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“Got any drakes?” She asked, smirking behind her cards.
Carver stifled a groan and settled on dragging a hand through his hair. His arms ached from the pressure of keeping them flexed for so long, but he was damned if he was going to relax whilst topless in front of Nathra.
“That’s not how you play.” He muttered, for the fifth time that night. They were sat, crossed legged, on his bed. Drinks resting precariously on his pillow, clothes strewn across the floor. Usually Carver considered it a job well done if he managed to get her anywhere near his sleeping quarters, but – unlike him – Nathra was still wearing all her clothes.
She reached for her tankard before answering, shrugging a shoulder and taking a sip. “Are you sure? Because for someone who apparently knows how to play, you’re wearing very little.” His cheeks flamed red, and she chuckled in response. The sing song laughter only caused his blush to spread down his neck and across his embarrassingly bare chest. Carver had been hoping for a completely different outcome when he’d suggested they play Strip Wicked Grace. He had – wrongly – assumed Nathra would be easy to beat. She’d never played before, she didn’t know the rules. Yet here they were, him digested of his armour, under padding, tunic, breeches, socks, boots, and gloves. Whilst Nathra had only been forced to remove her gloves. He was extremely thankful for the smalls he still wore, that at least hid his groin, though he was sure she was working on getting rid of those as well.
“Do you have any drakes?” He said. Trying to keep his question subtle.
“Ah ah. If I told you that would be cheating now, wouldn’t it?” She wiggled one eyebrow at him, and Carver felt his frustration boiling down into that famous temper of his. The dwarf. Varric must have taught her how to play. Should have known.
He huffed again and made the conscious reminder to suck in his stomach. Trying to look as appealing as possible. He noticed that Nathra’s eyes kept drifting to his mabari tattoo, or down further to the fastenings of his smalls. Why couldn’t she just look at his arms? He was rather proud of the muscles that bulged under his biceps – though they were burning in protest as he stubbornly continued to flex.
She laughed again, at what he couldn’t say, but Carver breathed out through his mouth and glared down at his cards. He’d never liked people laughing at him. Teasing him. But Nathra was different. She didn’t do it because she thought him inferior. Unlike the others, she could joke at his expense and not risk his temper. Though he was growing increasingly determined to get her as naked as him. Or more so.
“Okay,” he gulped, suddenly nervous. He couldn’t face losing another hand. “What have you got?”
She flashed her cards down with a flourish. “Three drakes and a wyvern.”
Carver forgot to suck his stomach in and relaxed his arms, embarrassment momentarily forgotten as he finally won a hand. About time. “Ah ha!” He plopped his cards down on top of her’s, delighting in the irritable wrinkle in her nose. “Two pairs of swords and a knight. You know what that means, my lady?” He teased, voice dropping low, unbearably smug.
Nathra rolled her eyes and acted nonchalant about the entire affair. But Carver could see the tips of her ears beginning to burn pink, and his grin grew.
“Not fair. I was distracted.” She huffed.
“Still. You are now wearing too many tunics.”
“Stupid flat eared game anyway.”
“No one likes a sore loser, Nathra.” His shrugged a shoulder and smirked, watching her scathing glare as he took a long swig from his tankard.
Three gulps later and Nathra was still glowering, arms crossed. Carver nearly spluttered on his ale when she finally pulled her tunic off over her head without warning. Instead he dribbled ale over his chin, fighting back a coughing fit as his eyes trailed over her vallaslin, which danced over her collar bone, disappeared underneath her breast band, then swirled once more across her stomach.
“You’re still losing.” She pointed out, letting her top join his on the floor.
“I disagree entirely.” He murmured, still staring, forgetting his own body that was on display. Carver suddenly didn’t want to play cards anymore. He just wanted her, preferably under him, or over him. Really any which way, as long as he was with her.
“Nathra,” he said. She was already dealing them out a new hand, but flicked her gaze up hearing her name. Catching the hunger in his eyes, her breath caught, and he felt a trill of excitement flip his stomach.
He caught her hand and tugged her closer, until her knees were scattering the cards and she was snugly sat in his lap. Her mouth opened to protest, but he captured her words with a searing kiss. One hand sunk into her hair, tugging her closer. The other followed one line of vallaslin down to her breeches, his cheeky finger tips inched underneath to the soft skin below. Maker, he had to practise at Wicked Grace. She was still wearing too many clothes.
“You’re just –“ she paused, groaning as he trailed hot pecks down her jaw. “You’re just distracting me because you lost.”
He nipped her neck in answer, relishing in the gasp that earned him before he let go. Carver gently kissed the mark he’d left, pressing his tongue against the sore spot in a silent apology. “Maybe.” He kissed her again. Nathra clutched at his shoulders, her lips demanding as they plundered, fought with his own. She shifted her thigh, pressed against his groin, and Carver groaned, lowing himself until he was stretched out on the bed with Nathra on top. Cards forgotten. They were suddenly playing a very different game, and this time he was determined to win.