“That thing could make the Sun blush,” she said. “What do you even do with it? That cannot possibly fit anywhere.”
Dorian laughed aloud, her banter bringing a swelling to his chest that he’d not felt in a long time. “Maybe he can change the size of it.”
“Fuck, I hope so,” Reverie said. “Those poor people who have ended up in bed with him.”
“Maybe that’s why he and Arbina never got on.”
“Yeah, he probably whipped it out; she took one look and said, ‘You’re joking. You want that where?’” she laughed, shaking her head. “I wonder: are all Lesser Ones so graciously endowed?”
He eyed her. “Making me feel a bit inadequate, Rev,” he said, faking hurt.
"You're certainly not inadequate," he heard her mutter under her breath, to which he couldn't help his smile from broadening.
Reverie paused in wiping his arm and finally looked at him, lips twitching at the corners as though she were trying to fight a grin. “Tell me the Prince of Promise isn’t intimidated by the great body of Mons Magnus,” she mocked.
“I’m not intimidated,” he said fast.
Reverie snorted, and Dorian’s cheeks began to heat beneath her stare.
"Keep training with them, Prince,” she cooed. “Perhaps you'll get to his stature one day. Although—“ her fingers trailed up his stern bicep. "I will say you have gotten stronger since being here."
He didn't miss the playful dilation in her eyes. "Nice to know you've been keeping track of my shoulder breadth," he mocked.
"The only reason I noted it was when your shirt was tugging around your back and shoulders this morning. And—“ her voice trailed, and she started spinning up the bandage.
"And what?"
"And when you were dying in my arms, I noted how much broader you felt," she said. "I don't remember feeling so small against you when I cornered you in the Forest."
Dorian huffed amusedly. "We should fight again."
"We should," she agreed, and he could see the pride in her eyes. "Though I'm inclined to believe your wanting to fight me has more to do with your wanting my legs around you however you can have them rather than you actually wanting to fight."
"You don't have to sound so repulsed by it."
Reverie stood to gather the bandages and paste she'd made a mess of while cleaning him. "You would love that, wouldn't you?" she teased. "My giving in to your charms."
"It'd be nice to finally bed my wife," he bantered, sure she would hit him again at his words.
She shook her head, but the smirk didn't fade. "Is that what you would rather a handmaiden have done when tending to her poor, wounded soldier? Bed you?"
He wasn't sure what was happening, but the intensity in the air had changed, and he found himself leaning his back against the stone, watching every flex of her enticing body, every flinch of her long lashes.
Dorian stiffened as she pressed before him and her finger brushed over the cut on his cheek. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning into her touch.
"Would you rather I have—“ she straddled over his waist, and Dorian couldn't look away as she sat facing him on his knees. He forced a swallow, his heart beginning to skip.
“—tended you like this?" she asked, eyes darting over his wounds. "With my legs wrapped around you?"
Dorian didn't know what to do with his hands.
"Perhaps kissed your skin—“ her lips brushed over the healed scratch from the last match on his collar, and the sensation sent chills down his spine, an involuntary groan sounding from his throat “—taken care of my Prince the way you've always been taken care of?"
Her hand traveled down his taut chest, all the way to the gash wound, and his abs flinched at her touch.
"Careful, Reverie," he made himself utter. He dared to move his hands to her thighs, hesitant to do anything that might spook whatever toying she was doing with him right then.
"Would you like me to worship your scars as a symbol of your great triumph?"
