Page 78 of Heart of Winter
Behind him, the quiet sound of bare feet on wet stone. A rustling. Erik’s voice: “Sweet things are, I’ve found, generally rare, as a rule.”
Then the king stepped into view. Naked. Glorious. Every one of Oliver’s wet dreams made flesh.
“Magnus, what have I said about eating in the baths?” he asked, gaze fixed on his guard, tone faintly amused.
“Oh, but the hall’s too busy,” Magnus protested. “Here. Have some, there’s plenty.”
“Raiding the cellars again, I see.”
Magnus grinned. “Only a little.”
The bunch of grapes fell out of Oliver’s suddenly-nerveless hand and hit the water with a quiet splash.
Erik turned toward him, single brow arched. “Wasteful,” he chided, clucking.
Oliver was going to faint and nearly drown in these gods-forsaken hot springs again, and it was all going to be the king’s fault, this time.
It was one thing to know that Erik was strong and well-built, quite another to see it without clothes in the way. His chest, and shoulders, and back were heavy with muscle, his arms thick, corded, and rippling when he moved to casually tuck a braid over his shoulder. The hair on his chest was a crisp black that narrowed along the ridges of his belly, and thickened at the base of his cock – impressive enough to have Oliver’s pulse leaping, even soft. He seemed carved from marble, from the veins in his forearms, to the thick muscles of his legs, and his backside. But unlike a statue, he was laced here and there with scars, some ugly and puckered, the legacies of wounds that could have killed him. One along his ribs, at least ten inches long and silver-pink between the grooves of bone and sinew, had Oliver’s heart lurching for another reason.
He was gorgeous, and Oliver wanted to climb him.
And he was a mortal man, and he’d been hurt before, and Oliver wanted to hold him, too.
With tremendous effort, Oliver said, “Good evening, your majesty.”
Erik smirked. “Good evening, Mr. Meacham.”
Oliver was going to die.
“Ah.” Birger joined them, grinning. “Just the Drake lord we were hoping to see.”
Erik’s smirk turned wry. He shook his head and waded down into the pool and across it to sit on the opposite side. Probably for the best.
Birger climbed in, and sat in the gap between Magnus and Oliver, turning to Oliver right away. “We’ve had page boys running about looking for you.”
Oliver, shaking off the last bit of his shock at seeing Erik naked and beautiful, frowned. “Why?”
“We need to invite you to tomorrow’s council meeting.”
“Before the feast, the full council will meet and discuss the business of the realm,” Erik explained. Sitting on a bench, the water hit him mid-chest. He pulled the beads loose from the ends of his braids, set them aside on the edge of the pool, and began unwinding the plaits with quick, deft fingers. “The lords should hear a firsthand account of the situation in Aquitainia with the Sels.”
Oliver stared at him a moment, struggling to comprehend in the midst of such large, callused, warrior’s hands unbraiding with such easy assurance. He said, “You can give them an account.”
“Not firsthand.”
Oliver glanced toward Birger, who nodded, and back again. “You wantme…to sit in on your council meeting. To address your lords.”
“Yes.”
“But I’m–”
“Don’t saybastard,” Erik advised, accepting the bottle Lars passed him. “That has nothing to do with anything.” Then he set the bottle on the edge of the pool and promptly slipped totally beneath the water.
Oliver turned to Birger, and didn’t try to disguise the desperation in his tone. “I can’t attend any sort of council meeting.”
“Sure you can.”
“No. Birger.” He tried to regulate his suddenly-quick breathing. “I just walked past them all on my way in.” He gestured back toward the crowded bathing pools, scattering water droplets. “To them, I’m just the Drakewell Bastard. I’m theKing’s Pet!” The last he hissed.
