The woman looks at Calder again, lingering on his face, clearly taking in his scars. She swallows hard. “I, uh, can offer one room without a washroom, sir. I’m afraid with the festival in Geit, we are at capacity.”
Aura shifts uncomfortably at his side, but they have no other choice.
“We will take it.” Calder removes his coin purse and dumps more than the room is worth onto her ledger. “And someone to bring us food to the room.”
She quickly scribbles a note on the page before smiling as she hands him a skeleton key attached to a small wooden square, with the number eight carved into it. He nudges Aura up the stairs to their room, which turns out to be tiny enough to fit a single bed, a crumbling stone hearth, and a moth-eaten chair.
“It’ll serve its purpose for tonight.” She dumps her bags onto the chair.
Calder tosses his packs with hers, and the chair collapses. “She is going to charge me for that.”
The food finally arrives and is as horrible as he could fathom.
Perhaps the worst in the realm.
With a full belly, Aura curls up on the bags and remnants of the broken chair. Calder sits along the edge of the bed, watching her sketch in the notebook he crafted for her. Somehow, she manages to carry it with her at all times.
His lips turn into a half smile as he watches her hand dance across the page. The tip of her tongue pokes through the side of her mouth as she concentrates.
Aura’s scribbling and the crackling of the hearth fire lull his weariness into a need for sleep. Whether he succumbs to a much-needed slumber is another matter altogether.
At last, the candlelight extinguishes until the only illumination emanates from the cracked hearth and the pale moonlight trickling through the warped window pane.
The Princess yawns loudly, setting the quill between her pages. Her gaze flicks from the bed to the slight space on the warped floor.
“Do not even think about it, Princess. You will sleep in the bed.” He stands, motioning her over.
She clutches the sketchbook, staring at him with a stirring hunger. The glow of the fire frames her figure. Against the flickering flames, her luscious curves entice him to worship her body.
Her eyes darken, nearly black with desire. The simple act of her tongue sliding out to lick along her pink lips, has his cock straining in his pants.
Something raw and primal scratches against its cage in the darkest recesses of his being.
I require her body beneath mine so I can possess her completely.
Owning her is the single most urgent sensation he has ever felt. As if she represents a basic need he must satisfy to stay alive.
Calder readjusts his cock in his pants while inspecting every inch of her gorgeous body.
“May I borrow a tunic to sleep?” she mutters.
“Use your words, Princess.”
“Please, Jarl Calder,” her sultry request uttering his name does not ease the aching desire pulsing in his cock. “May I borrow a tunic for bed? I do not have any other clothes but the ones on my back.”
Cracking his neck, he towers over her. With his right hand bent over his shoulder, he tugs his shirt from his chest. When he drops the warm black fabric into her outstretched hands, he cannot help but notice the slight parting of her lips as she stares fixated on the shirt she did not expect to borrow.
Her gaze flits to his bare skin, where the Skalor tattoos entwine, mirroring one another as they twist up his massive arms to meet above his sternum. Faded wounds over the winters mix with the ink, crisscrossing across his flesh.
Hesitantly, she reaches toward him, her feather-light touch tracing the symmetry representing balance and inner discipline.
He catches her hand in his.
Goosebumps spread across her skin at their contact, and he knows he will lose all of his self-control if he sees her undressing.
“We will find you new clothes in the morning.”
Without another word, he steps into the tight corridor, closing the door behind him. The back of his head thunks against the wall that has seen better eras.
