Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
“Personally,” you say, “I think one horse would suffice.”
You kiss the sweet spot where his neck becomes shoulder, where he shivers if you drag your teeth.
With a sigh, he tilts his head to the side, into the pillow, offering more of himself as you kiss to the boundary of skin and feather.
There, too—that threshold where swan became prince, that border of magic that keeps his past alive—makes him whimper.
You press your hips to his, and slide your palm up his thigh, waist, ribs, to his impossible softness of feathers.
“You make a convincing argument,” he says. “But if I may offer a counterpoint?”
“You may not.”
“Too bad.” He laughs, which turns into a gasp as your hand massages his wing. “One horse, you behind me, every day, like this? We’ll give up riding and fuck in the bushes.”
“… And that’s supposed to dissuade me?”
“Two horses, husband,” he says, “or we’ll never get beyond the city’s gates.”