Morrigan's Cross
Page 54
It was enough to feel; she’d always believed that. And only doubted it now because she felt so much.
It was time to go back to being practical, to enjoy what she had when she had it. And to do the job at hand.
She eased away from him, started to get out of bed. His hand closed around her wrist.
“It’s early, and raining. Come, stay in bed.”
She looked over her shoulder. “How do you know it’s early. There’s no clock in here. Got a sundial in your head?”
“Sure a lot of good it would do as it’s pouring rain. Your hair’s like the sun. Come back to bed.”
He didn’t look so serious now, she noted, not with his eyes sleepy and his face shadowed by a night’s growth of beard. What he looked was edible.
“You need a shave.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, felt the stubble. Rubbed his hand over again, and the stubble was gone. “Is that better for you, a stór?”
She reached over, flicked a finger down his cheek. “Very smooth. You could use a decent haircut.”
He frowned, scooped a hand through his hair. “What would be wrong with my hair?”
“It’s gorgeous, but it could use a little shaping. I can take care of that for you.”
“I think not.”
“Oh, don’t trust me?”
“Not with my hair.”
She laughed and rolled over to straddle him. “You trust me with other, and more sensitive parts of you.”
“A different matter entirely.” His hands walked up and cupped her br**sts. “What’s the name of the garment you wore over your lovely br**sts last night?”
“It’s called a bra, and don’t change the subject.”
“Sure I’m happier discussing your br**sts than my hair.”
“Aren’t you cheerful this morning.”
“You put a light in me.”
“Sweet talker.” She picked up a hank of his hair. “Snip, snip. You’ll be a new man.”
“You seem to like the man I am well enough.”
Her lips curved as she lifted her hips. And lowered them to take him into her. The candles that had guttered out sparked. “Just a trim,” she whispered, leaning over him to rub her lips to his. “After.”
He learned the considerable pleasure of showering with a woman, then the fascinating pleasure of watching one dress.
She rubbed creams into her skin, and different ones over her face.
The bra, and what she called panties, were blue today. Like a robin’s egg. Over these she pulled rough pants and the short, baggy tunic she called a sweatshirt. On it were words that spelled out WALKING IN A WICCAN WONDERLAND.
He thought the outer clothes made what she wore beneath a kind of marvelous secret.
He felt relaxed and very pleased with himself. And balked when she told him to sit on the lid of the toilet. She picked up scissors, snapped them together.
“Why would a man of sense allow a woman to come near him with a tool like that?”
“A big, tough sorcerer like you shouldn’t be afraid of a little haircut. Besides, if you don’t like it when I’m done, you can change it back.”
“Why are women always after fiddling with a man?”
“It’s our nature. Indulge me.”
He sighed, and sat. And squirmed.
“Be still, and it’ll be done before you know it. How do you suppose Cian deals with grooming?”
He rolled his eyes up, over, to try to see what she was doing to him. “I wouldn’t know.”
“No reflection must make it a chore. And he always looks perfect.”
Now Hoyt slid his eyes toward hers. “You like the way he looks, do you?”
“You’re almost mirror images, so it’s obvious I do. He has that slight cleft in his chin and you don’t.”
“Where the faeries pinched him. My mother used to say.”
“Your face is a little leaner, and your eyebrows have more of an arch. But your eyes, those mouths and cheekbones—the same.”
He watched hair fall into his lap, and inside the mighty sorcerer, his belly trembled. “Jesus, woman, are you shearing me bald?”
“Lucky for you I like long hair on a man. At least I do on you.” She dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “Yours is like black silk, with just a little wave. You know, in some cultures, when a woman cuts a man’s hair it’s a vow of marriage.”
His head jerked, but she’d anticipated the reaction and moved the scissors. Her laugh, full of fun and teasing, echoed off the bathroom walls. “Joking. Boy, are you easy. Almost done.”
She straddled his legs, standing with hers apart, and her br**sts close to his face. He began to think a haircut wasn’t such a hardship after all.
“I liked the feel of a woman.”
“Yes, I seem to recall that about you.”
“No, what I’m meaning is I liked the feel of a woman when I had one. I’m a man, have needs like any other. But it never occupied so much of my mind as it does with you.”
She set the scissors aside, then combed her fingers through his damp hair. “I like occupying your mind. Here, have a look.”
He stood, studied himself in the mirror. His hair was shorter, but not unreasonably. He supposed it fell in a more pleasing shape—though it had seemed fine to him before she’d gone after it.
Still, she hadn’t sheared him like a sheep, and it pleased her.
“It’s well enough, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He finished dressing, and when they went downstairs they found all but Cian in the kitchen.
Larkin was scooping up scrambled eggs. “Good morning to you. The man here has a magician’s hands with eggs.”
“And my shift at the stove’s over,” King announced. “So if you want breakfast, you’re on your own.”
“That’s something I wanted to talk about.” Glenna opened the refrigerator. “Shifts. Cooking, laundry, basic housekeeping. It needs to be spread out among all of us.”
“I’m happy to help,” Moira put in. “If you’ll show me what to do and how to do it.”
“All right, watch and learn. We’ll stick with the bacon and eggs for this morning.” She got to work on it with Moira watching her every move.
“I wouldn’t mind more, while you’re about it.”
It was time to go back to being practical, to enjoy what she had when she had it. And to do the job at hand.
She eased away from him, started to get out of bed. His hand closed around her wrist.
“It’s early, and raining. Come, stay in bed.”
She looked over her shoulder. “How do you know it’s early. There’s no clock in here. Got a sundial in your head?”
“Sure a lot of good it would do as it’s pouring rain. Your hair’s like the sun. Come back to bed.”
He didn’t look so serious now, she noted, not with his eyes sleepy and his face shadowed by a night’s growth of beard. What he looked was edible.
“You need a shave.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, felt the stubble. Rubbed his hand over again, and the stubble was gone. “Is that better for you, a stór?”
She reached over, flicked a finger down his cheek. “Very smooth. You could use a decent haircut.”
He frowned, scooped a hand through his hair. “What would be wrong with my hair?”
“It’s gorgeous, but it could use a little shaping. I can take care of that for you.”
“I think not.”
“Oh, don’t trust me?”
“Not with my hair.”
She laughed and rolled over to straddle him. “You trust me with other, and more sensitive parts of you.”
“A different matter entirely.” His hands walked up and cupped her br**sts. “What’s the name of the garment you wore over your lovely br**sts last night?”
“It’s called a bra, and don’t change the subject.”
“Sure I’m happier discussing your br**sts than my hair.”
“Aren’t you cheerful this morning.”
“You put a light in me.”
“Sweet talker.” She picked up a hank of his hair. “Snip, snip. You’ll be a new man.”
“You seem to like the man I am well enough.”
Her lips curved as she lifted her hips. And lowered them to take him into her. The candles that had guttered out sparked. “Just a trim,” she whispered, leaning over him to rub her lips to his. “After.”
He learned the considerable pleasure of showering with a woman, then the fascinating pleasure of watching one dress.
She rubbed creams into her skin, and different ones over her face.
The bra, and what she called panties, were blue today. Like a robin’s egg. Over these she pulled rough pants and the short, baggy tunic she called a sweatshirt. On it were words that spelled out WALKING IN A WICCAN WONDERLAND.
He thought the outer clothes made what she wore beneath a kind of marvelous secret.
He felt relaxed and very pleased with himself. And balked when she told him to sit on the lid of the toilet. She picked up scissors, snapped them together.
“Why would a man of sense allow a woman to come near him with a tool like that?”
“A big, tough sorcerer like you shouldn’t be afraid of a little haircut. Besides, if you don’t like it when I’m done, you can change it back.”
“Why are women always after fiddling with a man?”
“It’s our nature. Indulge me.”
He sighed, and sat. And squirmed.
“Be still, and it’ll be done before you know it. How do you suppose Cian deals with grooming?”
He rolled his eyes up, over, to try to see what she was doing to him. “I wouldn’t know.”
“No reflection must make it a chore. And he always looks perfect.”
Now Hoyt slid his eyes toward hers. “You like the way he looks, do you?”
“You’re almost mirror images, so it’s obvious I do. He has that slight cleft in his chin and you don’t.”
“Where the faeries pinched him. My mother used to say.”
“Your face is a little leaner, and your eyebrows have more of an arch. But your eyes, those mouths and cheekbones—the same.”
He watched hair fall into his lap, and inside the mighty sorcerer, his belly trembled. “Jesus, woman, are you shearing me bald?”
“Lucky for you I like long hair on a man. At least I do on you.” She dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “Yours is like black silk, with just a little wave. You know, in some cultures, when a woman cuts a man’s hair it’s a vow of marriage.”
His head jerked, but she’d anticipated the reaction and moved the scissors. Her laugh, full of fun and teasing, echoed off the bathroom walls. “Joking. Boy, are you easy. Almost done.”
She straddled his legs, standing with hers apart, and her br**sts close to his face. He began to think a haircut wasn’t such a hardship after all.
“I liked the feel of a woman.”
“Yes, I seem to recall that about you.”
“No, what I’m meaning is I liked the feel of a woman when I had one. I’m a man, have needs like any other. But it never occupied so much of my mind as it does with you.”
She set the scissors aside, then combed her fingers through his damp hair. “I like occupying your mind. Here, have a look.”
He stood, studied himself in the mirror. His hair was shorter, but not unreasonably. He supposed it fell in a more pleasing shape—though it had seemed fine to him before she’d gone after it.
Still, she hadn’t sheared him like a sheep, and it pleased her.
“It’s well enough, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He finished dressing, and when they went downstairs they found all but Cian in the kitchen.
Larkin was scooping up scrambled eggs. “Good morning to you. The man here has a magician’s hands with eggs.”
“And my shift at the stove’s over,” King announced. “So if you want breakfast, you’re on your own.”
“That’s something I wanted to talk about.” Glenna opened the refrigerator. “Shifts. Cooking, laundry, basic housekeeping. It needs to be spread out among all of us.”
“I’m happy to help,” Moira put in. “If you’ll show me what to do and how to do it.”
“All right, watch and learn. We’ll stick with the bacon and eggs for this morning.” She got to work on it with Moira watching her every move.
“I wouldn’t mind more, while you’re about it.”
