And she was trouble, in doeskin boots and leggings, smelling like new- own hay with trail dust in her hair. And all about her person, as clear her velvet thighs and firm breasts as in her face or her sweet breath, ere the indications of her class: her speech, her bearing, the gulf that as between them and never could be bridged, no matter how he tried. And he tried then again, wordlessly and desperately, as if laying her on her back in the mud was somehow going to do it. But it didn’t. It never had, never would.
She laughed softly and accommodated him until urgency overtook her, but it was always the high-born girl with the velvet skin who was humming, who found him exciting for all the wrong reasons, who played with him casually when touching her was probably worth his life if Crit Molin found them.
So when she said, as she quivered, her mouth to his ear, “Strat’s here with me, somewhere back there. Don’t panic, just be quick,” all his passion threatened to ebb, then exploded when her nails ran down his back.
“Damn you,” he said, rolling over and off her, the best rejection he could manage and far too late.
“Stand in line for that,” she chuckled, her fingers reaching for him, railing along him, tapping him intrusively with unspeakable truths. “It’s been too long since we’ve done this.”
He was staring up at the clouds which hid the moon like a translucent city wall. “Not long enough by half. Not when you’re sleeping in with priests and commanders-in-chief. I’m a lowly watch officer, remember? I’m gettin’ over you. Got something of my own now.”