#dsftsrf

At her back, Boromir was huffing.

It wasn’t from exertion, Rhosynel wasn’t sprinting and she knew Boromir could tolerate long distance runs. Was it the Lovers Delight? Was it making him struggle for breath? Was it making his pulse race and his skin red and beads of sweat roll down his brow, his throat, his chest?

Since that was happening to her… probably.

Cresting the rise, the thatched roof of the cabin came into view.

The noise which left Rhosynel’s throat was one part relief, one part desperation. She was too hot, too aware, too sensitive. The cotton of her tunic was abrasive against her skin, the leather of her boots too snug about her calves, the belt on her hips was too tight. Her heart was pounding, her lungs were straining, her blood was thrumming, and she was far, far too aware of Boromir’s presence half a pace behind her.

“N-not far.”

The low growl of an answer made her shiver.

Flitting across the glade, Rhosynel bounded up the steps onto the porch, reaching for the door latch—

Boromir’s hands seized her waist, the weight of his body abruptly pressing against her back, all but pinning her to the rough wooden door of the hunting lodge. That alone had Rhosynel yelping in shock, but when his mouth landed on her neck, it turned to a whine, spine arching instinctively.

“In-inside,” she barely managed to protest, fingers scrabbling for the latch. “Inside. Now.”

It was less that Boromir listened, and more that the door opened inwards.

Tumbling forwards they almost crashed to the floor, where Rhosynel was fairly certain Boromir would be happy to keep her. With a lurch, she managed to squirm free of his grasp, hastily dumping the identification book and sack of the Béma blasted Lovers Delight to one side.

A good thing too, as Boromir soon caught her hips, dragging her roughly backwards to thud against his chest.

“Th-the door.”

He growled, but lashed out blindly with one foot, his boot solidly hitting the wood and slamming it shut. Apparently not all reason had fled him yet.

“Rh-Rhosynel—” Boromir was panting, face buried in her hair, breathing in deeply and exhaling with a groan. “—ho-how do we stop it?”

“I don’t know. I do-dont know if we can."

His rough curse was somewhat mitigated by the fact his hands was grasping at her, kneading at her flesh, fingers curling into her waist, her breasts, her thighs, her stomach. No matter how close he was, it didn't seem close enough, bearing down on her, forcing her another shaky step forwards.

“I don’t wa-want to hurt you. You sho-should go,” Boromir insisted, voice hoarse, words broken as he struggled to speak. “I’m burning up. I’m aching. I want –I need– you. But t-tell me to let you go. Tell me. I’ll le-let you go. You can lock the door. Keep me in her-e, w-wait it out.”

“I won’t leave you like this,” Rhosynel managed to reply, reaching out, gripping the back of a chair, knuckles turning white and head tilting back. Just his hands were too much, the heat of his body against her back, the kneading of her flesh, the ghost of his lips against her neck, the roughness and heat and desire and need in his voice. “I-I ate one too, remember?”

“Two.”

Considering the haze that was rapidly clouding her thoughts, Boromir’s one word answer was still cut through it and left her… confused.

“T-two?” she repeated breathlessly, “what do you mean two?”

“I, I ate two.”

The breath hitched in her throat.

He’d eaten two flower heads. Two Lovers Delight. When one was meant to be boiled, boiled and removed from the tea before it was consumed. When one was meant to be enough for two people. A single flower would enhance his senses and push him into a state of arousal. And Boromir had eaten two.

“Fuck,” Rhosynel breathed.

“Yes, Valar, please.”

Boromir’s pleading was deep and throaty, desperate with need and utterly overwhelmed by desire. His chest reverberated against her back, sending a shiver down Rhosynel’s spine as she tried –and failed– to come up with a solution.

She was too hot, too needy, too desperate, and too utterly overwhelmed to know what to do. Her own senses were going haywire, painfully aware of Boromir’s heat, of each movement, of each grope and caress and stroke and knead. She couldn’t think, couldn’t figure out what to do, not when she was aching with need.

Not when Boromir was worse.

“Rh-oh-synel.”

At his whimper, Rhosynel moved.

Clawing at her belt, her fingers felt far too unwieldy, too uncoordinated, too shaky, but with some effort she managed to unbuckle it. The clatter of leather and metal hitting the floor was loud.

And entirely drowned out by Boromir’s moan.

She’d only managed to undo one button of her breeches, when his hand flattened against her stomach, shoving beneath her waistband. Sliding down between her thighs, his fingers carded through the curls there, as he sought out the wetness that had been gathering ever since she touched that fucking pollen.

“Rhos,” Boromir panted, “Rhos, te-tell me t-to stop, if you don’t want—”

“I do. I w-want this. I need you.”

His answering groan was little more than a snarl.

With how slick she’d gotten, it was far too easy for Boromir to find her clit, fingers starting to rub and circle at a pace that bordered on frantic. A breathless gasp left Rhosynel, hands scrambling for purchase against the chair back, unable to brace herself properly.

In a frenetic burst, she shoved the chair aside, and the pair lurched forwards. Her thighs hit the edge of the table hard enough to push it a few inches across the floor, but at least now she could brace her forearms, arch her spine, push back against Boromir—

He was hard.

Pressed against her ass, Boromir’s hips shifted and ground against her, even as his fingers kept swirling about her clit. Already starting to shake and shiver, Rhosynel lifted one leg, planting her knee atop the table, spreading her legs wider and allowing his fingers better access. Boromir’s chest pressed to her back, folding her down, lips and mouth and tongue and teeth tracing across her neck with licks and kisses and sucks and bites.

The whimper that left her was loud.

Huffing and panting against her neck, Boromir’s hips rocked and ground against her ass, the fabric between them was too much, not enough, she needed more, wanted less. His fingers pressed more firmly, all but demanding she come.

A startled wail left Rhosynel, as she did as bidden.

The spike of pleasure was sudden and intense, crashing over her far more swiftly that any climax she'd had before. Her hips bucked, thrusting and grinding into his hand, shuddering for a moment before the tension fled her equally as swiftly.

A pleased groan left Boromir, as more slickness soaked his fingers.

All too quickly his hand slid away, leaving her clit and her breeches, even as she gave a whimpered protest. Dazed and confused more than anything, Rhosynel’s body sagged. That climax had hit and passed far too quickly, and while it had felt good, it had been fleeting, hadn’t helped the ache, the burn, the need. If anything… she wanted more.

Not that Rhosynel was left wanting.

With a few deft yanks, Boromir had her breeches down, snagged on her boots and trapped about her knees. There was a second clatter as his own sword belt hit the floor and then—

The hard length of his cock dragged across her slit.

Hard, hot, thick, and heavy, Rhosynel was already panting in anticipation. He’d not warmed her up much, but she was beyond caring, she ached, burning and throbbing and desperate for Boromir to split her open and fill her up.

Thank the Valar he didn’t keep her waiting.

Pressing the head of his cock against her entrance, Boromir apparently still possessed enough sense not to thrust too hard too fast. Gingerly pushing forwards, Rhosynel whined at the stretch, whimpered as he breached her, and let out a pitiful mewl as he slowly pressed forwards sinking deeper into her too-tight cunt.

All too quickly, Boromir’s hips were pressed flush to hers.