Page 103 of Lorran
How could he imagine anyone as interesting, warm, and talented as his Wyn? As lovely? As soft? Or the unexpected strength in her body and her spirit? Or that laugh.
Yes, her laughter was his favorite part.
“What’s that look for?” she asked.
“Simply admiring my mate.”
She made a doubtful noise but asked, “So we drink?”
“Yes. It is not the traditional blend.” Lorran raised his cup. “That might be to our benefit. I am told it is foul.”
Wyn eyed her own cup. “Traditionally you both drink something gross? Is that a metaphor about marriage?”
“I suspect the tea has properties that mask any pain from the claiming mark.”
His mate paled. “Right. Bitey tea time.”
“I dare you to drink it,” he said.
“You dare me?” Her eyes sparkled. “What do I win if I drink this all in one go?”
He spread his hands wide, indicating himself.
Wyn’s laugh filled the room. She swirled her cup once, then downed it in one gulp. “A bit weak. Floral tones. Not what I’d pick, but not bad for hotel brew. Now, my brawny prize, it’s your turn. One go. I dare you.”
“My prize?”
She tossed her hair over one shoulder, exposing her neck.
He couldn’t refuse such a prize and barely tasted the weak tea as he swallowed.
“Good. Now, there’s something I want to do.” She bit her bottom lip, as if uncertain.
“Then I want to do the same,” he said.
Her eyes sparkled, and delight bloomed on her face. He didn’t care what she wanted; he’d gladly comply if the thought of it brought her that much joy.
“Get undressed and stay there,” she said.
Lorran complied, but rather than observe and admire his disrobing, Wyn disappeared into the cleansing room. Well, whatever his mate had planned, he assumed they would be in the same room.
“I suspect we are doing it wrong,” he called after her.
“Oh, hush,” she said, emerging with a small, flat metal box and a brush. She set the items on the table and rinsed out a cup with plain water.
Lorran inspected the box. Inside was a row of paint tubes and a built-in tray. “Paint?”
“The shop ordered this for me yesterday, since I didn’t know how long we’d be here. I want to paint you,” she said, while stripping the bed of its linens. They landed in a heap on the floor and she spread a plain cloth over the bare mattress.
“I am flattered, but I had other plans in mind.”
“No, I want to paintyou.” Wyn returned and plucked the brush from his hands. She tickled the brush across his skin. His tattoos flared to life.
Him? As the canvas?
Yes, yes, yes.
“Tell me, how worried are you about the security deposit on the room? Because this is going to be messy,” she said.
