Page 150 of Bound

She should stop this. He’d managed to find the edge of her stocking, daring to touch bare skin rather than keeping to the safety of soft wool.

She’d make them longer next time. All the way up past her knees so that even when they scrunched down from walking, he couldn’t find that sensitive bit of flesh that felt most traitorous. As if it was an entity all its own. That wondered why Braum hadn’t found it before. That didn’t want longer stockings at all, not when it meant he couldn’t brush his thumb just so.

And it was stupid. It was just a bit of calf. Just a strong hand wrapped about her ankle, trespassing where he had no business being.

And yet..

And yet...

The tingling of her skin was not unpleasant. The catch in her breath was not from fear of any sort. If anything, it was a cloying sort of anticipation. The wondering if he’d press further upward. Steal another delicate touch under the pretence of care.

She was supposed to be tired. She was supposed to be reserved and remind him of all the careful boundaries they’d erected.

She took a breath.

Sat up.

Pulled her foot away from him. And should have felt rather silly, sitting there with one boot still on the floor, the other tucked beneath her knee.

She did not want his apologies. Did not want to watch as the heat that had crept into his vision was replaced with his careful understanding. This had been a night of daring. Pathetic to some, a courageous leap forward for her—and she would not diminish it.

If she swallowed, it was not from nerves. It wasn’t. It was just... new. Just liked spiced nuts, warmed through on hot coals and placed into waxed paper.

Strange, but delicious.

He opened his mouth, and she got to her feet.

Touched gently at the centre of his chest. Then with a little more force as he continued to stare at her, uncomprehending of what she wanted.

“Sit,” she insisted, her voice a little tight even to her own ears.

He sat.

Merryweather was sleeping at the head of the bed, nestled between two of the pillows. Which was just fine because... because there would only be as much as she wanted. He was tired. She was. Had been.

She undid the first of the buttons on his wrap, and his shoulders relaxed. Perhaps he thought he knew her intentions, and they were safe. Expected.

Another button. The loosening of the knot that tied it all together.

Then to her knees. To undo his boots. Even as he reached for her and she batted him away. If he could take care of her without feeling it somehow beneath him, then she could do the same.

She even attended to her own boot while she was at it.

Left her stockings on because it was cold.

Then it was back to him. Who froze uncertainly when she came back in between his knees as she brushed a lock of his hair away from his forehead. “We should undress,” Wren whispered. As if it was some great confession. As if it was a secret between just the two of them. “There’s rules about outside clothes in the bed.”

He smiled at her, but his eyes...

His eyes made her blush.

“Your mother’s rules?” he asked, amiable sort of tease, which might have felt misplaced given her suggestion, yet didn’t.

She undid the tie of his shirt. “No,” Wren admitted. “Mine.”

He hummed and settled his hands loosely on her waist as she had her fill of ties and loops. She was used to her own clothing—overalls and split skirts. Shirts and shifts that dipped low in the back to accommodate her wings without much fuss.

His were open plackets she had to fiddle and frown as she tried to see him free of it.

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