Gone now, she thought, and pulled away what was left. “I’m going to want to borrow something until I can change. Not that everybody doesn’t know what we just did, but I hold the line at flashing Sawyer or Bran.”
“Borrow what you need.” He rolled up to pull off his boots, glanced back over his shoulder. Turned the glance into a long study as she lay bare, with her jeans still caught around her knees.
“You lost some weight.”
“I’ll get it back.”
“You will. You have a strong, agile body. Compact, efficient.”
Amused, she fluttered her lashes. “Girls love to hear how efficient their bodies are.”
“It’s a compliment when it comes to war and warriors. I’ve wanted it. Wanted you.”
“Same goes—except for the compact part. You’re just ripped.”
“I’m going to want you again.”
“That works for me. In fact.” She sat up to untie her high-tops. “Why don’t we go another round after you have a little recovery time.”
“I heal, and recover, quickly.”
“Even better, so . . .” Her eyebrows shot up as he stood to remove his pants. “Oh, well. Hello.” Laughing, she tossed her shoes to the floor. “I bet that’s a benefit to immortality you don’t brood about.”
“We’ll see if you can handle it.”
“Oh, I can handle it,” she told him when he straddled her.
She handled it, and handled it again when they showered off sex and war. Not sure if she could handle a fourth bout, she grabbed one of his shirts, dashed over to her own room.
She changed, tossed his shirt over a chair to return later, then turned to the mirror to take stock.
To her own eye she looked about as relaxed as a woman could outside of a coma. And more than a little used up. In fact, she thought she could flop on the bed and sleep for hours—except she was starving.
Add to that, they all needed to talk about the battle before the bouts.
She tugged her fresh shirt away, studied her shoulder. Doyle had treated it and her leg with Bran’s balm—and she’d done the same for his minor wounds. Since it already looked better, she gave it a little poke, felt no twinge.
Barely a scratch, she thought. A sky filled with death, and barely a scratch.
They’d been weak. A test run, just as Doyle had said.
But the run had been focused on her, and that burned. Twice now she’d been a target. She intended to reap some payback before she was done.
She put on her belt—gun on one hip, knife on the other—and went down to find food, drink, and friends.
She found them all in the kitchen, hit the post-battle snack platter first, grabbed a deviled egg.
“Sasha made Bellinis!” Annika immediately poured one for Riley, who made approving noises over a cracker topped with salami and cheese. “Did you have good sex?”
“Yes, thanks.” Riley sent Doyle—already sipping a beer—a wide, exaggerated smile.
“Sawyer and I had good sex, and so did Bran and Sasha. I think it’s nice we’re all having good sex now. Móraí said it’s good for the body, the mind, and the spirit, especially on a quest.”
Bran choked. “What? My grandmother?”
“She’s very wise. I miss her. She taught me to knit. I’m making everyone scarves. When we’re not together like this, they’ll be like a hug.”
Riley gave her a one-armed one. “Wherever you go, I’m coming to see you. Where’s Sasha?”