Imogen hummed contentedly and rolled towards him as he lay down next to her, throwing a bare leg over him and hiking the shirt up. She wasn’t wearing any underthings, but that was fine. They were both soon covered as he flicked a light fur over them and she managed to get a hand on his chest and his shoulder under her head before drifting off completely.
She couldn’t say what woke her. Ambient light from the sun, the strange bed, the taste of death in her mouth or the pounding headache and nausea attacking her. She groaned and curled up a bit, willing both to settle before cracking her eyes open. Where was she? This wasn’t Kenzie’s. She caught sight of a flight jacket and frowned, trying to get her sluggish mind to place it.
R’ger.
Oh, shells, she was in his weyr! How did she get there? He’d been gone all afternoon, she’d gone to Kenzie. How had she wound up in his weyr? This must be the blonde’s fault, she decided, carefully getting up onto her hands and pressing her lips together. If they were going to drink that much she’d prefer the healer not abandon her, she needed something to feel better.
She didn’t remember what had happened last night. She looked down and whimpered. Not her shirt, his. A quick check told her that was all she was wearing, and her hair was a mess. Not a good way to show she could adapt to dragon mating flights like any other good weyrgirl.