Gale was turning himself inside out with want.
When Damia and Shadowheart had taken themselves and an overflowing basket of clothes down to the river, he had kept himself conspicuously visible in the camp. He had cleaned the breakfast cutlery and dishes. He had reorganized the cooking supplies and taken a new stock of their food items. He had kept his hands and his mind as busy as humanly possible.
Because otherwise his mind wandered to thoughts of Damia naked in the river, water caressing her bare thighs, the sun kissing the freckles on her shoulders and nose, bringing the deep color out of them.
If he didn’t count the knives and apples, note down the amount and kinds of spices they retained, and carefully consider the weight of the sugar, then his mind would start to imagine curve of her shapely backside, his hands coming around to cup her damp, swollen breasts.
Busier. Must be busier. Something else must need doing in this wretched, empty camp.
Because if he were not busy, he would begin to imagine licking water off her skin, his mouth roaming lower toward the darker wetness between her legs.
“Deep thoughts?” Astarion asked slyly and Gale nearly gasped aloud.
He looked up at the fair haired vampire and his shit-eating grin with a frown. “Just going to organize this…” he trailed off, actually looking at what he held in his hand. “Ah, this basket of sequestered blankets.”
“Of course. Of course.” Astarion practically sang. “Chilly nights and all.”
“Precisely,” Gale said warily. He did not like the way the other man was grinning.
“And so much to do. Beneath a blanket and all.”
Gale’s hand jerked and he took a breath to berate Astarion’s improper assumptions but he beat him to the next word with a deeper knowing smile. “Oh and here come the ladies, fresh from the river. How… clean they must be.”
Gale didn’t rise to the bait, but he did look to see Damia and Shadowheart return, their hair wet still and falling down their backs, shining in the sun. Damia bore the basket of clothing, items they could choose to wear should their regular garments become too soiled or improper for the weather. Shadowheart began to help her hang the clothing up to dry.
He watched the stretch of Damia’s abdomen, slim and strong beneath her sleeveless tunic. Her arms were lean and corded, results of pulling back a bow’s drawstring countless times. He wished for those arms to be holding herself over him, hands on his chest, back bowed. What would he give right now to rip the magic from his body and allow himself, all himself, to be given over to her.
He carefully folded the blanket and retrieved the next one. Don’t think. Stop. Thinking. He felt as though Astarion would know every filthy hope within him if he stopped moving for even a single moment. If he allowed his full attention to waiver from the task at hand.
Astarion narrowed one eye at him, waited just a beat longer in the silence, then turned away as though bored. He flicked a hand casually back over his shoulder and sauntered over to Damia and Shadowheart, falling into easy conversation, earning Gale’s cold envy.
Because Gale knew that if he didn’t have a ticking timebomb in his chest, he could have everything he wanted. He could have Damia at the mercy of his mouth and hands, flick his tongue over warm skin and feel her come alive at his touch.
But he was an even bigger fool, because as soon as he told her, as soon as he warned her about the danger he was, and needs he had, she was going to turn him away. Even the shadow of her rejection constricted his chest and made the next breath painful. He was going to need to consume the Weave very soon, he could feel the maelstrom of hunger building even now. He had to tell her. Had to warn her.
But if he did, would she still hold that delicious fantasy of kissing him beneath starry skies and a canopy of green? He remembered, oh how he remembered that moment when they held the Weave and he saw within her mind the kiss that sped his heart, and made his groin stir. If she knew, would he disgust her? He couldn’t bear the thought.
Hunger spiked again and he grunted, hand closing about the cloth over his chest. Too soon. He would need a magical item too soon.
“Gale?” Damia’s voice was close, and caught him off guard. “Are you alright?”
He had to tell her. It had to be now. Sadly, he closed his mind to the fantasy of her, of the thought of her voice low and needy in the dark.
“Well, I do need to talk to you about something, well, rather important,” he said, trying to sound more chipper than he felt.
