She stiffened. The need was sudden and undeniable, cutting through the haze of aftermath with brutal practicality.
"What is it?"
"Nothing." The word came out too fast.
His hand stilled. "Mab."
She squeezed her eyes shut. "I need the garderobe."
"Then go."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because you're looking at me."
She kept her eyes on the canopy, because looking at him while she said this was impossible.
"I'm going to be looking at you for the rest of our lives." His hand hadn't moved from her belly. "You'll need to piss during some of it."
Her whole face prickled. "That's not—I can't just—"
"You can't walk across a room while I'm in it?"
"Not like this." She gestured vaguely at herself. At the nakedness, the mess on her thighs, the swollen feeling between her legs that made her aware of every inch of skin she had. "Not with you watching."
"You think I haven't already looked at you?"
"That was different."
"How?"
"You were—" She stopped. "I was—"
"You were on your back with your thighs spread and my mouth between them." His thumb traced her jaw. "You were on your hands and knees with my cock buried inside you. And now you're worried about walking across a room?"
Put like that, it sounded absurd. It was absurd. But the fear didn't care about logic. The fear had been with her all her life, and it didn't release its grip just because an orc warlord had made her come four times.
Varek sat up. The movement was sudden enough that she gasped, her hand flying out to catch herself as his chest disappeared from beneath her cheek. Before she could process what was happening, his hands were under her and he was lifting her.
"What are you—"
"Taking you to the garderobe." He held her to his chest. "Since you won't take yourself."
"I can walk."
"But will you?"
Mab opened her mouth to argue. Closed it. The honest answer was no. If he set her down right now, she would pull the bedding over herself and hold it until her bladder burst rather than walk naked across the room while he watched.
He knew it too. She could see it in the way his mouth didn't quite move, the small tug at the corner that meant he was amused and choosing not to show it.
"I hate you," she said.
"No you don't."
He carried her to the garderobe. The stone floor was cold under the door, but the room itself held some warmth from the pipes that ran beneath the keep. He set her on the wooden seat and stepped back.
