Hours have passed. He hasn't noticed how long it's been; time stopped having meaning less than fifteen minutes in, and even when you've relented long enough for him to catch a breath, it still hasn't been long enough to recall the passing of time to his brain.
     He's stirred now, waking from an exhausted miniature nap to the smell of food and the unmistakable sound of his cell phone chirping. It's calling to him. Pres sits up somewhat gingerly, looking around through sticky eyelashes for the food, his clothes, and you.
     Okay, so it might not be entirely in that order.
     He blushes a bit, even before he spots you. He tries to sound casual and nonchalant, as if he does this every day, and ends up sounding sheepish and more than a little bit shy and diffident. "Uh. What's for dinner?" He is sitting up with the sheet pulled up to his hips, propping himself on his palms as he looks around. His hair has fallen forward, curling a bit with perspiration against one eyebrow, and his lips look well-abused. He glows with that just-fucked look, still looking at least a little bit disoriented and sleepy.

     Gruffydd dressed at some point as you rested - not completely, there was no sense in that - enough to answer the door when food was delivered by the professional and did he mention extremely discreet staff of the castle. The drawstring trousers fit him comfortably and loose. He also showered. Around him is the scent of honey and pear soap and his hair is inky black in lingering dampness.
     He glances to you from where he stands, near bedside at the bar, pouring a short glass of something amber. It could be whisky or brandy. His expression is light, perhaps a little amused though at what who can say, and his eyes are not at all shy. "Prime rib, roasted potatoes, leeks... it is impossible to pass an evening in Wales without leeks... there is also roasted country duck, magret, sliced, with a pear chutney. And," he adds, last but not least, "...grilled asparagus, Welsh yeast rolls and fresh butter. You can have dessert made to order, if you like. I'm pondering the creme brulee. Because," he grins as he caps the bottle, "...one can never have too much cream."

     "Jesus. If I eat like that, I'll need new pants before the night's over. Uh. Speaking of pants, you wouldn't happen to know where mine are? I can hear my phone doing its thing where it calls for me like an orphaned chick."
     Pres slides his eyes over you, feeling his stomach doing uncomfortable flip-flops that he can't pass off as hunger. Or not for lack of eating, anyway. The blush stays, and he slides himself over to let his legs dangle over the edge of the bed, looking somewhat haphazardly for his cane. "I should shower before I eat, I guess. The duck and pear chutney sounds good. Well. It all sounds good, but the chutney really sounds like it."

     "There is also water," Gruffydd offers, wandering back to the bed, sipping at his brandy as he does so. "And brandy if you prefer. Though... I will make a gentle suggestion for water." His mouth spreads in a slight smile. There is such grace in his motions. It is almost dance-like, but without dramatic flair. The air seems to part for him.
     Your cane is resting against the end table on your side of the bed. Your clothes have been expertly folded and neatly placed there as well. Gruffydd reaches into the pockets, withdrawing your device and handing it to you. His eyebrows lift and his mouth makes the first twist of a grin. "Don't rush. Eat first, then rinse." Hand to your head, he tilts your head backward, his mouth spreading yours in a consumptive, slow kiss.
     Gruffydd parts from it with a tugging, brandied suckle. He chuckles, the half-laugh held in the heart of his throat. "You will need the reinforcements." He motions for you to lie back and relax as he straightens and turns to fix you a plate. "I am sure they are wondering where you are," he grins. "What you are up to..."

     He can't help watching you, with a dolorous, mournful look, trying to be discreet as his gaze follows you in your grace. He reaches for the phone, tipping his head back to peer at you sidelong. "I need to rinse off. I need to, uh-"
     It cuts off; he cuts off what he was going to say as you touch him, tilting his head further back, as you kiss him. And his heart lurches a bit in his chest. Parts of his anatomy lurch, too, bits which he'd thought would be too sensitive, even sore, to react. Apparently he was wrong about that.
     Pres sighs a little; his eyes close, his lips part, and as his anatomy and his heart settle, he kisses you back, with an open-mouthed ardor that leads to a small sound in the back of his throat as you pull away. He is blushing again, shifting and rearranging the sheet over his lap before he slowly lies back at your bidding. "Why do I have such a hard time saying no to you?" he mutters. He flips open his phone, looking at the screen. "Maddie. She thinks I'm Mickey Rourke."

     "And why would you want to say No? Yes and More are far more appealing," Gruffydd says with a wandering grin as he turns toward the food. Covers (silver, of course) are lifted from trays. Soon, two plates are full of duck (for you) and prime rib (for him) are prepared, with vegetables and rolls. He apparently has a healthy appetite and assumes you have the same. As you flip through your messages, he sets your plate on the table beside you, your clothes moved to a folded, neat pile beneath the table. There is water as well.
     "Mickey Rourke? I do not know this name. What do Mickey Rourkes do?" Gruffydd is blithely curious, his expression thoughtful, interested. The bed shifts with his weight again as he settles back against the headboard. The prime rib is cut, prepared, and soon it will be devoured, much as you were.

     He doesn't usually blush so much. You have turned on a lamp in him that he hasn't found the off switch for yet. "Old movies," Pres explains as his fingers dance over the touchscreen of his device. "Mickey Rooney, I mean, sorry. Him and Judy Garland. 'Let's put on a musical!' Maddie wants me to back her up on performing for your family."
     He hits send on the message, tossing the phone back onto the table as he takes the plate. "Thanks. I could've gotten it for myself, you know. You don't have to wait on me." He glances at you covertly up from under his eyelashes as he says it; there's a gruffness to his voice, but less that of offense (taken or intended) than of embarrassment. He is, clearly, unused to such solicitude.
     He picks up his fork and begins to eat, neatly and with as much propriety as he can muster for being naked and in bed with another man. The blush is staying the course, though it is not worsening - so far. Pres concentrates on his plate, and tries to think of the least sexy things he can without putting him off the food.

     Gruffydd turns his head to look at you as he swallows the first bit of rare prime rib. He swirls the brandy in his glass, his eyebrows jutting upward. Across his mouth there follows the warmth of a smile, hovering there, just sort of revelation. "Normally, I would wave my hand and all would be magically in its right place," he drawls out, his accent lilting upon the slow, deep tones. Humorous. "However," he leans in toward you, whispering: "...I think you have earned the civilities and social graces of being served. I will suggest a bath as well. You may be somewhat sore. It will help. And I, of course, will join you."
     Potatoes, prime rib, asparagus, roll start to disappear. "I have taken the liberty of having your clothing and bags moved here for the duration," Gruffydd informs you as he looks into his brandy. He swirls it in the glass and then takes another swallow of it. "No need to have you skulking in the palace when you can be here, in my bed, delighting me. Skulking seems like a horrible use of your time. Much better spent in bed," Gruffydd chuckles..

     He picks up the water, drinking hastily and setting it down with a certain grace that belies practice making do without the use of legs especially. He sneaks a glance sidelong at you, turning red again as you lean towards him; it takes an effort of will (and the presence of the plate on his lap) to keep from turning, curling towards you in return.
     "A bath would be a good idea," Pres mumbles. "My ... bags? Oh. Okay." He shoves some duck into his mouth to lessen the risk of his foot being the next thing to pass his lips. And he finds it good; the food begins to vanish with startling rapidity, the sort most commonly found in teenaged boys who are, in fact, still growing.
     You have him thoroughly distracted, and a little unnerved. But at the same time, he is too honest with himself, and by extent with you, to hide behind flimsy untruths. "I - I'm not very good at skulking," Pres admits, swallowing some chutney on a bite of duck. "I tend to be either in or out, one or the other. Lately it's mostly been in."

     Your innocence is manna to his mind and, by extension, his mouth. It is sweet, as you are. It makes his grin suddenly honeyed. "I will have someone draw it for us," the bath he means. But not until after dinner. He may well forgo the dessert entirely. Truly he has no need of it with you here. Gruffydd demolishes the prime rib, potatoes and asparagus but with mannerly, even courtly grace. It is a remarkable feat considering there is no table.
     "When is this ...performance you mention to take place? I believe our schedule may be fairly regimented between various family gatherings. I'm not actually certain," Gruffydd murmurs, "...that I know what a life without a calendar would be." That is as much to himself as to you.
     "So," he continues with a slight smile -- though it is slight, it travels fathoms in meaning, "...earlier...you were going to say something. I very rudely interrupted you with a kidnapping and ravishing." Gruffydd chuckles with quiet satisfaction and delight. "What is it you wish, if you could wish for anything, Preston."

     He glances to the side, watching you covertly again. He does not know what to make of you. Or of himself, right now; he feels, in a way, as shocked and as changed as he had in the aftermath of the shark's attack on him. His scar pangs, without pain, as if to remind him of the last time his life's course was so very thoroughly demolished. And he takes a bite of pear chutney.
     "She didn't say when. Probably in a couple of days - Maddie's more impulsive than me and Gillian, but she'll want a couple of days to do a little rehearsal. Cape Town was a long time ago, and she really wants to make a good impression on all of you." Pres sets his plate aside to pick up his water, adjusting the sheet to keep himself almost primly covered as he directs that covert study onto you again. "She's nervous. I can tell. I keep telling her not to be - she's Maddie, after all, everybody loves her. She's a force of nature. Runs in the family, I guess. West women."
     Pres shrugs, dismissing what's obviously a family joke (it's funny because it's true) to take a swallow, almost choking as you so blithely bring up the topic of ravishment. He sets the water aside so as not to get the bed all wet, shifting his weight to turn to look at you. "What was I saying - oh. Right." The color's raced right back up into his face and he squirms, folding his arms over his chest as he tries not to react to the more explicit topic. "I don't know. Seems stupid, really. I just sometimes wish I'd been born a couple hundred years ago. Family expectations are going to have me in business, or politics, or maybe following dad's footsteps into academia. And they're all okay, but... on their own and as they are?"
     Pres shrugs, picking up his knife and fork again. That one stubborn curl refuses to budge as he swipes at it, dislodged from his eyebrow and coming right back to rest where it was with a bounce. "I don't know. Every lifestyle has its challenges, yeah? But I feel like Horatio Hornblower in the wrong damn century, sometimes." He quirks a slight smile. "Silly, yeah? Anyway, what about you? What would you want that you don't have, or can't have?"

     "Anonymity," Gruffydd quietly and easily answers you. "At least one day per week. I would settle for a blissful afternoon of complete and total Who are you." He grins at it, knowing that you won't understand why. Not yet. "But I try not to think about things I don't or can't have. It is depressing. And... my life is full of such bounty. I should not want for anything more."
     He twists, setting his plate aside on his end table. He takes up his brandy, swirling the amber liquid in the glass again before taking another swallow. Gruffydd settles back, an arm extending behind you. Curl as you wish and will. "Your sister will do fine. The only thing the family really cares about is their happiness. I look forward to meeting her officially. Hmm... if she's anything like you, it is no wonder that my younger brother is completely mad for her."
     He is quiet a moment, sipping his brandy as he thinks upon your wish. "What if I were to tell you that your wish to be a seafaring adventurer could come true. In fact, that somewhere there are tall ships that still sail and spices that are still contested. What would you say were I to tell you that I could make this dream of yours a reality?"
     Is he the Devil and this bed the deep blue sea?

     He does not understand - well, he thinks he understands. He doesn't, of course. He's had to deal with a share of fortune hunters and gold diggers, after all, and that shows in his eyes as he gives you a slight smile, leaning back against the headboard - only to find your arm there. He sits up again a bit, automatically, blushing and then with an air of faint defiance, he settles back again and sighs, closing his eyes.
     I think I've had more sex in the past afternoon than in the past two years. That's sad, dude. And it's been better sex, too. Even counting the sex that was with my hand. Pres shifts, muttering, "I don't think we're that much alike. I'm a lot more easygoing than either of my sisters." He slides down a bit, turning towards you and curling on his side, ending up with his cheek resting against your chest.
     The contact is making him blush again, and not for the first time, he silently curses his fair coloring, even if he doesn't sunburn so much. You are speaking again, and he slides an eyebrow up, opening one eye to peer at you skeptically and then the other. What you say requires both eyes for maximum assessment and skepticism. "I'd need proof. And I'd have to ask about the catch. And I'd have to ask if this 'spice' is most often white or brown and shipped by way of China, India, Afghanistan or South America."

     "A skeptic," his voice teases with warmth. "Very American. Show me. I will show you," he assures. "As for the catch?" He chuckles at that. You do know all about bargains. "I am not the Devil. I don't deal in catches. You may take the dream and opportunity... or not. That is wholly up to you. I will say that there is nothing... illegal about it. It is, however, unlike anything or any place you have ever been."
     Gruffydd tips his head back as he takes the final swallow of brandy. "How curious are you?" he wonders idly, tipping the glass to watch the final droplet of golden liquid pool. It will evaporate, too small to be swallowed. He twists, setting the empty glass aside as his arms circe around you. "I could show you tonight," he murmurs.
     What does he mean? Perhaps there is a website or pictures he could download. Or some other perfectly understandable and reasonable evidence...

     Pres is silent, thinking about your question even as he - quite unconsciously - leans in towards you. He gives you a covert look up from under his eyelashes, remaining securely within your grasp. "I'm curious," he admits. "But there's other stuff more on my mind right now."
     Like who you are...
     What it means for me...
     Where this is going...
     He doesn't voice his thoughts, the return of those sardonic voices behind the blue of his eyes. Instead, he lifts a hand to your shoulder, pulling himself up level with you, still leaning in against you and watching your face intently. "Have you," Pres asks carefully, "ever gone surfing?"

     Gruffydd looks at you and he leans forward, his face and body turning to brush his mouth against your ear. "No... I have not. But I have seen my brother do so. It looks rather invigorating." He grins there. "So what else are you curious about, Preston?"
     His lips brush you, barely, as he speaks. His words are a warm caress of sound. There is no other teasing his mouth makes, but it is sufficient.
     "Hmm... in the bath, I think," Gruffydd says as he leans back. "It will be a good conversation to have in the whirlpool. Curiosity is always better understood amid soothing bubbles." He unfolds from his grasp around you, twisting to lift the house phone. Like a hotel, it rings a phone elsewhere. "Oes, Howell, blesio anfon a valet at 'm cell at arlunia a 'n fawr 'n llysieuol badd. Ewyllysia mo angen unrhyw gwasanaethau achos 'r nos ar ol a. Ddiolch 'ch." He sets the phone in its cradle and returns to you.
     "Someone will be up shortly. Don't worry. The staff is extremely professional and discreet." He relaxes on the bed and pillows, drawing you back to him. "The water seems important to you, your family. It is to mine as well..."

     You speak, and he just watches you while you do. He doesn't understand a word of what you've said, once you left English behind - but he doesn't need to. Pres watches you as intently as his father's ever watched an interesting specimen, in or out of a tank. "I'm curious about everything," he tells you quietly. It is no less sincere for being said quietly; and certainly no less intent.
     He leans forward, a movement which is slow and deliberate but which he has only just decided upon. A hand brushes your shoulder, down to your chest, and Pres looks hard at your chest. "You're so damn beautiful," he complains. "It'd be easier if you weren't. Maybe I should just keep my eyes closed." He sighs heavily, and settles again, resting against you and suiting action to words, and closing his eyes.
     "Water's important to all of us. My dad's a researcher - marine biology. It's why we ended up going all over the world on boats, because of his job. It was a nomadic lifestyle, and it was a lot of fun, but it was very different from other kids' lifestyles. Going to school when we got old enough to be sent off for it was a big shock." Pres shifts restlessly, opening his eyes and looking up at you, watching you with a tawny sort of irascibility. "I was going to follow dad into shark researcher, except a shark decided to research me first. But water still means something to me, even if I can't surf these days. I can't stand the idea of being too far from an ocean. How old are you?"

     "I am twenty-five. I will be twenty-six in November," he answers quietly and easily. November, here. General Autumn over There. He does not change position, he doesn't even look up as a valet enters silently and heads immediately into the bathroom. There is the sound of water running a moment later.
     "What would be easier were I not beautiful? Typically, beauty makes things easier, not more difficult. Or... at least...that is what other people say." When he smiles fully, the dimples show themselves. And the constant blushing he used to do -- where has that gone?
     "Well, you now know sharks as well as anyone, if not better. There is nothing precluding you from doing this, if that is what you wish. To study the ocean, sharks, whatever you like." From the bathroom there sounds a constant low hum and there is a rise of lavender, rosemary and honey. "Your life sounds as though it has been a sea adventure already, Horatio. Perhaps you wish for what you already have..."
     The valet emerges from the bath and leaves silently and discreetly the way he came. Gruffydd looks to you with affection. "I was born on an island, extremely far away. The sea has always been in my life. I captained my first vessel at the age of ten. My father, Iowerth, whom you met, captained his first ship at the age of nine. Precociousness runs in the family," he grins. He lightly pats your side. "Come... the bath is calling..."

     Twenty-five. He does the math. No matter how often he adds it up, you are a measure older than he is by almost twice that of the distance between his sister (younger) and your brother (also younger). Still, there is a wealth of difference between sixteen and eighteen - but he can't help but furrow his brow in contemplation, chewing over it. Whatever else he might be, Pres generally isn't a hypocrite.
     "Beauty makes things easier - and harder. Depends on what's at stake," Pres answers you, automatically. He does his best to ignore the valet, though the blush returns, creeping progressively higher. You may be used to this. He is patently less so. "I don't think I'm wishing for what I already have. Don't get me wrong, I know I have it good compared to the bulk of the world's population. I like that and I don't really want to give it up. But there's something missing which - well, I don't really know how to explain it. I'm not good with words - not good enough, anyway."
     You pat him, and he nods, rolling over obediently and groping for his cane and his trousers. Yes, he intends to pull on his trousers for the short, self-conscious walk from bed to bath. "I can't give you anonymity," Pres tells you, not turning to look at you. "What can I give you that you'd want, anyway?" His head is bowed. You can't see it, but he is biting his lip a bit.

     Rising from the bed, he drops his trousers even as you pull yours on. He has absolutely no shame -- it is true, he can't conceive of it as a concept. "It is an interesting question," Gruffydd posits as he strolls past and toward the bath. It is a grand master bathroom, with an even grander red marble whirlpool tub. It is worthy of a palace, that is for certain.
     "Why should there be any particular gain? I find you attractive. I think you have tremendous untapped potential. I believe that I can offer you opportunities you could hardly imagine. And you move so beautifully beneath me, it is incredulous to me that I am the first man to have had the pleasure. Incredulous," he smiles, "..but I do like it. For me, Preston, that is enough."
     The large bath is sunken into the floor, which will certainly make it easier for you to enter. Gruffydd waits for you. He will ensure you are safely situated before he slips in behind you. "You do not have to explain it. Yearning is something I understand. You seek after your path -- every one of us does the same. Sometimes, one's path comes calling early, as it did with me. Sometimes, it takes a while to develop. You are in the prime of your life. And, I think, could be on the cusp of something...quite special."
     There is a pause and then he offers, rather deadpan: "And I am not merely talking about the bath..."

     He is blushing before you have gotten very far; not the nudity, though that has him peeking over surreptitiously. It is what you say that makes him blush. "I only ever fooled around with one guy before," Pres mumbles. He doesn't name names. It's ungentlemanly and besides, it's besides the point. "It, uh. Didn't go this far."
     Trousers on, he limps after you with the help of his cane. His legs are still a bit trembly, and he is acutely conscious of soreness in places which usually do not receive the kind of workout they've had today. He is still watching you, though, until you so gallantly are helping him out of his trousers (again) and into the bath. "I don't know about that. Potential, I mean. What do you mean?"
     The water is warm, and Pres sighs as he sinks into it. And there, perhaps, is a revelation in and of itself, although it is one to which he is and remains oblivious; he sinks into the bath, and he surrenders himself to the water, allows it to take him, with a small moan of contentment that is not unlike how he moved beneath you. His face flushes with the heat and the steam, and it takes him a moment before he opens his eyes to look for you again. "Fuck opportunities, how much for the bath? - But go on. You've got something on your mind. I want to know what it is, Gruffydd. Besides." He laughs a little, self-conscious as he scratches the side of his neck. "A guy like you can have anything he wants. So I know this has to be something different."

     "Delightful, is it not? I believe it is the honey that does it. It will do wonders for your tired muscles, even as lavender will relax tight areas and rosemary will aid in healing." He doesn't ask of the other -- it's none of his business and it is irrelevant -- as he sinks into the water after you, the whirlpool moving water in a gentle roil at his back and legs.
     Eyebrows lift in a slow arch as he settles back, his eyes closing a moment. "Potential. Untapped desire, ability, willingness to learn and to experience life, and intelligence. I believe that if you were to come with me... to work with me... to learn from me... and, yes, of course to lie with me," his mouth forms a beautiful, wicked smile, "...there is untold possibilities for you. Now, that is not to say, of course, that you could not live life to the fullest here or...wherever you decide to go. The choice is ultimately yours. There is not one way, Preston, to happiness."
     Lavender eyes open in a sweep of long lashes to focus on you. "However, the happiness I can offer is... unlike anything you will find in London, Oahu or America..."
     The bath is a magical stew, and it works its magic upon you. Guiding you easily in the buoyant water, Gruffydd draws you to his lap, your back resting against his chest. "If you think you are being tempted," Gruffydd murmurs at your ear and smiles, "...you are. I said I'm not the Devil. I never said I was above temptation."

     His eyes don't want to stay open so much right now, so he compromises, leaving one eye closed and the other open just a little bit, watching you. That's good, too. "It's nice," Pres admits quietly, letting his body grow heavy, buoyancy taking over so that he floats as he relaxes. "Honey in it? Wouldn't that clog the drain or something? I dunno."
     You're talking, though, and he goes silent, to listen to your words and also because the bath is just so damn relaxing. He is listening, though; you can tell by the quality of his silence. I believe you. I'm not sure why I believe you, but you're not bullshitting me, and I can tell. You're trying to sell me on it, but you aren't desperate; you'd like me to say yes, but if I say no, you'll cope.
     Of course, there's no reason why you wouldn't cope. Is there?
     You guide him to you, and he does not resist your guidance - in this, anyway. Pres sighs, letting you settle him in your lap, reddening a bit further again at your murmur. "You're very good at temptation," he tells you gruffly. "You know I'm tempted. I want to ask what's the catch, but ... mostly, I'm wondering if you wouldn't end up with buyer's regret. You've known me all of a few hours. I'm not that good in bed. You are. I'm not."
     He takes a deep breath, then forces himself to look up at you, adjusting the set of his jaw. "You're very smooth," he tells you without rancor. "I'm a little - cautious about it." Cautious, hell. More like fucking terrified I'll get - He cuts the thought off. "I have no experience in this. My prep school didn't give us lessons in how to react to inexplicit propositions following extremely explicit sex."

     "The honey will completely dissolve before the bath is drained," he explains. "But not before our skin is sweetly coated. Like ... honey roasted almonds," Gruffydd suddenly sparks, his smile broad, his dimples revealed again. "And... temptation... is...for some it is a hobby. For me, it is who I am. I am the genii that promises three wishes, oes? With his honey baths and his explicit sexual favors." The image tickles him, really. It's not far from the truth.
     "Your caution is to be understood, as is your skepticism. This is not a marriage proposal, Preston. It is, however, an offer to ... serve as a mentor, if you will. A patron," he says at your ear. His hands skim over your thighs beneath the water, his fingernails lightly marking the inside of your thighs in a lazy glide. "A friend, and a lover," he breathes at your ear. "For though you doubt yourself, I do not doubt you. And I find you... thoroughly enjoyable. You open and unfold to me with such... honesty... vulnerability. Your desire is palpable. And it has piqued my interest," he grins. As well as peaked another part of him. "Think about it," is all he says. "I have made my case enough. It is for you to choose, or not. And in the meantime," his fingers glide beneath the water, between your thighs, "... we will continue to enjoy this...thoroughly..."
     His hands cup you, his fingers and palms clasping and teasing. "I should have warned you about my insatiability," he smoothly notes. He lifts one hand from your groin, water splashing lightly as he touches your face and turns it to him for a kiss.

     He gives you that look again, from under lowered lashes. It pairs desire with thoughtfulness, makes him seem quieter. Younger. Perhaps not at peace, but lost in thought as he listens to you and turns over what you say in his mind.
     Temptation. How do I feel about this idea? I'm not ... averse to it. Which is strange. I guess it's because...
     "I guess it's because I don't have a particular direction," Pres says out loud, "that I'm considering it at all." His gaze darts to you obliquely, and he shivers as you describe him - how you have seen him. How you have experienced him. And as you touch him, he shivers again, drawing in a sharp breath. I can't believe I'm still this horny. What the fuck did he add to the bath, viagra?
     But he turns his face towards you and not away, and he kisses you with pent-up energy and longing, eyelashes framed against his cheekbones in a perfect image of desire and the vulnerability tempered by fierceness. His palms slide up against your chest to your shoulders, and he holds himself there against you - chest to chest, his heart thudding violently against his ribcage.
     I know what I want. But I don't know what answer I'm going to give yet. Pres pulls back an inch or two, licking his lips and trying to get his breathing under control. "How soon do you need an answer?"

     Gruffydd looks at you, his face the picture of serenity. Who knew that Serenity could be so overtly sensual? "The is no time limit on my offer. Consider it, at your leisure. I leave at the end of the week to return to the island. If you wish to join me, you would be welcome. But," he smiles at you as you turn about in his arms, the water making it easy for you to be more mobil. Large hands cup beneath your rear, balancing you against him, upon him, "...we have all week to discuss this in more detail." It does not all have to be decided in one night.
     His eyes half-veiled, Gruffydd captures your mouth, spreading it beneath his own, as smoothly, as easily, as heated honey.

Posted by rowan at May 21, 2009 11:13 PM