Your Shape in My War
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Summary
The way his breath sounds when he sleeps. The heat of him when he presses his forehead to mine. The dangerous, aching ease of it.
Think of Dancer. Think of Eo. Think of anything that is not the shape of Cassius’s mouth, nor the memory of his hands picking leaves from my hair.
Or: A chance encounter leads to unexpected consequences.
Series
- Part 1 of Your Shape in My War
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He lifts himself, drags a leg over my waist. I try not to glance down at the boot he’s still wearing—the one that holds Lilath’s pouch. I let him keep talking.
“I’d sneak into your tent, still covered in Augustan blood, and ask how you want to take me.”
He climbs atop me, straddling my hips.
“On my back, Imperator?”
Kisses me.
“On my knees, Imperator?”
Lips brush against my ear.
“Or on all fours, Imperator?”
Series
- Part 2 of Your Shape in My War