“I’ll not thrust my cock between the legs of a woman who prefers a woman’s mouth there, Sjofn.”

“Maybe,” he cut me off, “as further recompense for this ridiculous, bloody, gods damned farce your father talked me into and, for some gods damned reason, I agreed to, I’ll watch you at play with a woman.”

Oh God! Oh Shit! OhGodohshitohGod!
He went on. “The gods know, a trunk of Sjofn ice diamonds and a trunk of gold is not worth being saddled with the bloody likes of you as wife for a lifetime. I might as well get what I can out of it and watching a woman take you would be…” his eyes swept me before he finished, “interesting.”

“I must say, Frey, I wouldn't give a gods damn that one preferred tart. That was my new bride, she’d be tasting my cock either straight through her mouth or because I was thrusting it so deep, she’d savor it in her throat,” Thaddeus remarked quietly at his side.
“Mm,” Frey murmured.
Frey felt his friend’s eyes. “You don’t agree?”
“I’ve no idea where that mouth has been. Or that cunt,” Frey replied.
“Must say, speaking true, I wouldn't care about that either,” Thaddeus returned.

My eyes drifted open as something light and lovely glided from the back of my knee up the skin of the back of my thigh.
I came to a sleepy, confused, definitely hazy semi-focus in the firelight, my eyes taking in a muscled, so dark brown it was nearly black, wool breeches covered knee and thigh resting on the bed.
I blinked.
“Waste,” I heard a low, male rumble and the finger kept going, pushing up my nightgown, drifting over my hip and then down toward my ass. “Waste,” it repeated.
The words registered, the touch registered and the direction it was heading registered.
Holy moly!

Well, apparently, Sjofn of this world dressed like a boy. Perhaps not a surprise.

I had to admit, even though I (mostly) avoided dressing like a boy (unless I was caving or the like) I could use some breeches or whatever at the present time but if a dress was all I had, a dress was what I would use.

Then I protested, “But I don’t have my soap here, a bath cloth –”
“Use mine.” His head jerked to a cake of soap and a large towel sitting on a rock.
I looked to it and looked to him, scrunching my nose. “But your soap smells like boy.”
Not that that smell smelled bad, not at all, it smelled good, especially on him. It was a fresh, clean smell, not much to it except it somehow was entirely masculine and this was probably because it didn't smell like flowers or fruit like most of my stuff did.