Page 42 of Homeward for a Spell

“Arms up, please?” she prompts.

Again Sage obeys, raising her arms so that Araphi can lift her shirt over her head. Tossing it aside, Araphi loosens the knot on the linen binding Sage wears, unwinding it from around her chest and upper ribs far too slowly for Sage’s liking. Araphi tosses that away too, then skims her fingertips back down Sage’s stomach, lingering just slightly at her scar, until they come to rest at the laces of her breeches.

And that is the end of Sage’s patience for keeping still.

Practically growling, she braces Araphi with an arm behind her back as she lunges forward, sending them both toppling to the half-frozen earth.

“Not quite so warm down here,” Araphi says, shivering against her.

At once, Sage whips the mammoth skin from Araphi’s cot to spread out on the ground next to them, knocking the cot on its side in the process.

“Easy, Ranger,” Araphi says with a laugh, “or I’ll have to sleep on yours tonight.”

Sage scoots onto the blanket, then hooks her hands around Araphi’s thighs to pull her over, where she hovers above Araphi with one palm braced beside her head. “I don’t think the queens’ army built their beds to withstand us.”

Araphi’s eyes sparkle. “Then we should spend the night down here, where we’re safe.”

In the past ten years, Sage has crossed swords with pirates, survived ambushes, and stared down the burning throat of a flame viper after disturbing its cliffside nest. Yet she has the unsettling feeling that she’s never been in greater danger than she is right now.

“What is it?” Araphi asks, dark brows furrowing. “Did I say—”

Sage lowers down to brace her body over Araphi’s as she kisses her to stop her from talking. Better that she saves her breath, anyway. Sage reaches down to wedge a hand between them and cup Araphi’s sex. She is so warm, practically aflame, and the sound that slips free when Sage grinds the heel of her palm steadily against her is like a prayer, or a song.

She simply must hear more.

With a questioning glance, answered by a nod of permission from Araphi, Sage sheathes two fingers deep inside her.

“Gods,” Araphi moans in response, tipping her head back.

Sage could kiss the long, exposed arc of her throat all night and hardly get her fill. Instead, she holds perfectly still.

Araphi lifts her head again, eyes burning with impatience. “What are you waiting for, Ranger?” she asks, voice as ragged as her breath.

Sage grins. “ ‘Never share thy lips with a lady who shan’t speak your name.’ Isn’t that what they say?”

“Sage,” Araphi growls, a desperate sound. “Please.”

Now Sage obliges; she doubts she could restrain herself if she wanted to. Withdrawing her fingers to the knuckles, she buries them again, over and over, curving them to seek the spot her lovers have always particularly enjoyed. By the arch of Araphi’s back and the animal cry that escapes her delicate throat, Sage suspects the bard does too. With her thumb, she finds the pearl at the center of Araphi’s sex. Araphi slides her fingers between their bodies to grip Sage’s wrist with surprising strength, bracing herself to ride Sage’s hand all the harder.

But a moment later, Sage stops again, slipping out of Araphi’s grasp to kiss a trail from her collarbone to the cleft between her breasts, from the flat of her stomach to the crease of one delightfully round hip, all while the bard murmurs her frustration.

Until she parts Araphi’s thighs and tucks herself between them. There, she finds the core of Araphi with her tongue, tasting the silk and salt of her until the bard bucks against the blanket, lifting her hips to meet Sage. It’s all she can do to keep hold. Araphi reaches down to bury her fingers in Sage’s hair, tightening her grip as though clinging to a rope above a canyon. Sage feels the answering clench between her own thighs, the growing ache at the center of her, and groans against Araphi’s skin.

It tips Araphi over the edge.

The bard claps her hand over her own mouth as she arrives, stifling herself thoughtfully so as not to alert the whole encampment—sensible, but a pity. Her voice is so very charming.

If Sage thought she’d have to wait for Araphi to recover to find her own relief, she’s quickly proven wrong. Shoving her hair back from her damp forehead, Araphi slides her body down the blanket until they’re again face-to-face. Then, with more of that surprising strength, she hooks one leg around Sage’s hips and throws her weight to the side. Sage lets herself be rolled onto her back, where she grins up at the bard straddling her.

“Why are you still wearing these?” Araphi asks, still out of breath as she tugs impatiently at the waistline of Sage’s breeches. All of her teasing and composure are long forgotten.

“Can’t think of a reason,” Sage replies, reaching for the laces.

“Wait…”

With great reluctance, Sage does.

“Can I ask you something?”