She was that, beyond a doubt. Seeing her there upon the featherbed, smiling that wicked smile, toying with her breast . . . was there ever a woman with nipples so large or so responsive? He could hardly look at them without wanting to grab them, to suckle them until they were hard and wet and shiny . . .
He looked away. His smallclothes were strewn on the carpets. The knight bent to pick them up.
“Your hands are shaking,” she pointed out. “They would sooner be caressing me, I think. Must you be in such haste to don your clothes, ser? I prefer you as you are. Abed, unclad, we are our truest selves, a man and a woman, lovers, one flesh, as close as two can be. Our clothes make us different people. I would sooner be flesh and blood than silks and jewels
, and you . . . you are not your white cloak, ser.”
“I am,” Ser Arys said. “I am my cloak. And this must end, for your sake as well as mine. If we should be discovered . . .”
“Men will think you fortunate.”
“Men will think me an oathbreaker. What if someone were to go to your father and tell him how I’d dishonored you?”
“My father is many things, but no one has ever said he was a fool. The Bastard of Godsgrace had my maidenhead when we were both fourteen. Do you know what my father did when he learned of it?” She gathered the bedclothes in her fist and pulled them up under her chin, to hide her nakedness. “Nothing. My father is very good at doing nothing. He calls it thinking. Tell me true, ser, is it my dishonor that concerns you, or your own?”
“Both.” Her accusation stung. “That is why this must be our last time.”