Lion Head Mesa a whispering god

"that is the wrong sort of ruining thought," senmut rejoined just as dryly, hiding the fact that his body indeed had initiated its unceasing response to machiavelli even amid the winterspiced waters.

he began to gather it in slow rivulets, smoothing its pour down the back of those slim shoulders and the fine neck, along the slender arms to their pointed elbows.

he sluiced the water along machiavelli's body until he could restrain his worry no longer. "do you not wish to speak of it?" asked quietly the priest, besotted by his own demand to know and yet there existed in him a deep refusal to press the fellahin further.

senmut knew very little and was aware of it, at least in this regard.