“You’re soaking,” he growls. “Fuck. Lean back against me.”
I do as he instructs, willing to do about anything to release this tension. He slides a finger inside me and, in a clever move, swipes another against my clit. I feel myself clenching around him. “That’s it,” he demands. “Come for me.”
I arch my back, and he slams his lips on mine, determined to own all the pleasure escaping from lips.
“Camp, now,” Hart growls, breaking me out of my kiss and mindless pleasure.
Malachi’s hand stills beneath the cloak. I blink, dazed, heat still curling through my veins like a lazy snake.
“Already?” I complain. “We were in the middle of an important therapeutic back-pain treatment.”
Nash arches a brow. “You were about to fall off the horse.”
“Worth it,” I mutter.
Malachi chuckles into my shoulder.
Hart swings down first, scanning the darkening forest for threats. The trees here are taller and thinner, their trunks pale asbones. A soft shimmer of silver light flickers ahead through the branches.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Malachi follows my gaze. “Water.”
My heart perks up as I’m lifting from the horse, and my legs, back, and muscles I had no idea existed spasm in pain. “I’m not built to ride. But please tell me it’s a lake. I feel like I’ve been basted in saddle sweat for a thousand annuses.”
Nash huffs. “A thousand annuses?”
“You suggested we might be living on a giant ball, clinging to it without thought, and the idea of living for a thousand annuses is beyond your comprehension?”
“I guess not,” Hart mutters.
“The fellow who theorized that also says the ball is in constant rotation,” Nash adds.
“Now I know you’re making this up,” I huff. “If I stand still, I’m not hurtling around on a spinning ball. This person is clearly a crackpot.”
They lead the horses through the trees until the forest opens like a curtain being drawn back. A lake spreads before us, still and silver, the surface reflecting the moon like a polished mirror. Pale reeds whisper at the edges, and fireflies hover above the water like drifting stars visiting us from the skies.
“Wow,” I breathe. “This is gorgeous. We should build a summer house here. Or a murder cabin, depending on the mood. It could be both, a dual-purpose hideaway.”
“Who are we murdering, Calamity?” Hart wonders.
“Poseidon,” I say, holding my index finger up. “The duke in Strongfair.”
“What did he do?” Hart growls as we stop at the edge of the lake.
I shrug. “Nothing too heinous. Made comments about my intellect and my penchant for disasters.”
“He’s all but dead,” Malachi says. “Any more?”
“Possibly Charming. I’d like to keep him on the maybe list.”
Nash shakes his head as they secure the horses to the trees.
I frown. “Do horses sleep standing up?”
“They doze, but they need to lie down for deep rest,” Nash explains.
“With their eyes open?” A shudder runs over my shoulders.
