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Her breathing was even and deep, her naked back lovely in the moonlight.
I tried to roll over to face her and was somewhat confused when my head refused to cooperate. The tendons stood out on my neck as I tried—and failed—to lift it from the pillow.
All at once, my senses were invaded by a familiar scent.
Earthy and sweet with an undercurrent of vanilla.
A quick reconnaissance mission with my hands confirmed it.
Chocolate.
Encasing my hair in a hard, smooth disk and spreading out over my pillow.
Those little fuckers.
“Sal,” I whispered.
No answer.
“Sal,” I repeated.
“Mmm?”
“We have a problem.” Flailing an arm, I caught her shoulder. “Wake up.”
She sat bolt upright, a dagger flashing into her hand as she scanned the room.
“Unless you’re planning on making pastry garnishes, I suggest you put that away and light the candles,” I said.
Sal blinked at me in the dim light. “S’that?”
I grabbed her by the wrist and placed her hand atop my head.
“The fuck,” she muttered groggily.
“Chocolate,” I said. “One of those wee bastards came in and dumped chocolate on my hair while we were sleeping,” I said. “And opened the window so it would harden.”
Sal ejected herself from the bed and relatched the window before quickly rekindling the fire in the hearth, all the while muttering curses that would have made a sailor blush.
One by one, she lit the candles, setting the tallest on the table where her satchel sat. Then, she lifted the flap, reached in, and pulled out a bag several sizes larger than the one it had come from.
My neck strained as I craned to see. “You are magic.”
“The satchel is magic,” she explained, disappearing into the brocade fabric bag up to her shoulder. “I bought it from a woman in a pub in London. Carpet bags, she called them. There you are.”
I caught the glint of copper in the candlelight as she dipped the kettle into the bathwater and crossed the room to set it among the fireplace’s flames.
“You mean to melt it out of my hair?”
She crouched near the fire, using a poker to dig for any remaining coals. “You have a better idea?”
Currently, all my ideas were centered around the firelight worshipping the curved silhouette of Sal’s ass through the thin linen braies loosely drawn at her waist.
“Don’t you think you ought to put some clothes on before attempting this delicate operation?”
Sal flashed me a sideways grin. “I wouldn’t have figured you for a prude.”
“I’m not,” I insisted. “I just don’t think it’s safe for you to be handling fireplace pokers with your tits out.”
