She pushed open the door to find Zelen sitting on his bed, wet hair and dressing gown a mirror to hers, though he wore plum-colored velvet rather than her black. He looked up from his book, and the welcome on his face banished Branwyn’s nerves instantly.
“The robe suits you,” he said, “and I should’ve offered it before. My apologies.”
“No need. You had a number of things on your mind.” She laid Yathana down gently by the door. “It’s very comfortable,” Branwyn added, crossing the room until she stood by the bed, only a few inches from Zelen, “but I admit I don’t plan to wear it very long tonight.”
His gaze, already intent, sharpened further as he looked up the line of her frame. “I’d better be a gentleman then,” he said, reaching for the knot in her sash, “and help you with that.”
Kissing him didn’t make the untying process easier, but Branwyn did it regardless, gently tangling her hands in his hair as she bent toward him. It was languid at first, teasing, and the distance between their bodies became pleasurably frustrating as Zelen worked at the knot. Branwyn caught his oaths in her mouth, and his short cry of triumph when the sash parted as well.
She pulled back reluctantly so that Zelen could push the robe off her shoulders. The path his hands took tingled in their wake. Branwyn felt no cold when she finally stood naked, especially not when she saw the light in Zelen’s eyes.
“Gods, you’re perfect,” he breathed.
“Thank you,” she said, without enough modesty to argue the point. It wasn’t objectively true—but perfect for Zelen was the only sort Branwyn was interested in being just then. She placed her hand in his and let him pull her onto the bed.
Even there he was careful, not only watching the way her breasts bobbed or her thighs flexed, but studying her face, alert for signs that her injuries still pained her. Stretching herself out beside him, Branwyn smiled at his concern and stroked his cheek before kissing him again.
This time she could try and melt into him, bare breasts crushing the plush fabric of his robe, arse tense in his cupped hands, the ridge of his arousal hard against her thigh. For a while, Branwyn held mostly still, letting the sensations spiral outward to run through her whole frame, learning Zelen’s body as she’d never the chance to do before.
Then she pushed him away. He retreated promptly, though with a curious expression that verged on worried until Branwyn sat up and started undoing his robe. “You should hold still for a while,” she told him, slipping her hand down from the undone sash to trace over the substantial tent in the fabric.
“That’ll be a challenge,” he half gasped.
“Yes, but you enjoy those.” Branwyn parted the robe and sat back, taking in the view.
It was a magnificent one. Zelen was all lithe firmness, long and compact and without a spare inch of flesh. His chest was thickly covered with dark hair, which became a narrow trail, crisp under Branwyn’s trailing fingers while the muscles beneath tensed and Zelen made a choked noise. She followed it down to the point where it widened, becoming a backdrop to the erection that arched, straining and flushed red, to almost meet his flat stomach.
She didn’t touch that yet. Branwyn let her hands wander instead, stroking up Zelen’s chest and making small circles over his nipples, then down over his thighs, in, and up—but not too far.
The way he looked, fighting not to writhe or grab for her, was a caress in itself. The way he groaned as her fingers approached the top of his thighs was another. When Branwyn finally did wrap her fingers around his cock, lightly squeezing the hot, hard shaft, Zelen said her name in a breathless plea that went straight between her legs.
“That’s me,” she said, and bent, touching her tongue to the head, licking at the moisture there, and finally taking his cock into her mouth.
For a while Branwyn teased him, pulling away whenever Zelen got too tense, her hands firm on his thighs while her lips and tongue were busy. Her hair fell around them. Branwyn felt it brushing her breasts as she moved, adding to her excitement, just as she was a thousand times more aware than normal of the feel of the coverlet against her wet center when she shifted position.
“Branwyn,” Zelen said again, deeper than before and even more ragged. “Please—”
She lifted her head. “You could mean two things by that,” she said, meeting his wild eyes. “Which one would you prefer?”
“Cruel woman,” said Zelen. “Come back here, I think. I want you with me this time.”
“On account then,” said Branwyn, and gave his erection one lingering swirl of her tongue around the head before sliding up beside Zelen.
He turned on his side to meet her, kissing her deeply while he parted her legs with one hand, stroking her aching sex until Branwyn was squirming against him, showing as little hurry as she’d done with him. Then, when she was arching her back and moaning, Zelen guided her good leg over his hips and slid inside her.
It felt even better than it had before, and that without even the fuel of pent-up fear and grief. This was pure pleasure, delight in each other, with no urgency save what gradually built between them as they rocked in rhythm.
“I could stay here for a year or two,” she said, even as Zelen’s fingers on her nipples were quickening her pulse.
“Medically unwise,” he said, the words hot against her earlobe, “but I’d do it with you regardless.”
And Branwyn laughed and let herself flow toward him: toward his touch, toward the pleasure of his cock thrusting deep inside her, and in due course, toward a climax as overwhelming and as inevitable as the summer sun at midday. She basked in it, and in Zelen’s answering release, rejoicing in every line of his arching body and every pulse of heat inside her.
Eventually, in the morning, the rest of the world would exist again. It could take its damn time.
Chapter 33
“Sir.”
