Lord Summoner's Freedom Philosophy: Grimoire of Love-Chapter 516: Scars and Promises (2)

If audio player doesn't work, press Reset or reload the page.

Chapter 516: Scars and Promises (2)

"Eventually."

She huffed—half laugh, half resigned sigh—then brushed hair from his forehead. She kissed exactly where the new scar bisected his hairline, lingering an extra heartbeat, then eased lower, her lips grazing down to rest at the corner of his mouth. She whispered against him, breath warm, "Don’t faint. I’m not done yet."

Her kiss deepened gradually, molten lava under ice. It neither demanded nor yielded, simply enveloped him, asking him to stay alive inside it. Time thickened; sounds blurred. He tasted lilac, tasted smoke, tasted promise.

When they separated, exhalations escaped the circle like arrows loosed—half teasing, half reverent.

Alina snapped out of the trance first. She pumped a fist in the air. "TENT. NOW."

A ripple of laughter, half joyous, half predatory, swept the group. Lyan found his hand seized by three different women simultaneously; another untied his cloak; someone else tugged a strap on his greaves. Boots scuffed dust as they herded him like celebratory wolves toward the largest campaign pavilion, torches bobbing behind them.

The last thing he saw before ducking through the canvas flap was Josephine doubled over with laughter, calling after him, "Try to stay conscious till dawn, hero!"

They dragged him inside without waiting.

_____

Raine was already unbuttoning her blouse when the canvas flap fell back into place, and the lamplight inside the pavilion painted warm honey-glow over everything: the rugs mismatched from plundered parlors, the heap of campaign blankets that smelled faintly of cedar smoke, the battered travelling desk shoved aside to make floor space. It smelled of incense and leather and the sweet-savory steam from the field-kitchen cauldrons outside. Lyan’s boots had barely found a square of empty ground before Sigrid yanked off her armored coat with a clash of buckles and tossed it onto a stool, the steel ringing like a gong announcing feast.

Tara crouched by a brass incense pan, striking a spark-rune. A curl of pale smoke lifted, tinged with clove and something greener—a mountain herb she swore calmed nerves and heightened sensation. In two breaths the whole tent felt closer, like the air itself tucked a blanket around the occupants.

Alina was already on his lap, straddling him as if the intervening seconds away from his heartbeat had been too long. Her petite frame pressed tight, knees digging into his thighs. "We’re going to break you," she whispered, breath hot against his ear. Her voice quivered between delight and warning, like a violin string drawn slow.

"Is this a threat or a promise?" he asked, though it came out half a gasp because she chose that moment to roll her hips. He felt the worn leather of her riding skirt squeak against his belt buckle; the sensation cracked through his spine like a lightning fork.

Solia elbowed in, brown curls bouncing. "Move. I was here first." She tried to wedge a shoulder between them.

"You weren’t!" Alina snapped, clinging harder.

"Stop fighting!" Clarisse barked, stepping forward, gold hair a molten sheet. She rested one hand on her hip, the other tapping a finger against her lower lip. A thin grin curved. "Everyone knows I get the first twenty minutes."

"I thought we drew lots?" Sigrid rumbled, loosening the strap that bound her ponytail. The blonde waves spilled over her broad shoulders. She reached back to tug the ribbon free and shook her head; lamplight strobed along the strands like sunlight on fields of wheat.

"You cheated the lots!" Alina and Solia squealed in imperfect harmony.

Raine, blouse now hanging open just enough to tease the lace edge of her shift, sighed theatrically. "You guys are hopeless." She leaned over Lyan’s other side, her silvery hair wafting cool against his cheek as she brushed it behind her ear. "We could chart a rota, but we’ll be here till harvest."

Tara collapsed onto the blankets, one hand draped over her brow in exaggerated woe, cedar beads clicking in her braid. "At this rate, it’ll be morning before I even get a thigh."

Emilia smirked from where she lounged against the central tent pole, greatsword propped beside her like an iron sentinel. She crossed her arms—and the motion flexed muscle under tawny skin dusted with copper freckles. "One night. Twelve hours. Eight women. If each gets twenty minutes plus kisses plus pillow talk, that’s—"

"Six hours and counting," Raine finished, eyes glittering like moonlit quicksilver.

"Don’t forget Tara’s weird preferences," Clarisse chimed, sliding fingers through her hair as though unsheathing daggers of gold.

Tara lobbed a pillow. Pff! "It’s not weird, it’s efficient!"

The pillow ricocheted off Clarisse’s shoulder and smacked Lyan square in the face. The muffled "Ooof!" he produced only made the women burst into giggles: a chorus of soprano lilts, alto chuckles, Sigrid’s barrel laugh.

It was chaos, but a specific kind—chaos that smelled of cloves and sweat and anticipation, that glowed with a dozen shades of affection. Lyan tried to catalog everything because his mind, trained for tactics, needed order even inside uproar: the way Raine’s fingers trembled on her buttons—eager, maybe anxious; the faint red flush high on Tara’s cheekbones brought out by incense heat; Solia balancing on one foot as she kicked off her boots, mumbling curses when a lace snagged. Each detail anchored him, grounded him in reality so the whirl of hands and lips did not wipe him away.

Clarisse reached down, cupped his chin, and pulled him into a sudden kiss: mmh—a soft, searching press of lips, her breath tasting faintly of citrus rations and something sharper, like the tang that lingered after channeling lightning mana. The contact lingered long enough for her to hum a smug little mmm-hm then she released him with a wet slrp that drew a fresh peal of laughter from the others.

Alina, possessive, reclaimed his mouth before he could inhale. She kissed in quick pulses—mh, mh, mh—tiny bursts of sweetness like berries crushed on the tongue. He tasted smoke and honey bread crumbs still clinging to her lower lip from the hasty dinner an hour ago. Her hands cupped his jaw, thumbs stroking where beard stubble rasped faint and satisfying.

Solia wouldn’t be outdone. She slipped behind Alina, reached around, and dragged Lyan by the nape into a three-way collision—Alina’s startled squeak swallowed as Solia’s tongue darted in from the side, flicking playful across Lyan’s. The flavor was wild mint from the leaf she chewed in lieu of soldiers’ tobacco, cool as mountain water. Sllrp. Alina squealed again, then melted, sliding sideways off his lap into Solia’s waiting arms.

"Like sharing sweets," Solia whispered against Alina’s ear, earning a bashful giggle.

On the blankets, Tara propped herself on an elbow. "My turn for data collection." She crooked a finger. Lyan’s heartbeat thudded double-time; yet he found his feet glued—Emilia had snagged his belt with two fingers.

The red-haired warrior examined him like a blacksmith eyeing an ingot. "We’ll break him if we rush," Emilia decided. Her voice was husky, edges softened by the ember glow. She tugged him forward, guiding his hands to her waist. Under calloused fingers he felt the firm warmth of muscle beneath linen. She leaned in and kissed him slow. Wet, deep—mhm... slrp—her tongue swept deliberate, rolling tasting notes like a connoisseur: cinnamon, iron, faint sweetness of mead. She sucked his lower lip before letting go, and the faint pop left his ears ringing.

Sigrid growled. "Enough, kitty." She seized Lyan’s shoulders, lifting him as if he weighed no more than a sack of oats, and dropped onto a cushion, pulling him into her lap sideways like a child’s doll. Her arms banded like chains of warm steel around his torso. She smelled of pine tar and battlefield adrenaline that hadn’t burned off yet. Her mouth claimed his with a resonant hroOHM—the noise half-moan, half-rumble. Kissed by a storm bear, he thought fuzzily. Her taste: salt from sweat, a hint of ale, underlying softness like baked rye. She broke away only when Tara drummed fingers on her bicep in false impatience.

"My patient, giantess." Tara tugged him free and pressed him back against a pile of blankets. She knelt astride his thighs, knees bracketing his hips. Her brown eyes searched his, physician-keen, checking for signs of fatigue. Satisfied, she dipped, planting gentle pecks along his jawline—mh, mh, mh—then captured his lips in a kiss that started tender and blossomed hot the moment her tongue stroked his. slrp... The incense flavor clung to her mouth—spice, forest resin, something slightly numbing that made each second tingle.

A chorus of appreciative catcalls circled the tent.

"Delicious," Tara murmured, pulling back to tap his nose, then rolled off, sprawling like a satisfied cat.

Raine slipped in next, blouse fully undone now, the pale slope of her collarbones glowing. She straddled one of his legs and cupped his cheeks with cool fingertips. "Deep breath," she ordered. He obeyed, lungs filling with clove and her faint perfume of frost lilies. She kissed him gently at first, lips brushing—mh—then deepened, drawing a sigh from him. Her tongue traced the pulse in his mouth—he felt the spark of alchemy chalk on her fingertips as they slid up into his hair—and she whispered, "Still alive. Good." She added a playful slrrrp on withdrawal, eyes twinkling.

"Hopeless romantics, the lot of you,"

Visit freewe𝑏(n)ovel.co(m) for the b𝘦st novel reading experience