His name was Aaron. Or Armin. Or something like that. It didn’t really matter. He was the first strapping young farm boy I saw on our journey to Hergotis, and I was not feeling picky. He came into the inn where Lysander and I were staying on the first night after we left Ariel House. He was probably looking to get a quiet drink with friends after a long day of tending fields or whatever he did. Lysander was already in his room, no doubt pining after Portia. I was sitting at a table near the bar when Aaron or whoever strolled in. He looked to be about twenty, packed to the brim with wholesome muscles, good manners, and not much else. It took me all of half a second to decide he would be the lucky recipient of all my pent-up frustration for the evening.
I reached over and grabbed his brawny forearm. He stopped and looked at me in surprise. Maybe he’d never been accosted by a stranger before.
“Here is what I propose,” I told him. “You’re going to keep buying me whiskey until I tell you it’s time to take me up to my room and fuck my brains out. Agreed?”
“Ma’am?” He gave me an earnest farm boy look beneath a curtain of strawberry-blond bangs as he tried to determine if I was joking.
“Well, what’s your answer?”
“Y-yes?”
“Great. Then get me a drink.” I swatted his butt, which I noted was as sleek and firm as I’d hoped. Man, I had a good eye.
“Y-yes, ma’am.” He hurried over to the bar, his tanned face already flushing an adorable red. I admired the broad back that stretched his linen shirt taut across his shoulders while he nervously ordered a whiskey for me and an ale for himself. The bartender eyed me skeptically over the farm boy’s shoulder, and I gave him a nice big leer. He rolled his eyes in response and handed the farm boy our drinks.
The next few hours were hazy. I think I probably talked the poor farm boy’s ear off about all the creative ways I’d contemplated killing whoever had been messing with me the last few days, regardless of whether it was truly Simon or someone merely pretending to be Simon. I also went on a fair bit about how much I would enjoy hurting anyone else who got in my way. It probably wasn’t good foreplay, but that was the great thing about twenty-year-old farm boys. They didn’t need much. He dutifully brought me whiskey until I commanded him to carry me up the stairs “like the goddamn queen of goddamn Penador.” Or something like that.
Once we were in my room, I tore his shirt off, which I’d wanted to do to someone for a while. Then it was all hands, mouths, and hot, sweaty skin. I think I was probably still raving, but it had devolved mostly into commands to fuck me in various ways. I remember at one point lying on my back on the lumpy straw mattress with his blond head between my thighs. He paused for a moment to look up at me with that sincere gaze, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
His expression became panicked. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Hell, no! You’re just what I needed!”
Then I pushed his face back where it belonged and closed my eyes. I had the urge to keep my hands on his head, but the way things were going, I was afraid I might lose control and burn his hair off, or worse. What my farm boy lacked in finesse, he made up for in enthusiasm. Tireless and attentive, he left no part of me untouched. So I placed my palms firmly on the headboard and did my best not to turn the whole bed to ash.
He wanted to cuddle afterward. I was in a generous mood, so I gave him a few moments while I stared up at the handprints I’d burned into the headboard. Then I advised him to stop having sex with strange women he’d just met and told him to get out.
I couldn’t fuck the pain away forever. I knew that. But sometimes it was a relief to connect with someone this simple and good, even if only in a limited way. The world was full of duplicitous, human-shaped piles of shit that would kill you as soon as look at you. If I could forget that, even for a short while, it was better than nothing.