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Aric rolled them over, caught Em beneath him, pinned one fairy wrist with a hand—Emrys could’ve knocked him off the bed in a heartbeat, but only lay there smiling, arm happily captive—and explored with the other hand.
Em made encouraging sounds at all the explorations, so he indulged himself. This morning’s version had small sweet breasts and tempting nipples, and more sweet heat between slim thighs; Aric slid fingers into her, teased her, stroked and caressed and made her gasp, playing with the slick bud of pleasure while kissing her long and deep.
He felt Em come apart easily around his hand, a clenching flood of ecstasy; she moaned, head thrown back, and murmured his name, soft and luxurious. Aric slid down lower, leaving kisses across her bare skin, stomach, hips; and tasted her, licking, lapping, delightedly employing his tongue and fingers, until Em all but screamed, moving against him, second peak drawn out into rippling waves.
Aric kissed her inner thigh, and looked up. Em said, “I love waking up in a proper bed with you,” voice all dreamy and pleasure-dazed. “Very nice.”
Aric laughed.
“Come here,” Em said, and reached for him; Aric moved atop her, slid into her—so good, so hot and wet and ready, surrounding him—and felt her around him, under him, everywhere. He moved, thrusting; Em moved with him, and the friction and motion and slickness built and gathered and drew taut, poised—
Em’s eyes were silver-bright and well-loved, and she whispered, “Yes,” and her body tightened gloriously, and that was it, that was the thunderous rapturous break of release, and Aric poured himself out into her, clinging to her, panting.
She kissed him, after. The rain flung itself joyously at the window. They’d kicked a blanket to the floor; it lay there lazily, full of approval.
Aric rolled over onto his back on the mattress. Held out both arms. Scooped Em up against himself, happily. “I like real beds with you, too.”
“Not that you’re not inventive,” Em said against his chest. “Literally in a tree, that one time…oh, and the time you had me stand on a rock…”
“It’s not my fault you’re short.”
“I might know a curse that’ll put an endless pebble in your right boot.”
“Really? Because I can think of one or two barons who might deserve that.”
“Are you still annoyed about Caer Paranth? I thought me poking him with a knife helped.”
“Him paying us to deal with his giant spider problem doesn’t mean he’s allowed to try to kiss you.”
“And I stabbed him a little bit, and then you punched him, and you made him pay us double, so I think he’s learned some sort of lesson about the treatment of his hirelings.”
“Happy to explain it again if he needs that.” Aric ran a hand along Em’s back, appreciating. “Breakfast?”
“After that? Very much breakfast, yes.”
They wandered downstairs leisurely, hand in hand. Wind and water battered the inn, and greyness hung around the thick glazed windows like tattered veils; but the fire roared, and the common room was cozy, scented with porridge and bacon and spiced cider. Aric rubbed his thumb along Em’s hand, liking the feel. They did not have enough drowsy soft mornings, on the road. He wondered whether Em would like fewer jobs, more cozy beds.
He knew how much he asked, how much his life asked. He knew they had a reputation—the Storm-Wielder and the Shadow, terrible ballads and heroic rescues—but that did not translate to wealth, especially because he sometimes felt guilty charging fees. Not all the time—barons and bankers could damn well pay for protection—but sometimes. When people needed help.
Em was here for him. He knew that, too. This was his life, had been before they’d met, and Em had chosen to stay with him.
He knew it was a real choice, a true one: Em believed in helping people. Em had said yes to jobs Aric himself might’ve wavered over. Like the giant snails. Sticky. Full of slime.
That didn’t mean, he reflected, that more comfortable beds, inns, jobs wouldn’t be welcome. Something to talk about, maybe.
He squeezed Em’s hand. She’d stayed more outwardly feminine, visible curves under worn shirt and clinging trousers, wholly human in deference to an inn’s common room’s sensibilities. She couldn’t completely shapeshift—no turning into a bird or an oak tree or a lion—but she could make small adjustments, altering emphasis. Aric had become pretty good, over the last couple of years, at knowing which pronouns to deploy, given those cues; if he wasn’t sure, he asked. He knew that fairies did not think about embodiment in quite the same way humans did; Em could play with physical changes if she wanted to, not quite on a whim but a choice for the moment, the day, the job, the adventure. Aric also liked adventure, and adored his fairy-person.
Lythos glanced at them as they came in, and said, “Breakfast?” in the tone of someone deliberately not asking about Emrys and appearances. Ly was, after all, a friend, Aric reflected, in the way that someone he’d met once or twice a year for several years could be.
Anyway, part of the Storm-Wielder and Shadow legend included the mystery that was the Shadow. Lots of people had lots of stories about Em.
He said, finding a table, chairs, near the fire, “Bacon? Or baked apples, if you—”
Shouts cut through the storm. Slicing like sleet. Commotion outside.
Aric dropped a hand to his sword, back on his feet. Em lifted one hand, poised for either a throwing-knife or an enchantment.
The inn’s door slammed wide. The thin merchant and his shorter friend from the night before flung themselves inside; they carried a third man, frozen enough for ice on his beard, blueness on his lips. “Outside—in the road—”
