Mercedes Lackey - Kerowyn's Ride

“Tired?” he asked, something in his voice telling her than he hoped she’d say “no.”

“Not really.” She put the flags and tokens away in a drawer under the table, and looked up at him expectantly. She wasn’t tired, either—not with him looking at her the way he was. “Feel like talking a while?” she asked hopefully, her muscles tensing a little with anticipation. Was she reading more into his words than was really there?

“If you don’t mind.” It wasn’t her imagination, there was an odd light in his eyes, an appreciative glint she’d been seeing quite a bit, lately. “Your room or mine?”

“Yours,” she said. “It’s cleaner.” She laughed, but the way he kept watching her was sending an oddly exciting chill up her spine. She stretched, and came close to giggling at the way his eyes widened. She blew out the rest of the lanterns, and headed for the door.

“Only marginally,” he replied—but instead of letting her precede him, he caught her hand in his as she walked past him.

She stopped for a moment, then gave his hand a squeeze. He returned it, and caressed her palm with his thumb as she tugged at his hand and got him moving out the door. She shielded her mind with studious care; right now she couldn’t afford any leakage....

She knew what was going on; she’d begun to hope he found her attractive several moons ago, and it was a distinct thrill to see him responding, though she truly wasn’t trying to flirt. Even if she hadn’t figured it out, Tarma had taken care to let her know a couple of days ago. “ You’re young, attractive, and here.” she’d said bluntly. “He’s young, attractive, and not very sure of himself—though I doubt he’s a virgin. You’re a friend, so you aren’t threatening. If you want to go to bed with him, go right ahead. But make sure you’re protected. ”

She’d been relieved—but disappointed. “ Is that all it is? Just—availability ?”

Tarma had shaken her head. “ Child, even if it was love everlasting—which we both know it isn’t—he’s a prince of the blood, and you’re going to be a common mercenary. He can’t afford to marry you, and you shouldn’t be content with anything less. Your potential is enormous, or that damned sword of Keth’s wouldn’t have spoken for you. You have no right to fritter your life away as Prince Daren’s mistress. You have things to do—so enjoy yourself now, but know that when it’s over, you’re going to go out and do them. ”

But with Daren’s hand holding hers possessively, and then Daren’s arm around her shoulders as they climbed the stairs together, it was difficult to keep Tarma’s advice in mind.

There was another side to it all as well—a kind of relief. I’m all right, I’m not she’chorne or anything. I’m not so different from the other girls after all. Daren wants me, and I want him....

That was not such a bad feeling, being wanted. He liked her as a friend, and wanted her as a woman – a good combination, if she could keep it from getting serious. She’d followed part of Tarma’s advice; she was protected. That much Lenore had taught her; the moon-flower powder all the time to control moon-days as well as preventing pregnancy, or child-bane afterward—though moon-flower was better for you, easier on the body.

They reached the top of the stairs, and Kero was glad that there weren’t any servants; there was no chance that they’d be interrupted or gawked at knowingly. She had the feeling anything like that would put Daren off entirely. She felt overheated; flushed and excited, and with odd little feelings in the pit of her stomach and groin.

Daren had to let go of her to get his door open, and that seemed to make him shy again; he followed her inside without touching her and made a great fuss of clearing off a chair for her to sit in.

He carefully avoided looking at the bed, and she followed his example, pummeling her brain for some way to make him feel comfortable again. If it had been warmer, she would have suggested they go out on his balcony—his room had one, hers didn’t. But it was freezing out there, literally; the ice on the ponds would be thick enough to skate safely on, come morning. Cold hands and feet were not conducive to romance, and the temperature out on the balcony was likely to chill the hottest lust.

Her throat tightened, and she flushed for no reason. Suddenly she was afraid, though of what, she couldn’t have said. To cover the fact, she ignored the chair and sprawled out on the sheepskin rug in front of the hearth, half reclinging against a cushion.

Talk. Say anything.

“If you could be anything in the world,” she said, staring at the flames, as he sat down hesitantly beside her, “What would it be? Anything at all—anything you wanted, king, minstrel, beggar, whatever.”

He thought about it; she took a sidelong glance at him, and saw that his face was set in a frown of concentration. “You know, I think I’d be a merchant. I’d get to travel anywhere, see everything I ever wanted to. I’d be a rich merchant, though,” he added hastily. “So I could travel comfortably.”

She chuckled. “Like one of Tarma’s proverbs: ‘What good is seeing the wonders of the world when you’re too saddle sore to enjoy them?’ “

He laughed, and relaxed a little, letting his hand rest oh-so-casually on hers. “What about you?”

“Being a rich merchant would be nice,” she agreed. “But I’d rather be the kind of person that travels just because she wants to. Not tied to a caravan or a trading schedule.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding wisely. “A spoiled dabbler.”

“A what ?” she said, sitting up straight, pulling her hand away.

“A dilettante,” he teased. “A brat. A—”

He didn’t have any chance to go on, because she hit him with a pillow.

That attack engendered a wrestling match which he, heavier and stronger, was bound to win—unless she resorted to tactics which would have ended any further plans for the evening. But it was a great deal of fun while it lasted—the more so because she discovered his one weakness, and turned the contest into something much more even.

He was ticklish.

Very ticklish, especially down both sides and on the bottoms of his feet.

She managed to get his shoes off while tickling his sides. Protecting one meant that the other weak point was vulnerable, and the moment he curled up into a ball, she grabbed his feet and ran her nails along the soles. When he thrashed helplessly and got his feet away from her, his sides were exposed. Before long, she’d turned the tables on him.

She tickled him unmercifully, until they were both laughing so hard their sides ached. Finally neither one of them could breathe, and they tumbled together on the rug, completely unable to move.

“You—” he panted, “—cheat.”

“No such—thing,” she replied, trying to brush her hair out of her eyes with one hand while she held onto his bare foot with the other. “Just—obeying—my teacher.”

“Exploiting the enemy’s weakness?” He was getting his breath back faster than she was, and he managed to eel around so that her head was in his lap. “But Kero—I’m not your enemy.”

“Aren’t you?” she began, when he stopped all further conversation with a kiss.

It was in no way a chaste or innocent kiss. It picked up where the last of their tentative explorations had left off, and carried them to the logical conclusion. Kero let go of his foot, and groped for the laces of his tunic. His hands slid under her shirt and cupped her breasts with a gentleness that vaguely surprised her, stroking them with his callused thumbs.

The tunic-lacings foiled her hands, which seemed to have lost all dexterity. She broke off the kiss, and cursed the things; he laughed, and got out of the tunic without bothering to unlace it, tossing it off somewhere into the dark. The loose shirt, a copy of her own, was easy enough to slide her hands under—which she did, holding him closer to her, feeling her blood heat at the play of muscles under his skin.