Page 9 of Bonds of Blood
“I know,” he said, nodding solemnly, eyes squeezed shut. “Because I am far too broad and muscular. Such is the burden of the beautiful.”
“Be serious, Sylvain. I’m going to have to ask the laundry imps if there’s any way to shrink some of these back, maybe even get Satchel to take them in. What’s going on? You’ve never been interested in wearing clothes. What’s with the change of heart?”
His left foot twisted into the carpet, his lip turned up. I’d call it deliberate if he wasn’t actually so transparent about his feelings and intentions to begin with.
“I thought that — well, now that your mother and father have returned, I thought it would only be appropriate that I do my best to be presentable. That I do my best to fit in. I do not wish to embarrass you before your elders.”
My hand flew to my chest, checking for my heart, because I was sure it had melted straight out of my body. This big, stupid, gorgeous buffoon. I approached him, adjusted the collar of his shirt, smoothed down the creases.
“Sylvain? That’s the sweetest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
He stiffened, frowned. “Why, I’m sure I’ve told you far sweeter things. Like the time that I inserted myself so deep inside you that you bayed like a wolf, and — ”
“Shush. Don’t ruin it.” I placed a gentle, playful finger on his lips. “I think it’s awfully considerate of you to think that, but I can promise you. The last thing my parents are concerned about is your sense of style. They’re far too impressed by everything else to care.”
Sylvain didn’t immediately answer, mostly because he was too busy biting back a flattered smile. “Well, if that’s what you think, then I’m more than happy to strut around stark naked.”
“You know that’s not what I meant. Don’t you dare. You do look very nice, but maybe we should get Satchel to make you something in your size.” My hands trailed down to examine his shirt. Damn it — my shirt. I clucked my tongue. “Those buttons didn’t even go in the right holes.”
“Believe it or not, Lochlann, as talented as I am at putting things in tight holes, this is too far out of my field of expertise.” He wrinkled his nose as he shifted his shoulders, scratched his chest. “Buttoning shirts was not a part of my courtly education. My instructors simply gave up trying at some point. Mother must have learned very early on how little I care for shirts.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “And yet you’re so good at taking them off. Of me. Or yourself. Funny how that works. Here. Maybe you should try something a little more your speed. Or size. Hopefully both.”
I fished something out of my dresser, playing it off as a random selection, except that it wasn’t. A worn old tank top, something I must have used as an undershirt once, now relegated to the back of the drawer, a reasonably comfortable sleeping shirt for when I ran out of clean clothes.
Not that I ever went to bed wearing anything anymore. Not since Sylvain moved in. What was the point?
He lifted his arm, letting the top dangle from the end of his finger, bent like a hook. “Now what in the world is this contraption? Some form of sling? A trap? You humans and your strange customs.”
I smacked him in the chest. “You’ve seen these before. They’re not so different from those hoodies you like to wear. The sleeveless ones.”
Sylvain huffed as he gingerly handled the shirt, slipping it over his head, working his arms through the holes. “I do not like wearing them, if that’s what you think. Ihaveto wear them. There’s a difference. Now. How do I look?”
I found that I could not honestly answer. On me, the shirt was just something soft and nice to sleep in. On Sylvain, it was a smutty bit of fabric that barely passed for clothing, hugging his body way too tight, emphasizing the broadness of his chest, the thickness of his arms, the smallness of his waist.
And those nipples poking through the ratty fabric? Gods above and below. This was technically a garment, but something told me that Sylvain would get arrested for wearing this in public.
“You — um. You look pretty fucking amazing.”
“Don’t be preposterous. This silly slip of a thing?”
He stepped over to the full-length mirror, his bulge moving obscenely, because you could get the boy to wear gray sweatpants, but gods forbid if you suggested any kind of underwear.
“There. I look ridiculous. Why even bother wearing anything? You humans are so bizarre. And people pay for these things?”
And yet the entire time I could tell he was admiring himself, subtly flexing his muscles, eyes catching mine in the mirror, like he was checking to see if I was watching. Was this his plan all along? Seducing me with his perfect body, while also leaving me piles and piles of clothing to clean up after? The sneaky, sexy rat.
“Then take it off,” I said, nonchalant, like it wouldn’t matter either way. And it truly didn’t. Sylvain was a god in my eyes by any measure.
You could put the man in the gaudiest Christmas sweater and he’d somehow look good in it. Throw him in a burlap sack and he’d somehow still give me a boner. I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall by the mirror. I crossed my legs, too. Helped with hiding that boner I was talking about.
He shuffled back to the dresser obediently, stripping off the shirt with one hand, picking through the drawers for something else. I watched with mounting amusement, wondering how this was all going to play out. Getting all my clothes stretched out was a small price to pay for this strange, sexy game we were playing. Now, if only I could get all my holes stretched out, too.
“This one,” he said, selecting another article of clothing. “It’s more familiar, and it goes with my pants.”
Sylvain walked back to the mirror, slipping on a very old and very worn Wispwood T-shirt. Gray cotton turned soft as clouds from countless washes, the collar and sleeves piped with forest green. Said sleeves strained against his biceps, hanging on for dear life.
His chest stretched out and warped the large W on the front, the school crest entwined with leaves and branches to represent the nature, pun intended, of the academy. The metallic print on the logo had flaked away long ago. Calling this thing threadbare wasn’t enough. It was on its very last legs.
