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She feels the want roll over her like a wave as she watches him pause in the doorway, gauntleted fingers tip-tapping on the frame in a staccato of thought. He glances back to the room. After a moment more he sighs and leaves—to retire to bed, she supposes.
She could follow him. Follow him up to his bedchamber, peel everything off, all of it, all of her, and what was left would slip between the sheets to feel the warmth of him. He would smile, eyes soft and dark, and welcome her with the flat of his tongue and the press of his clever fingers. She can see it all in her mind, map out how it would go. Her pulse quickens, and an ache settles between her legs like a weight.
Morgayne resists, and then gives in, and then tries to find somewhere in the middle.
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