Page 91 of The Truth-Teller's Bargain
“You feel incredible,” he told her in her ear. “You’re taking me so well.”
The intensity of Nakir’s words stirred something primal within her, awakening a hunger she hadn’t known existed. Her mind was a tempest of lust and longing, a whirlwind, threatening to sweep her away entirely. With every filthy phrase that fell from his lips, every long thrust of his hips, every circle he pressed against her, she felt herself losing control, teetering on the edge of blissful madness.
At his drawn-out groan in her ear, Alethea came undone, falling apart against him in crashing waves. “Nakir, please,” she begged as he rode her through it, unrelenting.
His words were a low growl that vibrated against her body as she was battered by the tides of her climax. “You want me to come?”
“Yes.”
His grip on her tightened. The sounds he made were downright sinful as he let himself fall apart, his entire body shuddering as he found release with a groan he barely muffled against her shoulder. He was still holding her as they came down, their panting breaths evening out.
Alethea couldn’t imagine how she was ever supposed to leave this bed.
He cleaned her up with just as much reverence and care as last night, and it was this act that left her feeling impossibly treasured.
He did not rejoin her in the bed, where she lay with the sheets in total disarray around her. Instead, he lingered by the edge, watching her with those hungry amber eyes. She could see he was debating it—the idea of claiming her again; of never leaving this bed.
“We need to bathe before we’re in polite society again,” he finally declared.
“You mean we have togo?” Alethea asked, pouting like a petulant child.
“I’m afraid we do, my love.”
She shivered at that word again. It was a terrifying word, but she didn’t get the impression he used it lightly.
A sudden rap echoed through the room, jolting Alethea from her momentary trance. With a sharp intake of breath, she instinctively pulled the covers tightly around her, her heart pounding in her chest. Nakir, ever composed, swiftly donned his trousers before approaching the door.
The knock came again, more insistent this time, prompting Nakir to open the door just a fraction. She heard Balthasar’s low bass voice and Nakir’s chuckle. The door opened a little wider,and she watched the spymaster pass through a large tray before closing the door again.
Nakir brought her the gift from their hosts—a substantial tray adorned with an assortment of breakfast delicacies: steaming pastries, succulent fruits, and a pot of fragrant tea. The aroma wafted through the room, teasing her senses and making her stomach rumble in response.
Nakir’s eyes met hers, illuminated by a playful glint. His lips curled into a boyish grin, mischief dancing in his gaze as he spoke. “Myron sent us breakfast in bed. How thoughtful.”
“He knows,” she lamented, throwing herself back against the pillows, covering her face as embarrassment rose like unwanted heat in her ears. “Did you see the way he looked at us at dinner?”
“I did. The Great Lady was there to play politics; the Great Lord was there to play matchmaker. I hope they’re not too tired from the long night of Revel. Oh, he’s also sending up a fresh bath, so I’d stay safe hidden under those covers for now. And... what do you know?Tea.” She had never seen Nakir look so smug. “Silphium. What a thoughtful host.”
She lifted her head from the pillow. Silphium—a monthly measure, and not something that found its way onto a standard breakfast tray. Myron knew exactly what he was doing. It was thoughtful, she supposed, in the way that a knowing wink across a crowded room was thoughtful—generous, but impossible to mistake for anything other than exactly what it was.
“I feel like I could die of embarrassment.” She buried her face in the down pillow but softened the moment Nakir’s hands moved up and down her back. A soft moan left her as her body remembered what promises lay in those touches, and she fought back the urge to let her own hands explore.
As promised, a fresh bath of hot water was drawn for them, and to her amazement, Alethea didn’t perish even a little—though she did turn an incredible shade of pink and yanked the duvet up to her eyeballs while the servants prepared it.
“Why don’t you get into the water?” Nakir offered, bringing the tray over to her as she did.
Alethea enjoyed a quiet bath to herself while Nakir stepped out into the hallway. She couldn’t know when she’d next have access to something like this—a real bath, hot water, privacy—so she decided to make the most of it. That meant washing her hair.
It was always an ordeal. She worked through it in sections, her fingers separating the long, tangled mass of it before she could even begin to wet it through properly. It took three applications of the soap before she felt satisfied, the water around her clouding as she rinsed. Wringing it out was its own challenge—there was simply so much of it, spilling over the edge of the tub and puddling on the floor no matter how carefully she tried to contain it. She’d long since made peace with the fact that washing her hair was less bathing and more an endurance event.
She took her time scrubbing the rest of herself, ruefully rinsing away all the evidence of what they’d done. Despite her efforts to distract herself, her thoughts kept drifting back to Nakir. His touch, his whispers, the way he looked at her with hunger in his eyes—every detail replayed itself in her mind, making her heart race and her skin tingle.
As she stepped out of the bath, the cool air of the room embraced her, making her skin prickle with goose bumps. Wrapping herself in a plush, oversized towel, she hesitated before the wardrobe’s mirror, catching a glimpse of her reflection. Her cheeks were still flushed, and her blue eyes held a mixture of uncertainty and desire—a reflection of the conflicting emotions churning within her.
She thought of her life before this: of her handmaidens, whom she spent so much time with and barely knew; of being summoned by her mother to use her gifts until she nearly burned out. The mere thought made an image form of Nakir showing up to remind her she was ahuman being, worthy of protection and care.
By the time he’d returned, she was already dressed in one of her new traveling outfits and lacing her boots. His smile was soft as he took her in, her hair still damp from her bath. The way he regarded her made her stomach flip again, and she bit the inside of her cheek. Nakir pressed a languid kiss to her lips, which she returned eagerly. Despite the way they were unable to keep their hands off each other, he dragged himself off to clean up as well, not taking nearly as much time as she had to luxuriate in the warm water.
In the soft morning light, Alethea allowed her attention to linger on his form, illuminated by the gentle rays filtering through the curtains. She could see each of his scars so clearly. They weren’t just along his chest and his arms—several ran across his back, even across his thighs and his calves. She wanted to count them all. She guessed there were more than three dozen of them. One day, she’d make him sit down and share the story of how he got each and every one.
