Her palm cupping under his jaw and lifting his head to her cut off his babble tap. "I wouldn't bet on a no just yet. Anything's possible."
"Right," he smiled, doing his damnedest to act like the carefree, unconcerned ladies man he was supposed to be. But all his gut did was churn in anticipation, his body begging to roam all across hers and his heart thumping a new, happy beat.
"We should get dressed then, and return to the stuff I..." Alistair glanced up at the ceiling as if he could see the sun.
"What is it?" Reiss asked.
"Oh Maker, I left Eamon on the illusion I was taking a trip to the ol' bushes for a leak and that had to be a good few hours ago." She snorted so adorably at that, some of Alistair's regret vanished but not quite all.
"He's probably combing through every inch of the castle searching to make certain the King didn't pass out with his trousers down around his ankles."
Laughing, Alistair snatched up his mentioned trousers and began to wiggle into them. "Face first into the shit hole, sounds about right. They're probably drawing lots to see who'd have to clean me up first."
Reiss was both more methodical and faster to dress. She took the time to make certain her shirt wasn't inside out, while Alistair threw his on, yanked it off to invert it, realized it was now inside out, and repeated the process. He wasn't certain if it was better to blame it on his naturally idiotic mind or the beautiful woman with her fingers delicately knotting back together her buttons. Forgetting the plan, he abandoned the ties to his shirt and reached over to grasp her fingers.
Those eyes he wanted to drown in turned over in surprise, but she glided upon her knees to him for one last kiss. He meant it to be a simple goodbye, but Reiss' lips parted to let her tongue knock around with his. Slowly losing all sense of himself, Alistair followed in turn, dipping in and out of her as he had before. It felt more than good, it was right, so stupidly right he wondered why it took him so damn long to try. Trailing up her earlobe, he cupped the points of her ears, gently rocking his thumb against the edge. Reiss reached under the back of his billowing tunic to run her nails against his skin. Even cut short, the sensation invigorated every nerve in his body. He didn't want it to end, not for anything. Forget Eamon, or the council, or eating, sleeping, breathing. This was it.
Reiss mmmed, her lips sliding down as her eyes opened with a coy look in them. "Tonight. I'll have an answer for you tonight after we return to our rooms."
"Okay," Alistair nodded, fully aware that he was on full salute in his trousers and uncertain how to smoothly tuck it into his waistband while the beautiful lady watched. "We'll uh, tonight. Got it. Writing it down in my mind."
Snickering, she released her hold on him and began to craw to the ladder. "You best go find the Arl fast before there's a proper manhunt through Denerim. After I slot back on my armor I shall join you, Ser."
He watched it fall back into place, that wall she kept up to protect herself, to protect him from himself, to protect the world from catching on. Whatever reason, at the moment he hated it because Alistair feared it may never come back down again. Barely bothering to work down the ladder, Alistair bobbed his head at her, tied the drawstring of his tunic and said, "I'll see you inside, Ser Reiss."
Eamon was less than pleased when Alistair staggered back inside. On the plus side, there wasn't any serious man hunt on to find the wayward King and drag him screaming back, but he did get a serious meeting of those bushy white brows as the Chancellor wafted back and forth on his feet.
"Nice of you to return to your work, your Majesty," he grumbled. A fresh stack of problems only the King could deal with waited on the desk. Alistair had three of them stashed across the castle. He liked the idea that he could do work in different rooms and also that he could send the things he really didn't care about to the dark room with the walls painted like dried blood after an unfortunate party. If Eamon caught on, he gave little to no hints about it.
"I assume you found the lavatory acceptable, seeing as how you had an hour or more to inspect it," he continued. The man had been in a pickled state for the entire day, probably still angry at Alistair for sending the mage away.
Squatting back at his desk, Alistair yanked up a quill and smiled, "It was only an hour?"
"Do you require more healing? I believe there are excess potions left..."
"No!" he shouted over Eamon's cruel/kind look. Whatever Lanny kept shoveling down his throat dried out his gums and caused a balloon of gas to squat in his stomach and never leave. It may have saved his life, but at the time Alistair wondered if it was worth it. "I'm here, up, talking, no being dead or near dying. And we've got work to do. I've got work to do."
"As you say, your Highness." Eamon shuffled off a dozen or so pieces of parchment in order to reveal one Alistair'd been ignoring for awhile.
On the Matter of the Inquisition and Its Involvement in the Avaar Issue.
Everyone loved the Inquisition when it was stopping a crazy man who thought ripping open the fade would be good for a lark, but the infatuation faded over time to become that person who sleeps in your bed but whose voice draws nails across your brain. Tying them to a new bridegroom seemed the answer with the chantry, and it'd been working, right up until that Inquisitor began regrowing his little army with Avaar warriors. It didn't help Alistair's case that he knew the why, sort of, but no one else could. Convincing a bleating flock of Bannorn that the giants of the mountains weren't going to march upon their lands under the banner of the Inquisition nor Chantry wasn't going so well.
Maybe if he sent a note to the Inquisitor asking him to hold off on scooping up every damn giant man and woman he could out of the Frostbacks. Leave a few behind to startle the Banns during Satinalia parties. Tapping the quill against the paper, and leaving behind flecks of ink, Alistair turned to ask Eamon what he should do when the door opened and Reiss stepped valiantly in.
She'd returned her hair to its tight bun, but those always floating tendrils haunted the edges of her face. Pausing to bow her head to the Chancellor, she turned to the man trapped behind the desk and ever so softly smiled. Maker's sake, the dreadful anticipation rose up in his gut. How was he supposed to keep playing the part of idiotic but generally helpful King while waiting on pins and more pointy bits to find out her answer? Focus seemed impossible while his skin still smelled of her and his legs slightly trembled at the memory and hope of getting another chance to go again. Please.
Alistair drew the quill into his mouth and began to chew on the end in contemplation. He kept his eyes upon the parchment scattered across the desk, but his mind kept replaying the past hour and however long he was gone. It wasn't just the sex, okay, the sex was a lot of it, but having her naked and wholesome form in his arms cracked a peek into the locked chest he hurled his heart into. It didn't knock it fully open, that was up to her, but it'd be so nice to let himself fall again, to trust himself to love again. Plus, there was the sex. That was top notch, applause all around, please do it again.
So many years since he caressed a hip, kneaded a butt cheek, and kissed lips panting for more. The thought that it could all be ripped away kept him hanging upon that cliff's edge waiting for either a helping hand or a good kick to finish the job.
"Sire," Eamon spoke.
Alistair ignored it, his teeth nibbling up and down the quill's shaft while he stewed about his personal life.
"Sire," Eamon tried again, finally causing him to look up, "you're consuming the inked end."
"Wha..." Alistair yanked back the quill and dabbed a finger against his lip. Black oozed across it, more of it no doubt spilling out of his mouth after he chewed right through the quill tip. He grabbed onto the fancy and important parchments, trying to use them to mop up the mess, when Eamon passed over one of his monogramed kerchiefs.
Dabbing like mad, he glanced over at Reiss in the corner. She stood stock still, her eyes gazing out at the horizon as all good guards did, but there upon her lips was an intoxicating smile he yearned to kiss. Good
thing for her Eamon was there, or she'd be covered in ink as well.
"Right, okay," Alistair wadded up the kerchief and tossed it to the edge of the desk. "Let's get to work."
"That's what I've been trying to get you to do for the past hour," Eamon groaned, jabbing his finger at the piles while the only true focus of Alistair's attention waited outside of arm's reach.
In the end, he managed to buckle down and answer two and a half letters. One was to Lanny, making sure to report on his symptoms in excruciating detail as she kept begging. He wondered if she was really trying to compile research on a new potion or if she just got a good laugh at it. At least he knew she was safe on the trip back home, taking it easier and with Teagan there to protect her. Well, Teagan to offer to protect her while Lanny no doubt froze every bandit and dangerous wolf in a mile wide radius. It was the thought that mattered.
After work, it was time for the evening meal. Alistair was normally a fast eater, the kitchen staff plopping all the courses down in front of the King while some of the more enlightened in the castle savored the Orlesian approach to moderation. But this time he flew through the meal, jamming various meats together into a wad and stuffing it into his mouth. Beatrice even glanced over from her cocoon of handmaidens and Cordell to remind the King to swallow lest he choke. He tried to slow down, but out of the edge of his eye he caught a flicker of blonde hair and his heart raced again, driving his limbs to jam all the food he could reach into his mouth in one go.
There was one stop he couldn't speed through and that was reading to Spud. Mercifully she'd moved on from the mage tomes, but someone slipped the most insipid story about what would happen if someone gave a nug a coat. It should be a short tale, nug gets coat, nug is warm, happy days forever, but somehow by a mad writer's undiluted fear of charity it spiraled into a cacophony of problems that ended in a dragon demanding the blood of the first born. Dark for a children's story, but of course his first born loved it, often demanding that he read it four or five times. Tonight was no different. With grass braided into her hair because she'd been out in the meadow watching the horses, Spud curled up with her Mr. Tibbles and demanded a sixth encore.
"Spuddy, please," Alistair groaned, "Daddy's tired."
"I'm not!" she shouted, leaping onto her feet and jumping up and down on the sinking mattress.
"Yes, yes," a headache swarmed in the back of his brain, "I get it, you are toddler -- queen of eternal energy, but I am exhausted -- jester of laying down quietly. You already know how this book ends."
"Nu uh," she lied through her teeth, "again!"
"Maker's sake, where's Marn?" Normally, he'd shoo the looming nanny away but right now he'd give anything to have her rush in and kick him out the door.
"I," Spud began when a great yawn broke up her sentence. Her tiny fist tried to hide it, but Alistair saw that his little ball of energy was about to crash. "Dunno," she sagged, her body collapsing to its knees against the bed.
"Get back under the covers," he ordered.
"Mkay," she nodded, quickly fading despite her admonishments. Alistair helped to tuck her in tight, focusing on jamming the edge of the blankets under the mattress to lock her in, when Spud's pudgy fingers tugged on his hair. "Can't go til you sing me the song."
"Spud," he whined, well aware that the door to his daughter's bedroom was open and the woman he was trying to impress waited outside. Hearing him sing would do the exact opposite. "Tomorrow," he tried to promise, standing up to plant a kiss on her forehead.
Pudgy hands grabbed onto both of his cheeks, smooshing them inward. "No, now!"
"Fine," he mumbled through the squished mouth and lifted his head away from her hands. Spud clapped those evil hands and Alistair wondered just how she'd use her twisted machinations that could get him to sing while as Queen. She may give Orlais a run for its Royals.
Coughing in his throat, Alistair tried to bide for time, watching to see if his daughter's eyelids would slip closed and he could sneak out, but no such luck. She was wide awake and waiting for the song. Maker help me, Alistair prayed absently. He was so far removed from being a singer it was pathetic. Rutting pigs in heat bore a more operatic tone to him.
"Little girl, asleep in the clouds
Little girl, dreaming of light
Chasing through the thunder
And sliding across the dark
Little girl, feel no fright
Daddy's here, don't you cry
Daddy's here, setting it right
Hold you close when monster's prowl
Fend them off without a word
Daddy's here to kiss you goodnight"
As the barely passable melody slipped from his lips, Alistair shook it off and spoke quickly, "There, song sung, good enough." He began to rise away from her bed, when she grabbed onto his hand and pointed at her forehead. "All right," he conceded, placing another kiss onto her forehead and against her fingers. That got a small giggle from his daughter who was fighting sleep with everything she had at her disposal.
"Now go to bed!" he ordered.
"Okay," she admitted defeat, having used up all her tricks. Alistair stepped away to lick his fingers and douse the lamp when Spud's quiet voice pierced the heavier shadows, "I love you, Daddy."
All his exasperation vanished in a puff of smoke at the earnest confession from his daughter twisting over to fall asleep. "I love you too, tatter tot," he whispered to the air before finally closing the door and letting her slumber. Outside he spotted Reiss standing patiently against the wall. "Please tell me you didn't hear that."
"I didn't hear it," she lied so badly Alistair felt a blush ratcheting up his cheeks. Sweet Andraste, it was a wonder anyone had ever slept with him. He had the seduction skills of a walrus. Trying to distract from the embarrassment knotting up his enflamed and overstuffed stomach, Alistair pointed around, "Where's Brunt? Shouldn't he be here guarding the kids?" The silent but gruff bodyguard became such a staple, Alistair kinda stopped noticing him just beyond the playrooms he'd find his children in, always looming. The man had looming down to a science.
Reiss glanced around and shrugged, "I believe he's with Cailan at the moment."
"You can never trust babies," Alistair said, "they play all innocent and barely capable of motor control and then blam, suddenly they're plotting a coup to overthrow the entire government in favor of the Biscuit Party."
Chuckling, Reiss fell in behind him as he began to march towards the stairs. All he had left on his docket was... "So," he spoke without turning around to face her, "I'm done for the day and was planning on going to my room." Alistair twisted his fingers into knots wishing he had one of those little puzzles to keep them occupied. As the silence loomed, he spun around to spit out, "I mean, just saying that you are free to spend the rest of the night doing whatever you wanted or needed to do without my interference in, uh..."
A smile rose across her beautiful cheek and she nodded imperceptibly, "I believe I would like to retire as well. It's been a surprisingly vigorous day." At that she smirked, causing Alistair to blush full on as he rocked back and forth on his tip toes.
"That it, yes, it was, um, what you said." Aware he was babbling like an idiot, Alistair spun on his toes and began to walk towards his side of palace. "Heading to the bedroom," he whispered to himself for fear that his panicking brain might steer him into an open pit by mistake. By the time they arrived he feared he was about to slide down the stairs in a cascade of the flop sweat pouring off him while she seemed cool and collected.
"Do, should I...?" he pointed at his room, the door surprisingly closed. Normally everyone and their pet mabari wandered in and out with him only having some say in when they should scatter.
A warm smile lifted on her cheeks and she said, "I should deposit this down at the armory." Her fingers ran across the breastplate Alistair was rather lucky he didn't have to try to get off her. Nodding dimly at the sense it made, he wanted to ask another question but nothing would land upon his tongue beyond a
"duh..." Mercifully, he managed to keep that locked away. Reiss shifted a bit closer to him to add, "When I return we can talk."
"Right," he bobbed his head like a fishing bird, all but giving himself whiplash while she smiled under her hand and turned towards the stairs. Midway down the secret servants entrance he wasn't supposed to know about Alistair called out, "You mean talk now, right? No waiting a few weeks while dalish and banns and mucus keep clogging it up."
He couldn't hear her response but she waved a hand while disappearing down the unadorned staircase. Nodding a few more times, Alistair found his hands limply bashing together as if he joined up with a band and someone foolishly gave him cymbals. Focus, he shouted at himself while stumbling into his room.
How long did it take a person to disarm? With him it depended on if he got help or not, some of those buckles were kept in the most unreachable spots. Half the time he just left them flapping free during battle, they weren't really support straps anyway, more decoration. And Lanny had a habit of finding the strangest pieces of armor for him to wear, not that he'd ever object no matter how beaten up, pointy, or designed for a dwarf it was. Looking up, Alistair caught her phylactery pulsing its normal heartbeat. With only the hearth and no candles lit, it cast his entire bedroom in a haunting red glow which should probably keep him awake but became a comfort. As long as that thing beamed a continuous red light against the back of his eyes she was alive.
And probably home by now, he thought while letting his fingers skirt near the glass but not touch it. One couldn't read the thoughts of the mage attached to it, and it wasn't as if he'd suddenly see through her eyes, but it felt weird to keep that close of tabs on her. Knowing she was alive was usually enough.
Picking over a quiver of arrows left scattered across his desk and...what seemed to be a molding loaf of bread with mincemeat smeared over it, Alistair unearthed various letters and memos he wanted to keep close. There were Lanny's letters, all of them locked in his strong box so no one would see them. He worried at first that servants might try to swipe them, but they seemed uninterested. Probably because there were no naughty parts in it.
Love's Blush Page 51
