“Not really. A bit sore is all.”
“You’re lucky.”
He opened his eyes again. “Couldn’t you say I was skilled and courageous?”
“Maybe that, too. And I can add smart. Unicorn horn versus Goodyear. I really like that one.”
She laid her hand on his heart, closed her eyes. And slept.
Chapter 9
It was the stiffness in his own bones that woke him. Larkin lay there a few minutes wondering if this was how he’d feel every blessed morning when he was an old man. Sort of whifty in the head and heavy in the body. Maybe it was such a gradual thing that the mind adjusted so you forgot what it was to feel young and spry.
He swore he creaked when he rolled over.
Of course she was gone. He probably couldn’t have managed to make love with her if she’d stayed—if he’d been able to talk her into it. She was a puzzler, Blair was. So strong, all but steely, and a goddess in battle. But there were all these layers inside, soft ones, bruised ones.
A man just wanted to peel off that hard edge and get to the heart of the matter.
And she was so interesting to look at. The hair like a soft cap, so dark against her white skin. Those deep eyes of magic blue that looked right at you. No coyness at all. Sometimes he just liked to watch her mouth move whatever words were coming out of it, to see all the shapes it could make.
Then there was her form, all lean and tight. Sleek, really. He couldn’t say he minded overmuch her trouncing him in hand-to-hand, not when he had that body bumping up against his. Long legs and arms, those strong shoulders that were often bare during training. Those lovely firm breasts.
He’d thought quite a bit about her breasts.
And now he was stirring himself up with no place to go with it.
He got up, wincing. He supposed, all things considered, he was lucky to have gotten off just sore and bruised. He had Glenna to thank for that, and maybe he’d seek her out, see if she could do a bit more now that he was rested.
He took a shower, giving into the luxury of running the water hot as he could stand. He would miss this, that was the sheer truth. He wondered if Moira, who was clever with figuring how things worked, could build one in Geall.
Once he was dressed, he wandered out. The house was quiet enough he wondered if the others were still sleeping, and considered going down to the kitchen. He was hungry again, and no surprise there.
But he doubted he’d find Blair in the kitchen. He thought he knew well enough where she’d be.
He heard her music before he reached the training room. It wasn’t the same music as she’d been playing in the kitchen the other day. There was a woman singing now, in a rough, fascinating voice about wanting a little respect when she came home.
Well, it didn’t seem too much to be asking, in Larkin’s opinion.
And there was Blair, stripped down to the little white shirt and the black pants that sat low on her hips—a personal favorite of his, truth be known.
She was tumbling, he noted. And using most of the big room to do it. Handsprings, kicks and flips. At one point, she rolled to a sword that lay on the floor and began to fight what must have been a multitude of invisible opponents.
He waited until
she gave a last thrust, her body posed in a deep warrior position.
“Well, you slaughtered the lot of them.”
Only her head moved first, turning until her eyes met his. Then she brought her feet together, lowered the sword. “Nothing but dust.”
She walked over to set down the sword, turned the music down, then picked up a bottle of water. Drinking, she took a good long look at him. His face was bruised, scraped along the temple—which for some reason didn’t make him less of a looker, she decided.
In any case, his color was good.
“How’re you doing?”
“Well enough, though I’d’ve been better if you’d been beside me when I woke.”