhood. He paused when he reached the crown, then slid his tongue around the end before engulfing me. I sucked my lower lip into my mouth and pounded a fist against the blanket-covered grass as he slid his mouth down my shaft until he had me totally. He pulled back and lifted my sac in his hand, fondling and squeezing.
He paused again with only the head in his mouth, the hard ridges of his teeth gently holding me, and the cold night air chilled my dampened shaft. I tried to push back into the heat of his mouth, but he controlled my every movement. Again and again he engulfed me and pulled back, each stroke taking me to an even more dizzying height of passion. Release had always come with a few harsh pulls of a comrade’s hand or my own, or a quick tumble with a tavern wench. I knew nothing of this type of sex-play, but knew that I would never again be satisfied with anything less.
I breathed in great gasps, hands clenching the blanket beneath me. My climax gathered deep in my belly, coiled like a spring, then Aragorn suddenly released me. His panting breath streamed across my throbbing manhood before he slid a hand beneath my hip and levered me onto my side, facing away from him. He bent my leg up, and I felt his fingers trace the center line of my backside. I knew what he intended, and I shuddered when he first touched my opening.
“I’ll not harm you,” he promised against my ear, and kissed and nibbled at the back of my neck and shoulders. When next he touched me, his fingers were slick and cold with ointment. The stubble of his beard scraped my skin as he pressed the side of his face against my back, and a single finger broached me.
Gods of Valinor, is this what a woman feels? Slowly he pushed farther into me until the cold of his ring touched me. He held for a moment, then crooked his finger deep inside.
I had seen sky rockets once, when I was a youth, the sky exploding into thousands of colored stars. Now I saw them again, felt the tingling and heat from my toes to my fingers and behind my eyes, filling my head, all coming from that tiny spot. He touched me there again, and I gasped aloud, no longer able to contain myself.
There were two fingers in me; somehow I did not recall their intrusion. He stretched me, opening me for his possession, and what would have been pain was instead ecstasy, my need for him growing. More fingers, more stretching, again and again he touched me until the individual sensations melted together into a constant roar of pleasure throughout my body and mind.
“Now,” he whispered in my ear, “you shall be mine.” He bit at my neck, his teeth just grazing the skin behind my ear. Both his hands held my hips, fingers digging into my flesh, and the hot, velvety head of his manhood pressed against my entrance.
Slowly he entered me, his organ a rod of heated steel reaching to my very center. His groin touched my backside, and he released his biting hold on my neck, his breath as hot and panting as my own. He held there, not moving, throbbing inside me.
“Move,” I begged between clenched teeth. “For Eru’s sake, move!”
And move he did. He eased himself out slowly, then pushed back into me hard and fast, over and over, each time grazing past that special spot, and the stars erupted in my mind again. His hand snaked around my hip to grasp my organ, ringing the stiff shaft with his fist. As he moved, did I also, craving his touch, pushing back to take more of him into me, forward into his hand.
The spasms that wracked my body were like none other as I poured my seed into Aragorn’s hand. Three more times he thrust into me, each one harder and stronger, then he gripped me tighter than ever and again bit at my neck. Heat exploded within me, radiating to every part of me, and blackness followed the multi-colored stars that filled my mind.
The moon had risen when I opened my eyes again, its pale light enough to highlight the fair skin of the smooth chest I lay against. I breathed in his scent, a combination of pipeweed, sweat, and leather, mixed with the smell of the bruised grasses we lay on.
Aragorn’s chest heaved in a sigh and he stroked my hair, pulling the longer stands away from my face. I touched my lips to him, then looked up to find his eyes. Even in the waning moonlight I could see his face.
“I am yours,” I vowed, “my king.”