Page 52 of Never the Roses

“I did.” She cocked her head. “How did you know?”

“It was the logical assumption, unless you had Tristan do it. I imagine he has a fair hand at transcribing.”

“And let him see that incredibly valuable rare book?” Her brows climbed in astonished remonstration. “I would not be so foolish.”

No, but she was foolish enough to keep the glorified minstrel about. “Then he hasn’t moved on yet.”

“I told him to be on his way,” Oneira replied, her brows falling into a knot of irritation, “but his horse pulled up lame.”

“How convenient.”

“You and your paranoia. I examined the horse myself and have been treating him. He’s honestly injured.”

Stearanos only nodded neutrally. He had no doubt the horse was honestly injured—and had gotten that way through dishonest means. Still, he wouldn’t push Oneira into defending the duplicitous lad. “So…” He was unable to restrain the question, no matter how jealous he’d sound. “How is he in bed?”

“The horse? I wouldn’t know. Rather unwieldy, I’d think.”

“The poet.”

“None of your business.”

“That means you don’t know.”

She glared daggers at him. “Incorrect. That means I’m not discussing it with you.”

“Why not?” He leaned his elbows on his knees. “I’d love to know what you like, what you don’t like, what you fantasize about.”

Her expression went very still, color gracing her high, strong cheekbones, lips pressed firmly together. “I’m not discussing any such thing with you.”

“Why not?” he repeated, sitting back in the chair and casually sipping his wine. “It’s better to have this conversation before we have sex, so I know how to make it good for you.”

“Because we are not having sex!” she burst out, setting her glass down on the side table too vigorously, so that it splashed. Without breaking stride, she flicked a finger to vanish the spill. Sending it into the Dream? he wondered.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t discuss it,” he replied easily.

“For me it does.”

“You never told your previous lovers what you liked beforehand?”

“You say ‘previous’ like you are my lover, which you are not, Stormbreaker,” she bit out, her color even higher.

“I infer that means you did not. Could be the problem,” he murmured sympathetically. “Difficult to obtain ideal results that way.”

“Problem?” she inquired icily, her tone a contrast to her heated cheeks.

“You said you hadn’t had good luck with sex,” he reminded her. “Perhaps it was less ill luck than a woeful lack of preparation.”

“You are teasing me mercilessly,” she accused.

“Something I enjoy,” he allowed. “Worried that you can’t best me in this sort of duel?”

That got her. “I can’t be coerced, Stormbreaker, no matter how highly you think of yourself.”

“I know,” he reminded her.

“I really should go.” This time, she stood and dusted her hands on her skirt, a pristine white that shimmered like new-fallen snow.

“Don’t go yet,” he coaxed, rising also. “There’s more wine. And we didn’t finish discussing the novel you read.”

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