“When we’re done sparring, I must douse myself in the stream’s icy waters.” Releasing her hair, Rey kissed her roughly. “When you lean over to stir the porridge, I have to count the beams in the wall.” He rocked his hips against her. “And when your hair falls into your face”—he dragged his mouth down her neck—“it takes every ounce of my will not to bury my hands in it.”
