BROOKE

When I return to my seat, he gives me a curious look. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him crabbily. I’m not all that fine, but I don’t think he’d understand. It’s clear he doesn’t understand a lot of things.

“You say you are fine, but your tone says otherwise,” he observes, cutting another chunk of meat off and holding it out to me. Not feeding me, just, well, feeding me. In an unsexy way. He hesitates when I don’t take it from him. “Do you want this charred—”

“No. It’s fine.” I take the chunk of raw meat and pop it into my mouth, too defeated to even bitch that it’s raw. I’ll eat “sa-khui sushi” when the occasion calls for it, and right now I just don’t even want to argue. Or talk. So I chew.

He continues to watch me, and after a long moment, goes back to carving the kill. “Do you wish to play a game?”

We normally play games around the fire at night. Charades always ends badly because his versions of words are different than mine, and it limits things when you can’t use movies or actors or music. You can only guess “dvisti” so many times in a row before the game gets old. His favorite is I Spy, because it always works, and he finds it as delightful as I did when I was a child. Normally I think it’s funny how competitive—and excited—he gets to play a child’s game, but right now? I am so not in the mood. “Nope.”

“We should. It will be good,” he says, carving another hunk of meat and offering it to me. “I spy with my blue eye—”

“I told you. It’s ‘my little eye.’”

“My eyes are not little. Not like yours. So I will spy it with my blue eye. And I spy something red.”

I’m going to ignore that crack about my eyes being little, because it wasn’t meant in a shitty way. “Meat?”

“Yes! You are very good at this.”

“Lucky me.” I take another piece of food and chew thoughtfully. My turn. “Okay. I spy with my little eye…something brown.” I do my best not to pointedly stare at his leather loincloth and give it away.

“Brown,” he murmurs, glancing around the small cave. “Brown…is it my boot?”

“Nope.” I take another bite of the gushy red meat.

“Is it…my waterskin?”

“Nope.”

“Is it…the intestines of our dinner?”

Oh my god, are they brown? I look over at the pile of offal that’s neatly covered by some folded leather. I can’t see anything, but my imagination goes wild…and my stomach revolts. The mouthful I’m chewing on suddenly feels like it’s gonna turn into vomit. “You know what? I’m done.” And I rush to the front of the cave to spit out my food.

“What is it? What did I say?” Taushen calls after me. “Brooke?”

I don’t answer. Too busy puking.

TAUSHEN

Brooke is in a bad mood for the rest of the evening. She does not eat, mends her clothes quietly, and will not play more games with me. When she decides to go to bed early, I do not protest. I do not like her bad mood, and I am fairly certain that I caused it. But I will deal with that tomorrow.

For now…I simply need to get away.

I wait in my furs, tense and aching as I listen to her breathing. Eventually it slows, and she drifts into sleep.

Finally.

I ease out of my bed silently, getting to my feet. It takes longer to move without sound, but I manage to creep through the cave without waking her, just as I do every night that we travel. I move out into the snow, wincing with every crunch of the powder under my toes. When I am satisfied I am far enough from the mouth of the cave for privacy, I glance around, checking to ensure that Brooke is not behind me.

Then, when I know I am alone, I quickly undo the laces on my loincloth and free my aching cock.

Every night, I have to leave and take myself into hand. I grip my shaft, stroking up and down quickly. I do not seek to prolong this; I just want relief.

Relief from Brooke’s smiles, the subtle bounce of her teats with every step, the way she smells, the way she touched me in the stream. Her throaty laughter.

And her insistence that we be friends.

I will be as she wants. I will be her friend.

I will just take myself in hand every night to ensure that I do not lose control, that I do not do something foolish such as pulling her against me and kissing her. She has made it clear how she feels, and because I will take any small part of my Brooke that I can get, it will have to do.

So I stroke, imagining her pink mane tousled under me, her lips parted with pleasure as I ram into her cunt. The breath hisses from my throat as I imagine her teats jiggling as I thrust into her, the little cries she makes. It does not take long, not when I imagine her. A growl breaks from my throat, and my seed, thin and clear, spurts over my hand and fingers as I stroke. I wring every last bit of pleasure from the furtive touch and then shake my hand, flinging my discarded seed into the snow.

The sight of it makes me bitter. Not because she has turned me away. It is her choice, and I understand it. It is because I cannot control myself around her. She washed my back earlier today and my cock immediately rose. How can we possibly remain friends if I cannot control myself around her?

I worry I will ruin everything.