Girl On Fire

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A small half-smile tugs at one corner of his mouth, roguishly charming as always. Your own brows draw together in annoyance, and you purse your lips. Your lack of response is more than enough to answer his question.

He stands, clad only in his breeches and a half-tied tunic, the loose fabric hanging open just enough to reveal the hard planes of his chest. Flickering candlelight dances across his skin, casting shifting shadows that accentuate the lean muscle earned through years of training. You draw a slow breath through your nose, your fingers curling against the edge of the vanity as your gaze lingers on him for just a heartbeat too long.

“So angry you can’t even speak,” he muses. “Or does something else still your tongue?”

“I will let you know when I wish to speak to you again,” you reply airily, busying yourself with arranging the jewelry you wore earlier inside its carved wooden box. You fuss with each piece far longer than necessary, nestling rings and bracelets into place to keep your hands occupied. 

So lost in thought, you don't hear his approach. Instead, the clean scent of him, threaded with sandalwood and cedar, surrounds you moments before he comes to a stop behind you. His long fingers trails lightly over your collarbone and heat seeps through your thin dressing gown where he rests his hands against your shoulders. 

"Should I apologize again?" he asks, deliberately dropping his voice to a low, velvety murmur, close enough that the words fan over the shell of your ear.

You do not give him the satisfaction of looking up, though he can certainly feel the involuntary tremor beneath his hands and hear the subtle hitch in your breath. Offering only an indifferent hum from the back of your throat, you close the lid of the jewelry box and busy yourself straightening the row of perfume bottles with deliberate care.

“Perhaps more than words are needed to show you how contrite I am,” Gwayne continues. 

Before you can react, the chair scrapes against the stone floor as he moves it – and you – away from the vanity, stepping into the empty space. He lowers himself, one knee and then the other, looking up at you with such exaggerated seriousness that you almost resent the way it threatens to make you smile.

“I am at your service, my lady.”

There’s a secret kind of thrill to seeing a knight of the realm kneeling before you, hands bred for steel and battle made soft just for you.

Though you do not speak, your chin lifts the slightest fraction, the unspoken invitation all he needs to part the robes of your dressing gown. Roughened fingers curl around the back of your calf and he guides you to spread your legs for him. There is something endearingly annoying in the way he watches you from beneath his golden lashes, utterly certain that, given enough patience, your resolve will crumble.

You give him nothing and he smirks, pressing a kiss to the inside of each thigh. Distracted, you miss the moment he cups your hips and drags you forcefully forward. The unexpected movement draws a startled little sound from between your pressed lips. Left precariously perched on the edge of the chair, you instinctively reach for his shoulders to steady yourself.

He looks up at you with a smirk and urges you to spread your legs until you are on full display. Only then does his gaze drop to the most intimate part of you. The blue of his eyes deepens, his lips parting as though he has forgotten to breathe. You squirm despite yourself, the cool air grazing your skin in sharp contrast to the warmth of his hands.

Gwayne does not put his mouth on you like you expect. Instead, his fingers trace the length of your inner thigh, his touch deft and unhurried. Goosebumps rise in their wake, and a shuddering sigh escapes you when he finally reaches your core. There he finds that delicate bundle of nerves and rubs slow circles with the pad of his thumb. Your sensitive flesh catches on the roughened edges of his calluses, the sensation enough to make you seek more. 

You tilt your hips forward and he rewards the movement by teasing your entrance with two of his fingers, a slow, deliberate exploration of your warmth. His blue eyes remain fixed on yours until you can bear them no longer. Your gaze slips to his forearm, following the play of muscle and flexing tendons beneath his skin as he works. 

“Eyes on me,” he whispers, though it sounds less like a command than a plea. “My beautiful wife.”

Heat blooms in your chest at the quiet praise. You hate how easily those three words soften your resolve, the reason for your anger growing hazier and hazier with each passing moment.

“Am I yet forgiven?” He questions.

When you do not answer he crooks his fingers, sending a sharp pulse of pleasure through your belly.  Words fail you. Your lashes flutter closed, breath catching in your throat as you hover on the precipice, so achingly close. Without thought, you raise your hips, seeking more until the deliberate scrape of his thumbnail over your bud tears brings you back to the present.

“I need an answer, if I am to continue my apology” he whispers, his voice rough with want. 

“Yes, gods, please Gwayne,” you keen.

He smiles, victorious, but the faint flush creeping across his alabaster skin tells you you are not the only one so affected. 

“Please,” you beg a second time, unashamed and needy. 

“Whatever my lady demands,” he agrees, removing his fingers. 

You have only a moment to mourn their loss before Gwayne buries his head between your thighs and his tongue deep in your cunt. As in all things, he is relentless in bringing you to your peak.

One hand remains braced on his shoulder while the other falls to his head, fingers threading through his hair. You’re unable to resist the need to anchor yourself to him, as if he could abandon you in this moment of any other.  

He devours you as though your taste is the very air he needs to breathe, the water that sustains him. It is enough to undo you. Ribbons of pleasure unravel inside your belly, sweeping up into your chest and washing through you. 

Your fingers tighten in his hair, nearly painfully so, yet Gwayne only answers with a deep groan, the sound sending another wave of aftershocks through you. He stays between your thighs for a moment, content to worship you further. Only when your hand slips from his hair does he finally draw back. His blue eyes are bright, his cheeks warmly flushed, and a sheen of perspiration clings to his brow. He looks utterly undone,

“I am worried, my lady,” he says with feigned sincerity, “that I have not apologized sufficiently.”

“Gwayne,” you begin, trying to gather your wits, but he is quicker. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth as he catches your hand and gently draws you to your feet. Your legs are less steady than you would like, and he slips an arm around your waist.

You feel utterly spent, and whatever argument had sparked this morning's quarrel is little more than a distant memory now.

“I must apologize more thoroughly,” he continues, reaching to loosen the ties of your gown. 

The rich fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. Gwayne's gaze lingers on your naked form, so full of hungry devotion that it fans the embers of your desire.

“I am quite cross,” you lie, slipping your arms around him and drawing him close. 

You rise onto your toes and kiss him, slow and lingering, your fingers curling into the front of his tunic. Perhaps, you think with quiet amusement, you ought to quarrel with your husband more often.

“You may stay to watch, if you wish,” Ormund offers Gwayne, though his attention never leaves you. “I am generous, after all.”

His thumb and forefinger tilt your chin upward, forcing your gaze toward him. Instead, your eyes find Gwayne over his shoulder, and an ache so deep blooms in your chest it feels as though you have been run through with a broad sword.

When your attention lingers there a moment too long, Ormund’s other hand settles at your hip, his grip tightening just enough in warning. Slowly, reluctantly, your gaze returns to him.

For a moment, he seems content simply to look at you, as though savoring the discomfort he has caused. Then he leans closer, his nose brushing your cheek as he draws in your scent.A slow smile spreads across his face, but his eyes remain cold and calculating.

“Lavender and honey,” he murmurs. “My favorite.”