“All right, you can laugh, but just this once.”
I smile as he gives into himself, a beautiful chuckle tumbling from his lips.
“Stars,” he gasps, “I thought Petron would murder you when your dagger found it’s mark in his arm.”
I can’t help myself and let loose a laugh at the memory as well. My dagger struck a full ten span off the mark, lodging itself solidly into the arm of the general’s favorite son. He was a cocky bastard of a man and even Bront had forgiven me for it, saying that anyone who stood close enough to a target to be struck by a blade deserved what they got. Petron had taken a few months off to recover, and the incident had been quickly forgotten by all but Vakesh who needled me endlessly about it.
“It took months before I learned to strike the center of the target,” I continue.
“It took you less than a week,” he corrects, and I roll my eyes.
“My point is, I did learn a valuable lesson that day. There is no substitute for practice and no honed skill that comes without the investment of time.”
“So,” he says, his brow creasing, “you need time?”
“I need practice,” I say, “And, maybe some instruction?”
He seems a little surprised by the request but nods thoughtfully and agrees. I admit to him that I failed miserably at my earlier attempt, and he doesn’t laugh or make any quips, he just listens until I’m finished talking.
“You said you did itexactlyhow I showed you?” he asks curiously, his brow arching ever so slightly.
“Exactly,” I say.
He nods, as if I’ve just confirmed something he suspects.
“This isn’t like sparring, Vari. Routine won’t help you. It isn’t so much about the movements as it is the feeling, and I can’t teach you to feel it.That’s all you.”
“That is utterly unhelpful.” I smile dryly.
He returns the smile, rises from his chair, and points to the bed.
“Lie down and practice.”
I do as he says, adjusting the sheet over my body as I get comfortable, fully expecting him to leave me to it. My skin prickles when Vakesh settles himself by my side and observes me. I remind myself that I did just ask the man for instruction and will my nerves to settle as I lay beneath his gaze.
Like before, I push my hand beneath the covers and between my legs. Before I reach my core his hand snakes down the sheets, following the path of my arm and settles like a vice around my wrist. He pulls my hand out from within the sheet and rests it on my breast.
“Start here.”
“You didn’t,” I argue.
“I didn’t need to. The first is always…”
“Easier?”
“With the right person, yes. Now, focus on the feeling.”
I close my eyes and keep my hand on my breast, kneading the soft tissue. Maybe he’s wrong about this part. I know men have an odd fascination with them, but they don’t have to manage them the way women do. Does he touch his own when he does this to himself?
No. Absolutely not. I am not thinking about this.
But it’s too late and the image is already in my mind. Just like the boy I found, holding himself. Before I can shake the image, the featherlight touch of Vakesh’s nimble fingers swirl along the rosy skin that surrounds my nipple.
“Like this,” he whispers and my stomach clenches as he lightly pinches the peaked flesh and my back arches off the bed.
My breath quickens and his fingers move to my side, tracing the curve of my figure until reaching my hip. I sigh contentedly.
Why do his hands feel so much better than mine?
