Page 100 of Reign

I nodded—he was right.

“After I finish sharpening these blades for the witches, I’ll sleep.”

Bash picked up one I’d completed. “You’ve more than sharpened them—they look as good as new.”

I smiled, knowing my craftsmanship was of a high caliber.

“Are you trying to impress someone with your talent?” Bash asked teasingly.

A soft laugh escaped me. Another source of my exhaustion was a secret project I’d undertaken for him. With the winter festivities of Yuletide fast approaching, I knew Bash would miss his family. I was forging him a gift—a pocket blade like mine, recalling how he had admired it when we first met.

“Possibly,” I smirked.

Bash raised a questioning eyebrow. “Who?”

I tilted my head back to meet his gaze. “Do I hear jealousy in your voice?” I mocked.

His expression remained the same. “Who?” he probed.

I shook my head. “I cannot tell.”

“We’re friends,” Bash said, pulling up a stool beside me. “You’re supposed to confide in your friends.”

“You thought we were friends?” I gasped, feigning offense. “We’re not.”

“What are we, then?” Bash’s tone had shifted. Where there had been playfulness, now there was only sincerity.

My heart thudded.

“I—I don’t know,” I hesitated, frightened at the prospect of being vulnerable. “I care for you more than I would a friend,” I admitted.

Bash nodded. “So do I.”

I set down the whetstone, knowing I was far too distracted to continue working.

Bash placed a hand on my waist. “I would be deeply hurt if you were no longer a part of my life,” he confessed.

“So would I,” I whispered, locking my gaze with his.

Bash’s knee slipped between my legs, parting them as he drew me closer. I placed an encouraging hand on the back of his neck and guided his mouth toward mine. Our lips met in a tender, longing kiss. One I’d been craving since the last. There was no urgency, with us both indulging in the intimacy—until, suddenly, there was.

Our kisses quickened. My tongue was in his hot mouth one moment, then his in mine the next. Bash’s hands found their way back into my hair, but they weren’t gentle this time—he was pulling at it, desperate to keep me close, while I clasped my arms around his neck, holding him tight. Then, Bash grazed his teeth against my lip before gently tugging on it. I copied him, taking his soft skin between my teeth and giving it a tender pull.

Bash groaned. “Come closer,” he said before muffling his noises into my mouth.

He released my hair, his grip shifting to the backs of my thighs as he pulled at them, edging me nearer.

I obeyed, shifting from the stool to his knee.

“Look at what you do to me,” Bash growled against my lips.

He took my hand in his and guided it into his lap. His manhood strained against the fabric of his breeches, pulling them taut. My heartbeat thrummed in my throat, and I almost choked on my own desire.

Gently, I stroked my fingers along the length of him, while Bash’s breath—short and shallow—panted into my mouth.

Living as Smith, I felt liberated from the shackles of womanhood—free to touch Bash without earning an unshakable label. But there was one problem. And as his hand traced my inner thigh, I was reminded of it more than ever.

I might have worn breeches and a tunic, but I was not a man.