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Zevran’s intention for the night was to spoil his lovely lady Warden.
She had been working quite hard, after all. One might think that a person should be able to rest and enjoy the rewards of her heroism once she had slain an Archdemon, but no; there were meetings to be had with Fereldan’s new monarchs and missives to be sent to Weisshaupt and, seemingly, an endless array of other tasks that required the new Hero of Fereldan’s personal attention.
Zevran, for his part, thought there were rather too many demands on Surana’s time. Anora had been queen already for years, after all; surely Alistair could consult with his clever and beautiful bride about the intricacies of governance, rather than constantly bending Surana’s ear.
But no, Maeve Surana soldiered on with her usual grace and aplomb, just as she had led her curious assortment of comrades to triumph over the darkspawn and the Archdemon. She was indefatigable, tireless, unstoppable; these were among the traits he loved about her.
And yet, even she needed to pause occasionally.
And even she needed a little pampering. Hence Zevran’s plans. He had been observing her closely these past months – for sundry and assorted reasons –and he had seen that she indulged herself quite rarely. For one, her clothing and armor were always practical. Sometimes beautiful, too, and she wore them well. He had nothing but appreciation for the trim fit of the magical armor she preferred. But there was no frippery, very little jewelry, very little of anything done for pleasure; their sojourns in her tent seemed the most pleasure she would indulge herself in during their long campaigns.
He had no quarrel with her priorities, of course. But it seemed a pity that such a lovely woman gave in to her sensual side so seldom. She deserved to enjoy the finest silks and laces, to taste the most succulent subtleties the world had to offer, to sparkle with gems.
His share of their rewards was more than enough to see that she had a taste of luxury, and a few hours of relaxation. He had combed the Denerim markets, even managed to secure a few items imported from Antiva (from a discreet merchant he was fairly certain was not paying the Crows anything more than the ordinary fees). He had even gone so far as to make certain suggestions to Alistair about things he might do with the lovely Anora, which had induced a great deal of blushing, but might serve to keep the king from calling upon Surana this evening.
Yes, Zevran’s plans were set, and all that remained was to introduce Surana to them.
#
Maeve Surana stopped short on entering the quarters she shared with Zevran. She had been contemplating nothing more than throwing herself on the bed for a brief nap before dinner. She’d assumed Zevran was out and about in Denerim, as he had been the last few evenings.
Instead, she found Zev lounging on the bed, which boasted a quilted silk coverlet she’d never seen before. A basket sat on the floor beside the bed, and a box on the table beside it; the mingled aromas of roasted chicken, fresh bread, and wine made her mouth water. There was some underlying fruity scent, too, that she couldn’t quite recognize. “What is this?” she asked.
“This—” Zev waved an arm expansively. “—is my gift to you, amora. A feast for the senses. An evening of relaxation, for one who has been working far too hard.”
“Your gift to me.” She raised an eyebrow. “This also sounds like a gift for you?”
“A gift for you is a gift for me, amora.” He rose with graceful, economical movements. He too was wearing something new, a silken robe in red and gold. “You are the hero of the hour, after all. Tonight, we shall celebrate and you shall enjoy some of life’s pleasures.”
She laughed. “I was the hero of about a month ago.”
Zevran clicked his tongue. “Nonsense, beloved. A hero you were then, and a hero you remain. If the rest of the world has forgotten already, rest assured that I have not, and never shall. I shall see to it that you have the rewards you deserve.” He was smiling, his tone lingering on the last words with only a hint of his usual suggestiveness.
Maeve considered. It was true that she was fatigued, but she was intrigued as well. Zevran was always full of surprises, and she could not deny the warmth of her affection or her curiosity. “Very well.” She planted her hands. “What will you have of me?”
“Aha! Tonight it is a matter of what you will have of me.” He gestured toward the bed. “Disrobe, if you would, that I may give you a massage.”
“And what if I’m thirsty?” she inquired.
He reached for the bottle of wine and a glass and had them out in an instant. “Then I trust you will enjoy one of Antiva’s finer vintages.”
She raised her eyebrows at that, but accepted the glass and drank, perhaps a little quicker than one of Antiva’s finer vintages deserved. It was a rich and heady thing, to be sure, fruity and a little tart as it filled her mouth and throat, and she was not quite sure whether it was the wine or the heat of the fire or the company that left her feeling flushed when she was done. Silently, she reached for the catches on her garments, casting aside her woolen gown and the linen shift that lay beneath.
At Zev’s gesture, she stretched out on the bed. The coverlet was so soft that it felt like lying on a cloud, and the silk was cool against her skin, making her shiver. She had handled silk rarely enough – at Kinloch Hold, wool and linen sufficed, much of it homespun and coarse. This, smooth and slippery, was a sort of luxury she had scarcely dreamed of.
A moment later, Zevran drizzled a rich, sweet-smelling oil down her spine, and began to ease it over her stiff muscles. “Almond oil, also from Antiva,” he announced.
“You spoil me with your northern ways.”
He chuckled, expertly working out the knots in her shoulders and the back of her neck. “You need to relax, my love.”
She smiled into the downy cushion beneath her. “And who better to teach me how than you?”
“Indeed! I shall teach you to take hold of your pleasures while you can.” His hands smoothed the muscles along her spine and dug into the tight spot at the base of her spine.
His ministrations squeezed a groan of pleasure out of her, and she felt herself falling into a greater and greater lassitude as Zevran stroked down her limbs, kneading the tension out of her muscles while the oil soothed her skin. He even massaged her feet and hands, working out tightness from holding a staff or a quill too long that she hadn’t even realized was there.
Yet, even as her arms and legs felt heavy and pliant, sinking into the softness of the quilt, all the tender attentions raised a warmth in her belly that soon had her squirming, shifting against the slippery silk in search of some firmer sensation. She wriggled, moving her legs apart, but Zevran continued working knots out of her calf, crooning some Antivan tune in a low voice as he did.
“Zev,” she said, making to turn over, but a hand between her shoulder blades prevented her.
“And have you some pleasure in mind just now, my love?”
“Don’t be difficult,” she grumbled. “You know very well what state you’ve put me in.”
He laughed and kissed the back of her neck, brushing her hair out of the way. “Indeed, I shall keep no pleasure from you tonight.” His fingers traced a line up her inner thigh. She shuddered and lifted her hips as his hand slipped between her legs and beneath her.
And oh, this man had the cleverest hands in Thedas, she’d swear before anyone: swift and skillful fingers knowing just where to touch, and how firmly, until she was muffling her cries into the bedding and writhing frantically as he brought her to her peak and beyond.
She rolled over, after, to find him kneeling on the bed and smiling at her in satisfaction. “I can never decide when you are loveliest,” he said. “On the battlefield, sword and staff in hand, with such a look of determination on your face that our enemies must quail before you, or here, bare and flushed and sated.”
She smiled and tilted her head, knowing it would make the earring she wore catch the light. “Flatterer,” she said. “And as it happens, I’m ravenously hungry.”
His lips twitched. “That is a terrible tragedy, amora, and cannot be permitted to continue.” He slid off the bed and poured her another glass of wine. She drank while he arranged their feast on dishes doubtless purloined from the palace kitchens. But before she could reach for the mouthwatering roast, Zevran was sweeping a robe around her shoulders “to keep back this Fereldan chill.”
He was the one who suffered from cold, more than she, but she wad of no mind to protest as the silk fold settled around her shoulders, and she admired the embroidered vines twining across the delicate surface. “You have spared nothing,” she observed, fingering the soft hem of the sleeve.
“As I said, a feast for the senses. And do you not deserve it? Why should I not shower you with gifts?”
She met his eyes, golden and serious, as he held out to her a delicate gold chain, and the laughing response she had meant to make died while she took in the necklace of gold and moonstones, pale as ice. “Zev, there’s no need—”
“No need but for pleasure, and beauty,” he said in a low voice.
Maeve seldom wore jewelry, except for the earring, but there was no way she could reject a gift like this, not with Zevran’s gaze so heavy on her. She bent her head and let him clasp the necklace around her neck, taking a breath as the cool weight settled into place. She watched him as he watched her; the firelight turned his hair to spun gold and his skin to bronze, and his eyes said more than all the flattery he might cast upon her.
“I’m still hungry,” she pointed out.
He laughed. “Then by all means, let us eat.”
She felt like a princess, entirely decadent in her silk and gems, as she tore into the succulent meat and fresh bread. There were peach tarts, as well, golden sweetness within a flaky, buttery crust, and she drank her third glass of the wine and licked the last of the crumbs from her fingers.
“So,” she said at last. “A feast for the senses, you said.”
“I did indeed.” He stretched, setting the dishes aside. “And are you quite relaxed now, amora?”
“I am,” she said, leaning back on one elbow, watching the way his eyes tracked her movement. “And do you know what’s curious?”
“What is that?”
“I don’t feel nearly so tired as when I came up here.”
“Is that so?” He tilted his head, eyes bright. “Is your evening of pleasure not finished yet, then?”
“I don’t believe it is. You said I should take hold of my pleasures, after all, and there is one pleasure I have not held yet.”
She reached out to take his wrist and pull him toward her, and Zevran laughed. “Oho! Well, I do flatter myself that you have called me your greatest pleasure.”
“Indeed I have,” she agreed, shifting to draw him down with her.
“Then you should certainly take hold of me as much as you like.”
That was exactly what she planned, so she laughed, and sought his mouth for a kiss.