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“How do you know it is a soapnut bush? Humans can’t see well at night.”
“I’ve bathed here before. This pond is one of the landmarks I mentioned.”
Giving up, I glare at the trees until I see the bush that he is talking about and stalk toward it. Ripping several off the tender twigs, I turn around and see Marvik standing waist deep in the water, holding his hand out to me. He’s too far away to just hand them to him, but I do not want to step into the water with my boots.
“Catch,” I say, still sounding irritated, and toss my handful of nuts to him. He catches them easily and before I can turn around again, I see him crack the shell in just his hands to get to the soft, spongy nut on the inside.Thatdoes things to me too. Firm, big, muscular hands on a male. But the last thing I need is to be more drawn to him, so I whip around and stare into the woods.
More splashing sounds and then some silence.
“Are you done yet?” I inquire, every muscle tense. If his strategy is to throw me off kilter, it is working.
“Yes,” comes the answer, much closer than I was expecting. Instinctually I whirl around, my hands going to my knives, but instead all I see is tall wet male. My mouth goes dry. One would think that after recovering from such a grievous injury for so long that he would have lost some of his bulk, but I suppose the exercises I have caught him doing in the cave paid off. For his chest is well-muscled and broad, marred only by the scar my blade gave him. His stomach ripples with muscles and a trail of blond hair leads the eye down. Taken unawares, I finally give in to temptation and look.
His manhood is long and thick, even hanging flaccid, a match to his physique. It has a bulb on the bottom of a shaft, similar to an orc’s. Not that I would know firsthand. I have never taken a lover before, my other duties too important. It looks like it would feel . . . well I don’t know how it would feel. But I am growing more wet just looking at it. Would it be good? Painful? Who can tell? But as I stare at it, I feel like I see it twitch.
“Are you done yet?” he asks, a teasing imitation of my own words. My eyes fly up to his and I see that though his mouth is still in a straight line, some amusement dances in his returning gaze. Which immediately puts my guard up.
“Are you doing this on purpose?” I demand, taking a step back.
Marvik leans down and grabs his clothes. “Doing what?”
“You! You! You are . . . trying to entice me!” I accuse, before whirling back around. I donotneed to watch him cloth himself.
“Why would I do that?” His voice is that same calm, reasonable tone that makes me want to strike him.
“I do not know! But you never do anything without a reason,” I argue, feeling my face flush. I don’t even know why. Embarrassment? Anger? Desire? Some new emotion made of all three?
“What reason can I have to entice you? I have nothing to gain. If you are feeling enticed, I am afraid that is entirely you.”
Entirelyme?“I’m not the one that stripped down in plain view and bathed in front of another person!” I exclaim, turning aroundto verbally thrash him some more. But he is standing in just his boots and trousers, his still-bare chest making me speechless for a moment. He is fingering the hole in his tunic where I stabbed him. There is still a blood stain going down the front as well. Ignoring me again, he crouches down by the water and starts washing his tunic, lathering what is left of the soapnuts in his hands.
“I don’t suppose that you would lend me your knife so that I could shave, would you?”
Again not answering my arguments. It is infuriating. But if he won’t answer for his behavior, what can I do?
“I’m never giving you my knife again,” I say, letting an angry chill coat my words.
He keeps washing the tunic, the blood stain getting lighter, but he cocks his head as if considering my words. Then he sighs, “I suppose that makes sense. I don’t have a mirror besides. Do you know how to shave a man?”
“Yes,” I answer curtly. I used to help my father shave when I was little. He said it was good practice, being delicate with a blade. But what is Marvik on about?
“Would you shave me?”
That brings me up short, distracting me from my anger and annoyance for a bit. “You would trust me to do that?”
“If you wanted to kill me, you would have already.”
That is a fair point. I think about his request while he pulls his tunic from the pond. It is impressively improved, the stain now a faint outline. Marvik wrings it out and walks over to a tree to hang it from its branches.
“We cannot wait for it to dry,” I point out.
“But if you are going to shave me, then we are going to delay a little longer and it can dry a little in the meantime.” The human goes back to the soapnut bush and picks some more nuts, breaking them open in his hands.
“You are acting very sure that I will do what you want.” I am more bemused than annoyed at this point. What is his game? I takein his scent to check for deception, but all I smell is calm, clean male.
“If you and I are going to be together forever, then I am going to have to learn to live with it and stop fighting. There’s nothing I can do, right? So, that starts with some trust and some reasonable requests.”
His words are logical.Toological. This seems too easy, him giving up after fighting me in a battle of wills for almost a month. Especially after my earlier threats. But again, I smell no lies in his words. I am puzzling over his intentions, trying to ascertain the true purpose behind them, while Marvik is lathering the soapnut in the water and then rubbing it onto his face. He then sits on a rock and looks at me expectantly, his soapy, wild beard looking comical.
