Page 153 of Bound

He smoothed his hand down her covered hip. “Easy, Wren,” Braum murmured into her skin. Another kiss, this to one of her ribs. Which tickled and didn’t all at once. “Kisses. A little touching. Just that, yes?”

She relaxed into the bed.

“Yes,” she answered back. Because this was nice. She liked the feel of his lips skimming across her skin. Like the way his hands felt on places that she had only touched in those perfunctory ways. A little balm, the swipe of a cloth in the bath.

She liked it too when he sank against the bed and he allowed her to kiss him as well. Feel the differences between them. The bits that were hard muscle where he knew well the work of a saw. Some softer—perhaps a result of her and her many biscuits.

She did not mind in the least.

She liked his form. Liked how it felt when she skimmed her hands against him. When she followed the movement with her lips. Learning him. She’d know him as well as she did herself, someday. Someday soon, if Braum had his way.

Perhaps that should have been frightening, but it wasn’t.

Perhaps she would have even allowed the flaring pulse in her blood to urge her to straddle him. To see if the pleasures her mother mentioned really made such a difference when wanting was mutual.

Except Merryweather woke up.

Was nudging at her shoulder and wondering why she was not involved in the petting and affection.

And she waited for Braum to grow cross.

Or maybe...

Maybe she was waiting for some other to grow angry.

Because her Braum merely chuckled. Picked up Merryweather and gave her a kiss to the top of her head and apologised for having disturbed her.

Then he rose from the bed and found a nightshirt for himself. Then a nightdress for her.

And when they went to bed all together, Wren dreamed of kisses and touches that did not end quite so abruptly.

Could she?

She watched him over breakfast with a blush affixed to her cheeks.

Maybe.

Maybe she could.

They could.

Soon.

Merryweather permitting.

???

“So,” Braum commented, leaning on the counter where a customer was meant to be.

It was just after midday and it was a drizzly sort of day. Few would venture out beyond necessities, but all the most dedicated—or the most desperate—would still sit until dark and cold closed the market early.

“I’ve thought of something that would please me.”

Wren was in her proper stall. She was nearly sold out of her lozenges. Her absence and the weather meant that mothers were eager to refill their stores, and she would not complain at their enthusiasm.

“Have you now,” Wren countered, her feet propped on the stool she might have offered him, but didn’t. This was her business, and he had his. Which he’d attended to for most of the morning, dealing with his vendors and clients and returning often to complain that he’d rather be working on Merryweather’s personal door.

“I have,” Braum insisted, grinning at her in a way that suggested he knew she was going to fight him. “I should like to buy you something.”

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