“What is this you’re wearing?”
“It’s a skirt. I was in a femboy mood. You like?” He did a little wiggle, and the skirt flounced.
“I like enough that we need to take this somewhere private,” I said against his mouth.
“Yes please,” Pip said. “There is an urgent matter happening under my skirt that I’d like to discuss.”
We did not make it to the apartment quickly.
This was Pip’s fault, though I bore some responsibility. The route from the stables to the Grey Guard wing passed through two corridors, up a staircase, and around a gallery, and Pip turned every stretch of wall into an opportunity. He pulled me against the stone between the stables and the east corridor, rising onto his toes to kiss me while his hands worked at thebuckles of my chestplate. I pinned him against a pillar near the staircase and kissed his neck until he squirmed.
He retaliated by sliding his hand under my shirt on the landing, his fingers cold from the corridor air. I flinched and grabbed his wrist, and he laughed, a bright, ringing sound that echoed off the stone walls. I wanted more of that, so I tickled him. It was something I had not done before and had not planned to do. He shrieked and doubled over and batted at me.
And I was laughing.
The realization hit me mid-stride on the gallery, where Pip had recovered from the tickling assault and was walking backward ahead of me, flushed and grinning and talking about something to do with yarn.
I watched the skirt swing around his hips and the bounce in his step, and joy bloomed in my chest.
I could not remember when I had last felt joy.
Behind us, somewhere down the gallery, I heard Thyren say, “Thursday is my day. Pay up.”
They weren’t supposed to be betting on things, but with Pip leading me to my door, I couldn’t bring myself to care. He turned the handle to our rooms and pulled me through by the front of my shirt, standing on his tiptoes to suck on my neck as we moved.
The fire was already lit, the room warm. I closed the door behind us and frowned at the mess on the table, a quiver of crossbow bolts that looked… different. I picked one up. “Have you been crafting with my crossbow bolts?”
“They’re perfect for crochet hooks,” he said, snatching it out of my hand, and turning it over. “See? I just had to smooth off the point, file a notch into the wood at the tip, and sand it down to make a hook shape.”
“You did this to all fifteen of them?”
He beamed at me. “I held my first crochet class in Lyriel’s craft room this morning, it was quite popular! I’m sure even more people will be at the next, so I need extras.”
“But they’re my crossbow bolts,” I said.
“So? Have you been shooting people with crossbows lately or something? Everyone says Qoksmere is at peace!”
He had a point, as much as I didn’t want to admit that, but the thought of transitioning my stockpile of armaments into cozy crafting tools sat in my chest like a blade turned the wrong way.
“Oh, come on, Aeldryc, loosen up! They’re so much more useful as crochet hooks. Besides, I used them to make my sweater. Do you like it? It’s warm.”
He lifted his arms so the sweater bared more of his slim torso and flat stomach. The thought that a weapon could be transformed into something that gave him joy, and kept him warm, made something shift against my ribs.
Well, it kept the top half of his torso warm, anyway. “Did you forget to finish it?”
He burst out laughing, spinning so I could see his creation. “Don’t be ridiculous! It is finished. This is how long it’s supposed to be.” The pleats of his skirt swayed when he shifted his weight. The hemline grazed the top of his thighs and below it was bare skin, smooth and tan and all of it mine. I tugged on the sweater, skimmed my fingers over his stomach, making him giggle.
I stuck my hand underneath the skirt and found his ass completely bare. I gave it a squeeze.
“On the bed.”
He shot a cheeky smirk over his shoulder as he led me back to my bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, hands planted on the mattress, legs spread wide, skirt fanned out around his thighs, and looked up at me.
He was presenting himself like an obscene offering, one I intended to exploit every inch of.
“This skirt is a demon’s work.” I dropped to my knees in front of him.
He grinned. “Technically, it’s my work. Does that make me a demon?”
