The Sleeping Beauty's Tale. Grace D'Otare

put every ounce of his blood in motion.

      His wife was aroused. With old Mrs. Nan sitting across the room.

      Her breath ruffled in the wake of her body’s rhythm. “Hale.”

      Was it better, or worse, knowing his wife dreamt of him? Wanted him. Here. Now. When there was nothing he could do but pretend otherwise.

      He adjusted his seat. Sliding closer to her body, he shielded his wife’s busy hand from view, while making room for the spreading length and girth of his own sudden congestion. Thank the Lord the light was dim, and the old woman’s eyes weren’t what they used to be. A man had his limits.

      “She’s touching herself?” Maeve clarified curiously. “With the old nurse in the room?”

      “Delirious with fever. Can’t help herself.”

      “Ahh. He must be quite an amazing lover.”

      “And if you’d let me finish the story—”

      “I beg your pardon,” she said, rocking her own hips rather sweetly. “Please?”

      “Please,” his Polly called softly.

      Hale felt himself fully harden so fast his back teeth ached. He cupped her palm to his lips, inhaled the scent of her skin. That kiss led to a touch of his tongue, which led to a nip of his teeth. Biting the plump curve at the base of her thumb made her fingertips dance against his cheek.

      This wasn’t how their reunion should be. He’d been gone nearly a month, trading, checking traps. He’d returned to find her asleep in the middle of the day, feverish. The only outward sign of illness had been a tender redness on the sole of her foot. He’d ridden for Nan that afternoon.