Джо Аберкромби - A Little Hatred - Book One (The Age of Madness)

One of his hands slipped under her shirt, up her waist, up her ribs, and she grabbed his wrist.

‘Wait!’ she hissed.

He froze. ‘What?’ Silence, and she could hear his quick breath over the sound of her own thudding heartbeat. ‘You all right?’

‘Shouldn’t we … get your mother’s permission first?’

She saw the faint gleam of his teeth as he smiled. ‘You bastard.’

‘Or maybe His Majesty’s? A royal edict probably overrules a lady governor—’

‘You’re right,’ he said propping himself up. ‘I’ll send a message to Adua. They’ll want to discuss it in the Closed Council, but we should get a knight herald back with an answer before—’

‘Not sure I’ll be this drunk by then,’ she said, already wriggling out of her trousers. Before she got them past her hips, her hand slipped and she flopped over and got a mouthful of straw, hissed and spat, giggled and burped, and they were kissing again, both her hands on his face, his jaw sharp and the stubbled skin rough under her fingertips.

His hand slipped down between her thighs and she tried to open her legs but was all tangled with her belt, straw prickling her arse as she pushed herself against him, rubbing, rubbing, her tongue in his mouth and his breath fast and sounding like he was smiling. She was smiling, too, smiling right to the corners of her face, and this surely beat being chased through the woods when it came to entertainment.

Didn’t need the Long Eye to see where things were going now. Nothing like being wanted, is there? Wanted by someone you want. Always seems like magic, that something can feel so good but cost nothing.

She rolled over on top of him, partly thinking she’d take charge, partly quite annoyed by the straw in her arse. Managed to work her trousers down around her ankles so she was straddling him, started wrestling with his belt but couldn’t see a thing and the darkness was all spinning and she’d half a thought she might fall over even though she was only kneeling up and in hay too and her fingers were all clumsy and it was like trying to unpick stitching with gloves on.

‘Fuck,’ she hissed. ‘Your mother put a lock on this? Where’s the buckle?’

‘Usual place,’ he whispered, and his hot breath tickled her ear and gave her a funny shudder. ‘Where else would it be?’ And there was a faint jingle as he eased it open and she pushed her hand down inside.

‘Oh,’ she said, stupidly. They always surprised her, somehow, cocks. Strange bloody piece of anatomy. Still, she knew her way around one, even if she did say so herself. No point flicking away like you’re scared of it. You’ve got to get stuck in.

‘Ah!’ And he jerked up from the straw. ‘Gently.’

‘Sorry.’ Maybe she was a little rusty after all and the shed surely felt like it was spinning now, spinning like a boat going down a whirlpool, but a decidedly pleasant whirlpool, warm and sticky and smelling of animals, and his hand was busy between her spread legs, not quite in the right spot but close enough, and she shifted her hips until it was in the right spot and started grunting in his ear, rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

‘Shit,’ he whispered in the blackness, fumbling at her, voice on the edge of laughter. ‘Where’s your …’

‘Usual place,’ she hissed back at him, spitting in her hand, catching hold of his cock and wriggling closer. ‘Where else would it be?’

The Lion and the Wolf

If anyone asked, he’d always say he loved the ladies. The chase. The conquest. The bawdy jokes. But the truth was, Leo had never been comfortable around women. Men made sense. Slapped backs and firm shakes and blunt talk and wrestling. But women were a bloody mystery. He never quite knew what to make of their chatter and their feelings and their strange, soft bodies. Tits. Men talked a lot about tits. So Leo did, too. Nudge in the ribs, look at the cargo she’s carrying. But if he was entirely honest, he didn’t really understand the appeal. To Leo, tits were just … there. He’d get the job done in bed, of course. He’d lead the bloody charge! No problems in that department. But some of the most awkward moments of his life had been mornings-after.

He reached for his trousers, picked some straw out of them, painstakingly pulled them on, wincing as his belt-buckle clinked. He fished up his shirt and his boots, took a step towards the chink of light down the edge of the door, and looked back.

Rikke lay in the hay, arms flung heedlessly wide, gold ring through her nose gleaming with the morning light, tangled mass of chains and runes and talismans shifting as she breathed, a stray strand of hair across her face. In spite of his headache, he found he was smiling.

Leo had never been comfortable around women. But perhaps his problem had been finding the right one. Rikke was nothing like the ladies his mother would manoeuvre into his path in Ostenhorm. They always seemed to say one thing but mean another, like talking was a game you won by making the other player totally confused. Rikke had known him for years. There was no need for fumbling small talk. And every moment with her felt like an adventure. She could kidnap a conversation and in a breath carry it off into strange territory. You never knew where you’d end up, but it was always honest .

He tossed his boots away and slipped down beside her again. He lifted his hand, paused a moment then, grinning all the while, gently pushed that strand of hair off her face. Her eyes didn’t open, but her mouth curled into a smile. ‘Decided not to slink away after all?’

‘Realised there’s nowhere I’d rather be.’

It gave him an odd little shiver when she opened those big grey eyes and looked at him. ‘Fancy another go around, eh?’ And she stretched out, arms over her head, wriggling back into the straw.

‘No word from the king yet,’ he said, leaning close to kiss her.

She pulled her chin away from him. ‘And the lady governor?’

‘Nothing in writing,’ he murmured, ‘so I’m taking it they approve.’ Her breath was sour, her lips scummy at the corners, and he didn’t care.

She slid a hand into his hair, gripped him hard and kissed him deep. Hungry, tonguey kisses that left nothing to the imagination. She rolled him over, getting up onto one elbow, biting at her lip as she started undoing his belt and he squirmed back into the hay, breath coming fast again, headache forgotten—

She stopped, frowning. Pushed herself up to sitting, wrinkling her nose. ‘Can you smell that?’

‘They keep animals in here.’

‘No. Smells sweet. Smells like …’ Rikke sniffed, wafting air at her nose. Her little finger was twitching. ‘Oh no.’ Her face fell as she stared at it. ‘Always the worst times.’ All her fingers were twitching now. ‘Get Isern-i-Phail!’ And she dropped back in the straw, her whole arm shaking.

‘What?’

‘Get Isern!’ Rikke grabbed the dowel on its thong around her neck and bit down hard on it. Next moment, she arched back like a full-drawn bow. She made a great, long, hollow wheeze as if all the breath was being squeezed out of her. Then she dropped, hay flying as she writhed, muscles madly jerking, kicking heels hacking at the dirt floor.

‘Shit!’ squeaked Leo, one arm out towards her, the other out towards the door, wanting to hold her down so she didn’t smash herself, wanting to help her and not knowing how. His first thought, much to his dismay, was to run for his mother. His second was to do as he’d been told and get Isern-i-Phail.

He flung the door open and charged across the yard, chickens scattering, between tents, past men picking at their breakfast, sharpening their weapons, moaning at the wet and the food and the state of things, staring at him as he dashed by half-naked. He saw Glaward sitting by a fire, grinning as Jurand whispered something in his ear. They both spun wide-eyed as Leo pounded up, then broke apart and he sprang between them over the flames, knocking a pot of water bouncing away.