“Achoo!”
“Bless you,” Sylvain said, fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket and passing it to Dorothea. She was shivering, her teeth chattering, damp curls clinging to her cheek. “You should get out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold,” he said, shedding his own cloak and shirt. “I’ll get a fire started.”
Even inside, he could hear the constant loud patter of rain. “Lucky this place was nearby,” Dorothea said. Not quite nearby enough, though; they’d still ridden half an hour to the old guard tower, which was enough time for the heavy downpour to soak through their light summer cloaks. Gautier never had a true dry season, but a storm this big was a rarity this time of year. Of course it had to hit the very same day Sylvain had planned an overnight excursion to the eastern coast.
At least their saddle bags were waterproof, which meant they each had something dry to change into. Though Sylvain enjoyed the view as Dorothea stripped down to her smallclothes, turning bright red when she caught him staring. “No need to be shy,” he teased, in an equal state of undress himself. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” He strode over as she found a place to hang up her dress, curling an arm around her waist and pulling her close.
“Sylvain,” she warned.
“What? You looked cold.”
She let out a facetious hum, even as she returned the embrace. “Is that not what the fire is for?”
“Just let me hold you a moment,” he murmured into her hair; she smelled earthy and wild from hours of riding, as though saturated with the essence of Gautier’s countryside. Like she belonged here, with him. “How are you enjoying the trip?”
She took a contemplative breath, tracing her nails up and down the curve of his shoulder blade. “I’m exhausted from the travel,” she said, “but it’s worth it. And I’m sure my stamina on horseback will improve with time.” She pulled back just enough to look up at him. “Gautier is beautiful. Like you.”
“O-oh,” he started, gaze drifting aside. His turn to be shy, apparently. In his peripheral vision, he caught the crooked shape of her smirk. “We’re nothing special, really. Just a bunch of grass, rocks, and trees… soon enough it’ll be freezing cold and covered in snow—”
“I love it, Sylvain,” she said, threading her fingers through his hair and guiding him back to face her. “I love you. Thank you for showing—”
He had to kiss her; he had to shut her up with his lips on hers, or his heart would beat right out of his chest, and he would die. He could hardly put that burden on her, could he? It was wholly necessary—vital, even—for him to chase her mouth like he was trying to steal the breath from her, for his fervor to elicit a low moan that resonated all the way through him.
Time slowed; Dorothea’s soft pants beat against his bare skin as he pressed another kiss to her jawline, her cheek, her forehead. She tasted like the rain.
“That was very nice,” she said with a giggle, playing idly with the hairs at the nape of his neck. “Perhaps we can continue it in front of the fire?”