Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [2]
“Arm harness. On or off?”
“Hm. Off, I think. Don’t want to risk jabbing you in a distracted moment.” The disquieting memory of her bleeding fingers weaving her wedding cord flitted through his mind, and he became conscious again of it wound around his upper arm, and the tiny hum of its live ground. Her live ground.
With practiced hands, she whisked the hook harness away onto the top of the clothes pile, and he marveled anew at how easy it was all becoming with her.
Except for, blight it all again, having no working hand. The sling had gone west just before the shirt, and he shifted his right arm and attempted to wriggle his fingers. Ouch. No. Not enough useful motion there yet. Inside his splints and wrappings, his skin, damp from the sweat of the warm day, was itching. He couldn’t touch. All right, there was a certain amount he could do with his tongue—especially right now, as she returned and nuzzled up to him—but getting it to the right place at the right time was going to be an insurmountable challenge, in this position.
She withdrew her lips from his and began working her way down his body. It was lovely but almost redundant; it had been well over a week, after all, and…It used to be years, and I scarcely blinked. He tried to relax and let himself be made love to. Relaxation wasn’t exactly what was happening. His hips twitched as Fawn’s full attention arrived at his nether regions. She swung her leg over, turned to face him, reached down, and began to try to position herself. Stopped.
“Urk?” he inquired politely. Some such noise, anyway.
Her face was a little pinched. “This should be working better.”
“Oil?” he croaked.
“I shouldn’t need oil for this, should I?”
Not if I had a hand to ready you nicely. “Hang should, do what works. You shouldn’t have that uncomfortable look on your face, either.”
“Hm.” She extracted herself, padded over to his saddlebags, and rummaged within. Good view from the back, too, as she bent over…A mutter of mild triumph, “Ah.” She padded back, pausing to frown and rub the sole of one bare foot on her other shin after stepping on a pebble. Was this a time to stop for pebbles…?
Back she came, sliding over him. Small hands slicked him, which made him jolt. He did not allow himself to plunge upward. Let her find her way in her own time. She attempted to do so.
She was getting a very determined look again. “Maidenheads don’t regrow, do they…?”
“Shouldn’t think so.”
“I didn’t think it was supposed to hurt the second time.”
“Probably just unaccustomed muscles. Not in condition. Need more exercise.” It was driving him just short of mad to have no hands to grasp her hips and guide her home.
She blinked, taking in this thought. “Is that true, or more of your slick patroller persuasion?”
“Can’t it be both?”
She grinned, shifted her angle, then looked brighter, and said, “Ah! There we go.”
Indeed, we do. He gasped, as she slid slowly and very, very tightly down upon him. “Yes…that’s…very…nice.”
She muttered, “They get whole babies through these parts. Surely it’s supposed to stretch more.”
“Time. Give it.” Blight it, at this point in the usual proceedings, she would be the one who couldn’t form words anymore. They were out of rhythm tonight. He was losing his wits, and she was getting chatty. “Fine now.”
Her brows drew down in puzzlement. “Should this be like taking turns, or not?”
“Uhthink…” He swallowed to find speech. “Hope