The air in the room was warm and thick with the faint scent of herbal soap and steam from the adjoining washroom. The heavy frost wards remained firmly in place, keeping the quiet intimacy of the bedroom completely isolated from the outside world.
I was lying back on the mattress, resting my head comfortably in Cassandra's lap. She sat with her back propped against the carved headboard, a loose silk robe draped lazily over her shoulders, left unfastened at the front.
Her slender, cool fingers stroked gently down my jaw, occasionally trailing lower to idly play with the half-hardened heat lingering between my thighs.
Her touch was slow, absentminded, and completely devoid of her usual aggressive urgency, just a relaxed, quiet affection that felt almost surreal given the violent storm we had spent the last few hours riding out.
"The head cook asked about your dietary preferences," Cassandra murmured, her voice soft and delightfully hoarse from hours of shouting and crying out.
