Count on It

"It's a very old tradition, you know."

His hand strokes her bared skin, and she whimpers, but he's caught up in lecturing her.

"One for each year of your life…you'll hardly notice that many. Then one to grow on, to live on, one to eat on, be happy on… one to marry on."

"Never been good at math, Wes."

He smiles and pats her arse with an indulgent hand. "No? I am." He traces the enticingly shadowed cleft and decides not to mention that it was also done to soften the body for the tomb.

It's her birthday, after all.

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