Sagging to his knees, he parted her thighs, inhaled their combined musk, and started lapping. Her breath hitched and her hands quickly moved to his head, clutching at his hair.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Saleria asked, startled. She had never known a lover to want a taste after lovemaking, only before.
Several possible answers ran through his mind. That he was cleaning her personally rather than finding a toweling cloth. That he wanted a post-copulative snack. That he couldn’t get enough of her. But he smiled when the right answer came to him, and paused just long enough to give it to her.
“You had me so hot and sweaty with all that exercise deep in your house,” he murmured, “I just had to step back outside to admire your garden up close while I cooled down.”
Her laughter was about as loud and hearty as her final cries of passion had been. And as lusty, when he resumed his tasting of their combined desire. He knew they had to get some sleep soon . . . but not just yet.
* * *
She drooled in her sleep. Not a lot, just a little, and possibly it wasn’t a common every-night thing, but Aradin watched the damp spot on her pillow for a full minute before deciding he not only did not mind, he thought it was cute. A touch of mortal normalcy in an otherwise dedicated, holy life. Not that such things were easy to see in the dim gray light of predawn, but Aradin was used to peering into the Dark. Mortal night held few secrets by comparison.
As much as part of him longed to lie there all day and just watch her sleep, the rest of the Witch wanted to be up and about, to seize the dawn and thus the day. Not wanting to disturb her slumber, he eased from the bed, then realized he had no clean clothes yet. Not because Teral hadn’t returned—his Guide had slipped into his Doorway at some point while the younger man slept—but because he hadn’t flipped the edges of his Witchcloak over his clothes.
(Noticed that, did you?) Teral offered dryly.
(Hush, you,) Aradin returned without rancor. He folded the cloak over the pile of clothing and waited. (I—we—had a glorious time last night, and I am in far too good a mood, post-bliss, to be teased.)
(Well, we have only one change of clean clothes left. All of mine and most of yours are dirty. Since I’m not sure if that housekeeper of hers would be willing to scrub our things gently, we should visit the laundering shop you spotted on our way into the town. And I am glad the two of you had a good time,) his Guide finished. (So . . . did I win the bet?)
(Feet, not knees. Not ticklish, but sexually responsive all the same,) Aradin informed him. The dimly lit lump of tan fabric shifted. At a mental nod from his Guide, he unfolded the cloak and started pulling on his clothes for the day . . . formal court clothes, crafted from fine silk and velvet in the Darkhanan style, with silver buttons and ribbon trim in flattering shades of green and brown. (You weren’t kidding about this being our last clean outfit, were you?)
(No, I wasn’t. I apologize for losing track of how many clean clothes were left,) Teral added.
(It’s partly my own fault, too,) the younger Witch said. Both men looked through Aradin’s eyes as Saleria mumbled and shifted on the bed, snuggling into the warm spot Aradin had left. She didn’t wake, just relaxed into a deeper level of sleep. (But can you fault me for the source of my distraction?)
Teral chuckled. (Considering she’s the source of my own as well, plus we’ve all three been distracted by the situation with the Grove . . . no, I cannot fault you. Oh—speaking of situations, Orana Niel are on their way. They will reach the site of the Convocation within the week. How long it’ll take to get things moving after that point . . . only the Threefold God of Fortuna knows.)
(Then we’d better get working on the task of taming the Grove as hard and fast as possible.) Donning his Witchcloak over his formal clothes, Aradin slipped out of her bedchamber and made his way downstairs. He found Nannan in the kitchen, adding more wood chips to the hearth fire under the soapstone cooking slab to ensure a good bed of coals. This time, at least, she heard him coming.
The look she slanted him was still a little grudging, but not as bad as before. “Good morning, milord.”
“Good morning, milady Nannan.” He parted the folds of his Witchcloak, showing her his court finery. “I seem to be out of regular clothing. Would you have time and the willingness to do my laundry today?”
“Laundry is done once a week in this household, since I don’t have any fancy spells for helping with the cleaning, and you’ve missed it by two days. Lavender down on the end of Baking Street, near the southwest corner of Groveham, does laundry every day,” Nannan informed him. “She’s not a strong mage like Her Holiness is, but she has enough to aid in the scrubbing and drying. If you want something clean to wear tomorrow, you’ll need to visit her today, or just re-wear whatever you’ve got—I’d think that, mucking around in a garden, you’d be willing to re-wear whatever was dirty.”