Thigh presses thigh as flaxen hair mingles with copper strands. The dwarf’s strong arm circles a slender waist, pulling them together – perhaps too closely, holding much tighter than the mount’s speed warrants. The warm and hardened hand’s absent touch is a rough caress.
The elf notices but he does not speak, does not lean away. The body’s press against his back has become a sweet comfort on their long journey. It is a reassuring presence, unbidden though welcome in the day – desired, but not pursued, under cloak of darkness.
Yet, as stars bloom overhead his heart whispers, ‘Yes, perhaps tonight.’