It was not his true love, but he could not deny her this. Nor, as he
held her close, did he have any wish to, all else falling away in the
unconscious amnesia of male passion. He threw open the sleeping bag,
longingly kissed her cheek, her neck, the lovely space above her
breasts.
'Kataya,' he whispered passionately, and there was nothing else in
his world, no other salve for the endless pain and frustration. There
was only her, here and now, her face wet with tears, vulnerable,
compelling. He released the knotted loincloth, as their most sensitive
reaches drew nearer. Her breasts rubbed gently across his. Then he
slid down, yielding to that most primal longing: to suckle at the
breast, fountain of all life.
'Yes,' she whispered fervently. 'Yes, Kalus. TAKE me.' He
raised himself on his arms, opening her legs with his own, and with the
sighing aid of her hand, was inside her. He did not love her, but he
longed for her, making the physical release and abandon perhaps the
greater for it. He was not gentle, nor did she ask him to be. For in
that moment she was not a woman, but all women, and his anger would not
be abated.
But as he approached climax, too soon, his gentler nature returned, and
he not only remembered, but yearned for the soul inside her.
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