In a voice that rasped with frustration as well as tender…

““In a voice that rasped with frustration as well as tender amusement, Hunter said, “You have such a great want for me that we must hurry, yes?” Her spine snapped taut, and she leaned her head back to look at him. He met her gaze with a lazy smile, trying not to think about how her nipples grazed his skin, how torturous it was to feel her hips pressing forward against him. Working one hand loose, he carefully brushed the tears from her cheeks. Giving a low chuckle, which he punctuated with a defeated sigh, he said, “Blue Eyes, we have many nights to lie with one another. Forever, yes? Until we die and rot.” “Until death do we part,” she amended. “Ah, yes, until death do we part.” He shrugged one shoulder. “A very long time, yes? If I strike such fear into your heart that we must be quick, it is wisdom to wait. It is enough that you will lie beside me. That I can put my hand upon you.” Her expression went from wary distrust to incredulity. “And do nothing?” Hunter shared her sentiments. It was the most boisa idea he had ever come up with. Never had he ached quite so sharply with wanting a woman. “You would like to do something? You say it and we will do it.” Hoping to make her feel less self-conscious about her nakedness, he tugged a fur over them and loosened his arm around her, allowing her some room to get comfortable. “Make a story for me, yes? About my Loh-rhett-ah when she was small like Blackbird.” She stared at him, clearly unable to believe he meant it. He forced a yawn, and from the look that crossed her small face, he knew he hadn’t been very convincing. “You’re not sleepy,” she accused. “ Ka , no,” he admitted. “I make a lie, yes? To make you easy? My heart is laid upon the ground when you are afraid. Let us be glad, eh? Make me a story.” “Hunter, I don’t have a stitch of clothes on,” she squeaked. One of his dark eyebrows flicked upward. “You must have clothes to make stories?””

— Catherine Anderson