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Chapter 27: Wicked Eyes

Still, she called him Vhenan! Emma lath was not so far from the term. Was it?

It was just a little closer to.... Well...

Ar lath ma.

Ellana swallowed, sitting up suddenly, the bed crumpling about her. She fought to ignore the phrase completely.

"W-What are you doing here anyway? Some teacher conference or college field trip? One of the abroad programs for A-list students? Or is this something with your scientific art stuff."

"A bit of both, but I would play hooky for some sightseeing with you if I had my choice as well." He chuckled. "You did some touring yesterday it seemed? Enjoy what you saw?"

"It's very different. The streets are wider and cleaner. But it almost seems too big in scale. Every building looks like a palace. Even the post office. Or I think it was a post office. There are no bilingual signs here. It's all just Orlesian."

"They do not cater to foreigners, no." He agreed. "Do you not know Orlesian?"

"No!" Ellana laughed. "Well, no... I know Merci, S'il vous plait... and Arrêtez." She frowned as she spoke the words before scratching her head, trying to remember Leliana's short lessons. "A friend taught me 'tiens-moi nu courent' or wait—"

"Tiens-moi au courant." He corrected.

"Oh is that—"

"Votre prononciation n'est pas mauvais, ma vhenan. Eman solas i'mar eol."

The twisting lyrics of his words from Orlesian into Elvhen were so effortless and rapid it took her breath away.

It had felt like hot water flowing against her skin and had sounded like the hissing kiss of steam.

"Ah... wow... you'll have to run that by me again professor." She breathed. "Slower. And deeper."

His laugh reverberated through her chest, like he was beside her, vibrating his mirth and heat into her skin with his voice.

"Even the Elvhen, da'len?"

"No—no I got that, but the Orlesian. Are you fluent?"

"Non seulement en Orlésien. Une seule langue n'est jamais suffisante."

She heaved a breath, closing her eyes. Not that Orlesian was her favorite language, but his voice had already been something that made her body ache. To hear it slither through the rapid language was almost too much to bear.

"Was that something inappropriate?"

"Not at all." He paused, and then spoke again, this time with a slow intention she knew had to be naughty. "Je veux te lécher des hanches jusqu'aux pieds.  Now that was inappropriate."

Ellana shivered. "Are you going to tell me what you said?"

"Ir'tel'din." He denied. "And I would much rather seduce you in our own people's language."

Ellana felt something soften inside her at his use of 'our.' It stood out more than his suggestion.

It was maybe the first time he had referred to their heritage as something they shared.

"Oh?"

"Of course. Isala'gara'seia'vallas ma vhenan."

The heat of the sentence had Ellana's free hand gripping the fabric of her shirt at her breast. Her face flushed as she pieced together her vocabulary.

"Seia? Seia'vall—Ha-Hahren!!" She accused loudly.

"Ah! Ir abelas! I—" Her professor stumbled over his words, and she heard something clatter on his end of the line. "I did not think you would know—"