The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [301]
Jondalar was building quickly; for a moment he feared it was too quickly—but he could not have held back if he’d tried, and this time he didn’t try. He let himself advance and retreat as his need directed, sensing her willingness in the rhythm of her motion matching his as he moved steadily faster. Suddenly, overpoweringly, he was there.
With an intensity that met his, she was ready for him. She whispered, “Now, on now,” as she strained to meet him. Her encouragement was a surprise. She had not done it before, but it had an immediate effect. With the next stroke, his building force reached an explosive rush and burst through in an eruption of release and pleasure. She was only a step behind, and, with a cry of exquisite delight, she reached her peak a moment later. A few more strokes and they both lay still.
Though it was over quickly, the moment had been so intense that it took the woman a while to come down from the culminating summit. When Jondalar, feeling his weight on her was becoming too much, rolled over and disengaged, she felt an inexplicable sense of loss and wished they could stay linked together longer. Somehow he completed her, and the full realization of how much she had feared for him, and missed his presence struck her with such poignancy that she felt tears sting her eyes.
Jondalar saw a transparent bead of water fall from the outside corner of her eye and run down the side of her face to her ear. He raised himself up and looked at her. “What’s wrong, Ayla?”
“I’m just so happy to be with you,” she said, as another tear welled up and quivered at the edge of her eye before it spilled over.
Jondalar reached for it with a finger and brought the salty drop to his mouth. “If you are happy, why are you crying?” he said, though he knew.
She shook her head, unable to speak at that moment. He smiled with the knowledge that she shared his powerful feelings of relief and gratitude that they were together again. He bent down to kiss her eyes, and her cheek, and finally her beautiful smiling mouth. “I love you, too,” he whispered in her ear.
He felt a faint stirring in his manhood, and he wished they could start all over again, but this was not the time. Epadoa was certain to be trailing them, and sooner or later she would find them.
“There is a stream nearby,” Ayla said. “I need to wash, and I might as well fill the waterbags.”
“I’ll go with you,” the man said, partly because he still wanted to be close to her, and partly because he felt protective.
They picked up their lower garments and boots, then the waterbags, and walked to a fairly wide stream, nearly closed over with ice, leaving only a small section in the middle still flowing. He shivered with the shock of freezing water and knew he washed himself only because she did. He would have been content to let himself dry off in the warmth of his clothes, but if she had any opportunity at all, even in the coldest water, she always cleaned herself. He knew it was a ritual her Clan stepmother had taught her, although now she invoked the Mother with mumbled words spoken in Mamutoi.
They filled up the waterbags, and, as they walked back to their campsite, Ayla recalled the scene she had witnessed just before his lacings had been cut the first time.
“Why didn’t you couple with Attaroa?” she asked. “You damaged her pride in front of her people.”
“I have pride, too. No one is going to force me to share the Mother’s Gift. And it wouldn’t have made any difference. I’m sure it was her intention all along to make a target out of me. But now, I think you are the one who has to be careful. ‘Discourteous and inhospitable’…” He chuckled; then he became more serious. “She hates you, you know. She’ll kill us both, if she gets the chance.”
30
Ayla and Jondalar settled down for the night, both were wary of every sound they heard.