“The archers are out,” Aedion said to Rolfe
by way of greeting as Lysandra drew closer,
blood both her own and from others on her
wings, her chest. “No more arrows.”
Rolfe jerked his chin toward the Mycenian
warrior still setting off her firelance in
sputtering fits and bursts.
Lysandra landed, shifting in a flash, and
was instantly at Aedion’s side, tucked under
his shield arm. A soft, swift kiss was their
only greeting. The only thing he looked
forward to every night.
Sometimes, once they’d been bandaged and
eaten something, he’d manage to get more
than that. Often, they didn’t bother to wash up
before finding a shadowed alcove. Then it was
nothing but her, the sheer perfection of her,
the small sounds she made when he licked up
her throat, when his hands slowly, so slowly,
explored each inch of her. Letting her set the
lily
(lily)
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