Chapter Eight
Wensel had a cart, and two stalls for horses, and above that, a dark and fragrant hayloft. Maythorn scrambled up the ladder. Ren followed, muttered something and climbed back down, and returned a moment later. “Here.” He pushed something at her, a blanket, smelling faintly of horse.
Maythorn spread the blanket on the hay and reached for Ren, pulling him closer. She kissed him—missed his mouth and found his smooth-shaven cheek instead—fumbled at his tunic and kissed him again—found his mouth this time and lost herself for a moment in the texture of his lips, the taste of him—roughly unlaced the tunic and yanked it over his head.
His torso was bared to her, but her eyes were blind in this darkness. Touch would have to suffice. Touch. Taste. Smell. She leaned into Ren and pre
