Page 120 of Sunder

There were rules about the tower. The preservation of history. Of culture. Tapestries could be exchanged, but only when the others were cleaned and properly stored for future generations. Rooms must be maintained—freshened with new upholstery, but not with renovation.

But here...

She made a great show of loosening her hair. Of running her fingers through the length. Seeing to the ties at her throat down to her navel. Her shoulders. Then shimmied out of the dress itself with heat in her cheeks and a flutter in her heart to see him so... interested.

She kept her shift on. Indecent, but covered for the moment. She feared if she took it off too, he’d lose what little remained of his self-control and wouldn’t let her have her fun with washing him. So it stayed, and she pushed him to lie back, and he did so, still watching. He was on her side, which shouldn’t bother her, but it felt... wrong. So she came to stand on the other side and waited for him to move to his own pillow, and he chuckled softly as she obliged her. “So particular,” he insisted, and she rolled her shoulders.

“You love me anyway,” she reminded him, knowing full well the truth of his answer.

But he hummed, and reached for her, and while she took his hand briefly, she would not let him distract her. She re-situated the pitcher on his table, made sure the water hadn’t cooled too much. She wouldn’t like to be doused in tepid water, and while this was for practical purposes, there were also parts that most assuredly were not.

The ones that wanted to touch him. To look. To be as nosey as she liked, to understand all the parts of him in ways thatother mates might. Not hiding behind lowered lids and modest blushes. Bold and...

Free.

His breath caught when the cloth first touched him, and she hesitated. “Too cold?” she didn’t think so, but perhaps she’d misjudged.

“No,” Athan assured her, doing his best to take on a more at ease position. “Just fine.”

She shook her head, amused and something else that had... very little to do with amusement.

She didn’t know she could find a form so fine as she did his. For her eyes to be drawn to a slim waist, strong hips. To find the curve of his wrists and the strength in his forearms strangely alluring.

She had the advantage, of course. She could swipe the cloth and mild soap across threads she couldsee.Could feel the bond respond in turn, could marvel at the way his muscles bunched and tensed as he waited to see where she might go next. Not to push, not to hurry, but full of anticipation.

It did not take long before he stood ready for her, and there had been no need of teasing or coaxing at all to have him there.

Should she wash there too? He did. Always fastidious about his hygiene. But perhaps this had little to do with cleanliness at all. Maybe it was about pleasing him as he did her. Of learning what made his blood race, of what could turn his vision black. Could steal his breath and make him wholly hers, for just a single moment.

“Orma,” Athan murmured, and she’d been staring in her indecision, and that should have been mortifying enough, let alone to be caught at it. There were taut lines about his neck as he struggled with the strain, and she was... tormenting him, she realised. With long, slow passes of wet cloth against skin. Of heat that pooled and spread—through her and back to him.

Over and over.

“Come here,” he urged, and she hadn’t even got to dry him yet, and this was her seduction and she would do it how she pleased.

But then she looked at him.

Looked at his eyes.

Found the entreaty there. The need for her. Not to stand and play at nursemaid, but to be with him. In the ways she’d wanted only the day before, but been denied.

She meant to crawl over him to get to her own side, pitcher and cloth forgotten on the table. He could dry in the sunshine, and perhaps that was nicer, anyway. But before she’d cleared him entirely, his hands found her hips, gripping and tugging until she straddled him.

Not tucked up high as she’d been before.

But lower.

Letting him nestle between her from the start.

She gasped, eyes wide, because that was bold and highly presumptuous of him, but she could not deny the way her own pulse heated. The way she warmed and fought down the urge to squirm. To move. To take him in hand and...

Why did she need to wait?

Except that he was holding her. Keeping her still. Waiting for her to look at him. “Are you still sore?”

Oh. She had been, hadn’t she? But that was yesterday, when the world was tainted by pain and discomforts. Today was different. She shook her head and smoothed her hands against his torso. Watched his muscles clench and relax at her slightest touch. Over the threads that twined up and around his hips. He had no cluster of bond where she did. His was farther up, just beneath his ribs, and if she cared to, she could scoot further down. Could lie on top of him and press a kiss there, just to watch him be the one to squirm.

“Orma,” he repeated, his voice low and needful.

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