The Written Word

Height was only an advantage if people had the stones behind it. Confidence, even a false sense, would always trump the vertically blessed. And for Fealyn, he’d greenlit the fuse on a stupidly cocky elf. Usually Ruth’s impulsivity was helpfully fuelled further by some substance other than alcohol, but today was working out to be oddly sober, and an enjoyable start for once. Another irregularity out with his usual normal. Arlathan was proving to be strangely welcoming. Time would tell if he just continued as he was or entertained the notion of returning regularly. Maybe after he checked out this particular book, he’d gain a clearer idea.

Chuckling against Faelyn’s hunger, Ruth’s tongue slipped in, swiftly reasserting who was going to lead this negotiation. He’d nip the man’s lips gently back, his tongue slipping over before his mouth trailed to find a spot on Fae’s neck. “You can tell me to stop at any time, Red,” came out between small bites, kissed and licked away withdrawing, “but that shirt is a problem.” Hands were already sliding against the belt across his waist and Ruth’s eyes would narrow, taunting Fae. “How about, I start from the bottom and, you work from the top. Make sure I get every one?” The troublesome belt was expertly undone, tossed off somewhere on the floor. He’d help find it later, instead Ruth rolled the last button between a finger and thumb as a hand snaked under the fabric.