The Nightborn by Isabel Cooper (howl and other poems TXT) 📗

breasts in a most diverting way, and the firm curves of her hips and thighs greatly enhanced his trousers.

“Ah,” he said, suddenly uncertain how to start when before he’d simply acted.

“Your valet mentioned a bath to me before we came in to dinner,” said Branwyn, “and I believe I’ll take him up on that. Afterward, um.” She didn’t look away, but Zelen could tell that she wanted to, and was surprised by her reticence until she spoke again. “I don’t want to impose, but if you’d… I’d rather not sleep alone, if you’re inclined toward company. I understand if not. It’s been a day.”

“It has,” said Zelen. He took both of her hands in his and kissed her gently. “And I believe my bed would feel empty without you there, since you mention it. We can even actually sleep, if you’d rather.”

She chuckled, self-assured once more. “Eventually,” Branwyn said, with a gleam in her eye that took his breath away.

* * *

You’ve chosen well, said Yathana, as Branwyn was scrubbing away the last traces of her wounds.

“Thank you, but it wasn’t only my choice.” She sank down in the tub and groaned with satisfaction. Quarters were a little more cramped than in the bathhouses she’d been used to, but she had the basin to herself—and a full bath for the first time since she’d woken up in the alley. “Given the circumstances, it might even have been his wretched family’s doing.”

They didn’t ask him to seduce you.

“He didn’t.”

There you are then, Yathana said.

“I’m not sure what you mean, but I’ve missed you.” Branwyn hesitated. “If you’d rather stay around, we really can sleep. I’ll let him know.”

Don’t be an idiot. I’ll be here when you’re done, and you’re not likely to have many chances like this once you go back on the road, you know.

“I know,” said Branwyn. It was another matter she preferred not to give very much thought. “And thank you.”

She took Yathana’s physical form with her regardless, caring little for how she looked carrying the sword while wrapped in one of Zelen’s velvet dressing gowns. The servants knew what she was, and despite the wards, Branwyn didn’t want to take chances.

Then, too, she was oddly nervous as she approached Zelen’s room, just as she’d been in the hall. Falling asleep by chance next to a lover was no new experience, though it hadn’t been terribly common for her, but deliberately choosing to spend the night was a different matter entirely. It was good to feel the weight of Yathana, to be reminded of who and what she was, of what she’d done and mastered and was capable of now.

She pushed open the door to find Zelen sitting on his bed, wet hair and dressing gown a mirror to hers, though he wore plum-colored velvet rather than her black. He looked up from his book, and the welcome on his face banished Branwyn’s nerves instantly.

“The robe suits you,” he said, “and I should’ve offered it before. My apologies.”

“No need. You had a number of things on your mind.” She laid Yathana down gently by the door. “It’s very comfortable,” Branwyn added, crossing the room until she stood by the bed, only a few inches from Zelen, “but I admit I don’t plan to wear it very long tonight.”

His gaze, already intent, sharpened further as he looked up the line of her frame. “I’d better be a gentleman then,” he said, reaching for the knot in her sash, “and help you with that.”

Kissing him didn’t make the untying process easier, but Branwyn did it regardless, gently tangling her hands in his hair as she bent toward him. It was languid at first, teasing, and the distance between their bodies became pleasurably frustrating as Zelen worked at the knot. Branwyn caught his oaths in her mouth, and his short cry of triumph when the sash parted as well.

She pulled back reluctantly so that Zelen could push the robe off her shoulders. The path his hands took tingled in their wake. Branwyn felt no cold when she finally stood naked, especially not when she saw the light in Zelen’s eyes.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” he breathed.

“Thank you,” she said, without enough modesty to argue the point. It wasn’t objectively true—but perfect for Zelen was the only sort Branwyn was interested in being just then. She placed her hand in his and let him pull her onto the bed.

Even there he was careful, not only watching the way her breasts bobbed or her thighs flexed, but studying her face, alert for signs that her injuries still pained her. Stretching herself out beside him, Branwyn smiled at his concern and stroked his cheek before kissing him again.

This time she could try and melt into him, bare breasts crushing the plush fabric of his robe, arse tense in his cupped hands, the ridge of his arousal hard against her thigh. For a while, Branwyn held mostly still, letting the sensations spiral outward to run through her whole frame, learning Zelen’s body as she’d never the chance to do before.

Then she pushed him away. He retreated promptly, though with a curious expression that verged on worried until Branwyn sat up and started undoing his robe. “You should hold still for a while,” she told him, slipping her hand down from the undone sash to trace over the substantial tent in the fabric.

“That’ll be a challenge,” he half gasped.

“Yes, but you enjoy those.” Branwyn parted the robe and sat back, taking in the view.

It was a magnificent one. Zelen was all lithe firmness, long and compact and without a spare inch of flesh. His chest was thickly covered with dark hair, which became a narrow trail, crisp under Branwyn’s trailing fingers while the muscles beneath tensed and Zelen made a choked noise. She followed it down to the point where it widened, becoming a backdrop to the erection that arched, straining and flushed red, to almost meet his flat stomach.

She didn’t touch that yet. Branwyn let her