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We are westward bound

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"Milady, your country seat," Miles said, gesturing with one hand to the rambling two-story pile of stone that was Vorkosigan Surleau. She stared at with avid interest that overcame the architectural: that balcony must mark the Count's rooms, those wooden doors the entry to the kitchen, could those possibly be handholds that someone had chiseled in the stone leading up to the second bedroom…?

"Originally a barracks, actually. You'll find it more modern on the inside: my mother insisted on running water and power, refrigeration, carpets that hadn't been looted from our neighbors in the Time of Isolation..." He let out a laugh at himself. "Isn't it odd-- sorry. I keep thinking I need to sell it to you. When in fact it's yours to take or leave. A familiar speech, I think."

The aircar banked, and Ekaterin took the opportunity to unobtrusively press herself against him a little harder. Their second night together she'd woken early to some unexpected sound and found him lying next to her, sleeping in truth, and been startled to discover he could. It had made her laugh at herself; that had been enough to wake him, and he had said, muzzy and baffled, You're still here?

So. Yes. They had their confusions, about themselves if not each other, and love had not been enough to scrub them away. But now they were something else: the edge on the ever-advancing blade of new desire.

"Take," she murmured, ducking her head to kiss him as Roic rigorously faced forward and pretended he'd gone deaf and blind. "You're the one who taught me to be greedy. I want the whole thing."