Lorre propped himself up on elbows. “You don’t need to fill the bath. I can do that.”
“I know. I don’t mind.” Gareth paused. “Not too sore, are you?”
“Me? No.”
“Only you said it’d been a while.”
“Yes…”
“So I’m asking.”
“Oh. No, though, I’m perfectly fine. And if I wasn’t, I could heal.” He had to think about that one too. He might in fact be a bit—not sore, but well-used. Gareth’s prick was also heroically sized.
But the twinge of it felt good, in a way he’d forgotten. Sated, wrung out, and very, very present.
He stretched a leg against the bed-linens. Watched Gareth get up and go over to the tub and lift and pour buckets of water. Appreciated the flex of muscles, the width of shoulders, the serene sturdy accomplishment of a task.
He sat up more. His hair fell into his face; he fl
