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This week had been a slow-moving torture of missed connections. Maekar would stumble into your shared chambers long after the moon had reached its zenith, his face etched with the day's battles, only to find you deep in an exhausted sleep. When you woke, the space beside you was cold, his scent a fading ghost on the pillows. It was a chasm of silence and solitude, and you had grown tired of it. That morning, you had summoned Maekar's steward. "You will tell my husband," you instructed, your voice leaving no room for argument, "that his work ends today at the seventh hour. He will join me for dinner. He will not be late." The steward, a man who had seen the your husband’s frustrations at the constant near-misses, simply bowed. "Of course, my lady."

You spent the afternoon orchestrating the evening. The kitchens were a hive of activity, preparing everything Maekar favoured. You wanted to care for him, to wash the week's exhaustion from his bones with food and wine and quiet affection.

Dinner was a success. The tension in his shoulders finally unwound, and the lines around his pale violet eyes softened as he spoke of his day, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the table. He fed you from his own fork, his fingers lingering on your lips, a silent promise of what was to come. When you finally retired to your bedchamber, the air was thick with unspoken need. The week of abstinence had been a strain on you both; your life together was a passionate, physical one, and this dry spell had left an ache.

"You have missed your husband, I think," he teased, his voice a low growl as he pulled you into his arms. His silver-blond hair brushed against your cheek, and the faint, coarse scratch of his beard was a familiar, thrilling sensation against your skin.

You wound your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his. "And you, my lord," you murmured against his mouth, "have you missed your wife?" His answer was a kiss, deep and hungry. He backed you toward the bed, his hands roaming possessively over your curves, undressing you as he went, his touch igniting a fire low in your belly. You fell onto the soft furs, a tangle of limbs and growing urgency. His mouth moved from yours to your throat, nipping and sucking, and you arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips.

"Maekar," you breathed, your fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. "I did something… for you."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark with lust and curiosity. A slow smile spread across his lips. "Did you now?" he rumbled. "Show me."

You sat up and gripped the hem of your silky shift. In one fluid motion you pulled it over your head and cast it aside. The firelight kissed your skin, and you watched his face, your own breath held tight in your chest. His smile faltered. His eyes, which had been filled with a hungry heat, widened slightly. The look on his face was a flash of pure, unadulterated dismay.

"What is this?" He pushed himself up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on the juncture of your thighs. "Who did this to you?"

A knot of anxiety tightened in your stomach. "You… you do not like it?" you asked, your voice smaller than you intended.

The sound of your voice seemed to break him from his stupor. He saw the uncertainty in your eyes, the slight tremble in your lower lip, and his expression immediately softened. He reached out, his large hand cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. "No," he said quickly, then corrected himself. "I mean, yes. You are beautiful, perfection, as always."He sat up fully, his muscular torso bathed in firelight. "But I love the look of you, all of you."

You could not help the small pout that formed on your lips.

He saw your disappointment and leaned in, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to your mouth. "You are spectacular," he insisted, his voice a low, earnest murmur against your lips. "But please, do not let that butcher touch you again."

A small, watery laugh escaped you at his dramatic choice of words. The tension in the room broke, replaced by something more complex, a mixture of your lingering disappointment and his overwhelming affection. He pulled you back down onto the furs, his mouth finding yours again. The kiss was different now, less frantic, more apologetic and tender. But the week of built-up need was a powerful force. His hands began to roam again, rediscovering your body, and the heat between you began to rebuild, slowly at first, then with a sudden, ferocious intensity. He rolled on top of you, and when he entered you it was with a groan of pure relief.

He began to move, his strokes deep and punishing, and as he took you, as he watched his thick, glistening cock disappear into your body, something shifted in him. He had been dismayed, yes, but now he was transfixed. Without the soft, neat curls he could see everything. He could see how the perfect, swollen folds of your cunt spread around his length, see how utterly soaked you were for him, your slickness coating him, shining in the firelight. The visual was filthy, intimate, and undeniably erotic. He could see every detail of your body's response to him, and it drove him wild with a possessive lust.

"Gods," he grunted, his rhythm growing faster, harder. He gripped your hips, pulling you onto him with each thrust, the sound of your bodies meeting echoing in the quiet chamber. "How long," he panted, his gaze locked on where you were joined, "until it grows back?"

"Four moons or so," you gasped, your hands clutching at his powerful shoulders, your body arching to meet his brutal pace.

A rough, breathless laugh escaped him. "Well, there is no point in waiting around." He drove into you, his hips snapping hard against yours. "We might as well make the most of this." The sheer, unexpected amusement in his voice, mixed with the power of his thrusts, sent you over the edge, and you cried out his name as your release tore through you. He followed you moments later with a hoarse shout, burying himself deep inside you and spending inside you, marking you as his.

You set the book down as he stepped closer, your heart still doing that familiar flutter despite all those years.

Aerion closed the distance, his fingers reaching out to cup your chin, tilting your face up.

“You look so small in this massive bed,” he murmured, pointing out the change in furniture. “And so terribly lonely. Did you think I wouldn’t come to you tonight?”

“I didn’t know if you would be occupied with father, or… your training,” you replied, voice softer than you intended, showing just how easily your resolve melted the second he touched you.

Aerion let out a chuckle, tapping your cheek lightly before pulling his hand away to pace the length of your mattress.

“Father concerns himself with tedious matters of state, and the knights in the yard are dullards. None of them understand what truly matters.”

He stopped, turning his gaze back to you.

“But you understand, don’t you?” He stepped closer, the fabric of his doublet rustling as he leaned down, placing his hands on either side of your thighs, effectively pinning you into your own bed.

“Or have you been listening to the idle gossip of the septas again? Tell me you haven’t let those foolish people fill your pretty little head with their nonsense.”

You swallowed, gaze flickering back to his eyes. The weight of his presence was already making it hard to think straight. Your body instinctively curved into the space he occupied.

“They only speak of duty, brother. Of what is expected of a lady of our house when she comes of age.”

“Duty?” Aerion scoffed, shifting his weight so that his knees would sink into the soft mattress right between your thighs, parting them just enough to spark heat deep in your stomach.

“They know nothing of our duty. They worship a new god and preach to the common filth. They want to break us until we are nothing more than their ordinary selves.”

He reached out, fingers tangling into your hair, tugging it gently to force your head back.

His expression softened in a way that always made your chest ache with a desperate need to please him.

“It frightens you, doesn’t it?” Aerion whispered, his free hand coming down to stroke your thigh. “The thought of duty… being given away to some Lord. To have a man with foul blood touch you.”

You shivered, a small whimpering breath escaping your lips. You shook your head slightly against his grip. “I don’t want that. You know I don’t. I want to stay here with you.”

“I know you do, my clever girl,” Aerion murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed yours, leaving you breathless. “Your blood cannot be tainted. It is meant to stay pure, inside these walls. You know you are meant for me.”

But then the tender air vanished.

His hand on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in with bruising pressure that caught you off guard. His eyes darkened, a sudden cutting edge of disappointment slicing through his voice.

“Yet you still keep that final piece of yourself guarded,” he hissed softly, “you let the words of other people linger in your mind. I give you everything, and yet you withhold the one thing that ensures our bloodline remains pure. You do not live up to your claims. It wounds me, sister.”

The accusation cut straight through you.

The mere thought of displeasing him just because you didn’t understand the full weight of his demands made your chest tighten. You couldn’t bear his disappointment.

“No, Aerion, that’s not true,” you pleaded softly, hands automatically reaching up to grip his forearms. “I love you, more than anything.”

Aerion didn’t relent. He kept his gaze heavy and punishing as he looked down at your wide eyes.

“Do you?” he titled his head, a skeptical drawl that made tears prick the corners of your eyes.

“Words are easy, little sister.” He moved closer, his intoxicating scent engulfing you entirely. His lips brushed against the tip of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You said you love me?” he whispered filthily against your skin, the tone of his voice making your body ache in that foreign way.

“Of course I do,” you choked out, instinctively tilting up toward his knee as you practically begged for him to stop being angry with you. “Aerion, please, I do…”

You were instantly at his mercy, unraveled by nothing but your big brother’s words.

Aerion pulled back to look into your glassy eyes, a satisfied smirk finally breaking across his features.

“Then show me,” he commanded, his chin nodding upwards in your direction.

You didn’t even have time to nod before Aerion’s mouth slammed into yours. It was anything but gentle, his tongue forcing its way inside.

You whimpered into his mouth as his hands moved to the laces of your gown.

He didn’t tear them—not yet, but his fingers were slick and impatient, loosening the fabric until it pooled around your shoulders, exposing the curve of your breast.

His eyes raked over your skin. “Beautiful,” he purred, “So pure. So untouched.”

He leaned down, his hair brushing your cheek as his lips found the skin beneath your jaw. You made a light gasp, hands latching onto his shoulders.

Aerion chuckled softly against your skin, clearly pleased by how easily you melted under his touch.

He trailed a line of wet kisses down the column of your neck, his tongue tasting the frantic pulse ticking in your throat before moving lower.

When the fabric of your dress got in the way, he ripped it apart completely, throwing it somewhere onto the floor of your chamber.

Aerion paused at the sight of your naked body, his lips parting as his eyes explored every curve.

His mouth found its way back to your skin. Closing over the sensitive peak of your breast, his tongue began circling snd sucking, leaving marks.

A broken whimper escaped your lips, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He dragged his hands over your sides, smoothing over your waist before his fingers brushed your inner thigh, moving higher until he pressed against your center.

You were already slick, a needy wetness coating his fingers.

“See?” Aerion whispered, his eyes dilating with primal lust. “Your body knows exactly who it belongs to. You’re this wet and I haven't even touched you.”

The intensity in his gaze made your throat tight. He started undressing as you laid beneath him, chest heaving.

You couldn’t help but look down as he took his pants off, eyes trailing his every move.

You knew you desperately needed his approval, but as he positioned himself between your thighs, a sudden wave of panic hit you. You’d never felt anything so large pressing against your entrance.

“Aerion, wait,” you breathed, your voice small as you looked into his eyes. “I’m scared… It’s too.. it’s going to hurt.”

“It will,” he growled softly, “But you’re going to take it aren’t you? You’re not going to disappoint your brother, hm?”

He didn’t give you a chance to protest further. Placing one hand beside your head, Aerion pushed himself forward with heavy deliberation.

The barrier of your maidenhead gave way with a painful burning sting. A cry tore from your throat, tears immediately pricking your eyes as he drove deeper, breaching you completely until he was fully buried in.

The fullness was staggering, a deep ache forming around your walls as they stretched to make room for him.

Aerion stayed still for a moment, letting you absorb the size of him. He looked down at your tear stained face, a terrifyingly soft, mocking smile splayed on his face as he watched you tremble beneath him.

“Look at you,” he cooed, his voice a low, sweet purr of mock sympathy. “Crying over a little sting? My poor, fragile sister. It hurts, doesn’t it?”

You could only nod weakly as your hands clutched at his shoulders.

“But you bore it for your brother, didn’t you?” Aerion murmured, his tone shifting to give you the validation you so badly needed.

He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your damp cheek. “Good girl. Such a loyal little dragon.”

Before you were able to process his words, his hands locked onto your hips. With a sudden roll of his hips, he began to move inside you.

The abrupt friction hit your freshly torn walls and you let out a needy wail, your head tossing back into the pillows.

The sensation was overwhelming. A blurry rush of heat and a sharp blinding pleasure began to form deep in your lower stomach.

“Aerion–ah! Please, it’s too–”

“Too much?” he tutted, a breathy laugh escaping him as he quickened his pace, his thrusts getting deeper, harder, driving you into a euphoric state. “It’s exactly what you deserve. You belong to me now, you always have.”

You moaned, whimpering at the onslaught of his words and the brutal force of his thrusts. Your walls clenched frantically around him, pulling him deeper with every stroke.

Aerion’s features were taut, his jaw clenched as he stared down at you.

He was consumed by the sight of your submission, his eyes roaming all over your body while he delivered heavy strokes that hit the sensitive spot of your cunt.

A high, breathless cry broke from your throat. You clawed into the muscles of his back and your vision went blurry as your climax crashed over you.

You buried your face in his neck, sobbing his name into his skin as you drowned in the sensation.

“There it is,” Aerion praised as he felt you pulsing around him. He didn’t slow down, chasing his own release with ruthless friction.

It didn’t take long before his frame went rigid, his hips shuddering as he released his seed deep inside your freshly claimed warmth.

Aerion remained heavy and unmoving over you, his breathing slowly steadying against your neck.

He didn’t pull away, keeping you anchored under him, making sure you felt every ounce of his weight.

After a while, he shifted, lifting his head to look down at you. His fingers traced a lazy path up your arm, ignoring the way you still trembled.

“Look at what we’ve done,” he murmured as his thumb caressed your flushed cheek. “You were so frightened over nothing. All that worrying, and for what? You liked it, didn’t you, my sweet girl?”

A deeper blush burnt through your face, but you didn’t look away. “Because it was you,” you responded, still breathless.

Aerion grinned at that, thoroughly satisfied. “Never forget that, little dragon.”

The sheer, unexpected logic of it stunned you into silence. Before you could formulate a retort, he was sauntering over to Valarr, his posture a study in nonchalant authority.

You saw Valarr’s initial frown, his instinctive shake of the head, and then Aerion’s low, persistent murmuring. Finally, Valarr sighed, a long-suffering exhalation of breath, and tossed the keys to his cousin.

Kiera was less easily persuaded. “Absolutely not,” you heard her say, her voice high and sharp. “I’m his girlfriend. I sit in the front.”

“Kiera, my sweet,” Aerion purred, his voice dripping with a venomous charm. “Your dedication to aural torture is an act of war against humanity. Our dear friend here is turning the shade of a Dornish olive. She gets the front, she doesn’t get a choice, and you can deafen Daeron all you like. He’s practically comatose. It’s a victimless crime.”

Before Kiera could launch a full-scale offensive, Valarr placed a placating hand on her arm. “It’s just for a bit, love. Let’s not have anyone vomit on the leather.” Defeated, Kiera huffed and threw herself into the backseat, her perfectly glossed lips set in a mutinous pout.

You climbed into the passenger seat, still slightly bewildered. The cabin felt different from this vantage point. Aerion adjusted the seat, the mirrors. He pulled out of the service station with a smooth, controlled confidence that was, you had to admit, a stark contrast to Valarr’s more cautious, rule-abiding style. He wasn’t speeding, but he drove with a fluid grace, weaving through the slower traffic on the Kingsroad with effortless ease.

And he was right. From the front seat, the nausea receded. You could breathe.

“Better?” he asked, his voice low, not looking at you. His eyes were fixed on the road, the late-morning sun catching the silver-gold of his hair.

“Much,” you admitted, the word tasting like a surrender.

“Good,” was all he said, but the corner of his mouth twitched. From the backseat, Kiera’s pop playlist was now a muffled, tinny warble, and Daeron had, miraculously, remained asleep, his head now resting against Kiera’s rigid shoulder. She looked like a cat that had been forced into a bath.

When Valarr took over driving duties again after lunch, a sense of normalcy resumed. Kiera was reinstated in her rightful throne, her mood visibly improving as she queued up a new, even more aggressively cheerful album. You were back in the familiar, queasy territory of the backseat, with Aerion sliding in next to you.

This was when the real torment began. Not from the nausea, which was a dull, persistent throb, but from Aerion. He had an uncanny ability to fill the space he occupied. He didn’t just sit next to you; he loomed, a constant, crackling presence. He’d lean in, his breath a warm ghost on the shell of your ear, just to make a disparaging comment about a song Kiera was playing, so quiet only you could hear.

“If I hear one more synthetic drum beat, I’m grabbing Valarr to make him swerve into oncoming traffic,” he whispered, his lips almost brushing your skin. A shiver, entirely unrelated to nausea, skittered down your spine.

“Don’t do that,” you hissed.

“What? Whisper? Would you rather I broadcast my suicidal ideation to the whole car? Kiera would just play something by an artist with a name made of punctuation marks in response. It would make it worse.”

He was an incessant, maddening pest. He’d comment on the passing scenery in a running, low murmur: scathing critiques of a cow’s posture, a conspiracy theory about a lone farmhouse, a sudden, recitative poem about a particularly ugly roadside billboard. He plucked at a loose thread on your sleeve, his fingers brushing your arm with a deliberate, fleeting touch. He’d find a barely-there smudge on the window and lean across you to point it out, his scent filling your senses.

“Do you ever stop?” you finally ground out, turning your head to glare at him. Your faces were inches apart. His violet eyes were alight with mischief, a dancing, silver fire.

“No,” he said simply. “Not when something is this entertaining. Your jaw gets so tight when you’re annoyed. It’s like watching a very stubborn clam.”

“I am not a clam.”

“Prove it. Unclench.”

“I swear to the gods, Aerion…”

And yet, underneath the annoyance, a bewildering puzzle was taking shape. He wasn’t just needling Valarr, or showing off. His entire, irritating focus was trained on you.

It was in the way his eyes would find yours in the rearview mirror when you leaned forward to talk to Valarr. It was in the way he’d offer you his unopened bottle of water without a word, a silent replacement for your own warm one.

A few weeks ago, at a disastrous garden party at the Red Keep, you’d had one too many Dornish reds and lamented to anyone who would listen, which had turned out to be Daeron’s sympathetic ear, that boys were a confusing, alien species and that you were clearly broadcasting some sort of universal ‘Do Not Date’ signal. You’d been mortified to see Aerion leaning against a pillar nearby, a glass of his own wine held loosely in his hand, a strange, inscrutable look on his face. You’d assumed he was just silently judging your pathetic romantic history.

Now, in the close, quiet hum of the SUV, with the afternoon sun streaming in and Daeron’s soft snores as a soundtrack, Aerion leaned in again. But this time, his whisper wasn’t a joke.

“You know,” he murmured, his gaze intense, holding yours. “For a girl who keeps lamenting her inability to be noticed, you are phenomenally, spectacularly blind.”

A rush of heat flooded your cheeks. Before you could ask, before you could even breathe, he leaned back into his own seat, turned his head to stare out the window, and didn’t say another word for the next fifty miles. His silence was even louder than his whispers.

The inn Valarr had booked was a place that promised old-world charm and delivered it in the form of creaking floorboards and the faint, persistent smell of woodsmoke. The dinner was a loud, chaotic affair, with Valarr and Kiera bickering lovingly over the itinerary for the next day, Daeron valiantly trying to stay awake through his soup, and Aerion picking at his food, contributing only the occasional sardonic, devastatingly accurate observation. You were quiet, the echo of his words in the car still thrumming in your chest. Spectacularly blind. It felt like an accusation, a challenge, and a confession all at once.

Room keys were distributed. Valarr and Kiera, one room. Aerion and Daeron, another. And you, blissfully, mercifully, a single. Your room was small and cozy, tucked under the eaves, with a sloping ceiling and a window that looked out over the dark, silent expanse of woods. You went through the motions of getting ready for bed, washing your face, pulling on your softest, oldest pajama shorts and a tank top. But sleep was a distant, unreachable shore. You lay in the lumpy bed, staring at the moon cast shadows on the ceiling, replaying every touch, every whisper, every loaded glance from the day. Your back ached, a dull, persistent knot between your shoulder blades from the hours of being tensed up in the car.

It was close to midnight when the knock came. A soft, insistent rap of knuckles on the old wood of your door. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew who it was before you even got out of bed. You padded across the cold floor and opened the door a crack.

Aerion stood in the dim hallway, a picture of disgruntled misery. He was wearing a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants and a faded band t-shirt, his silver-gold hair an unruly mess. He looked nothing like the perfectly coiffed, arrogant heir. He just looked annoyed. And unfairly beautiful.

“Daeron,” he said, as if the name were a curse, “is a violent sleeper. He kicks. He’s currently executing a spinning back-kick in his dreams and has taken possession of the entire duvet. It’s a crime scene. Scoot over.”

It wasn’t a question. You were too tired, too sore, and too full of nervous, electric energy to argue. You opened the door wider, and he slipped inside, filling the small, quiet space with his restlessness. You climbed back into the narrow bed, clinging to the far edge, and pulled the covers up to your chin. He walked to the other side, and with a heavy, world-weary sigh, he lay down on his back on top of the duvet, his hands folded over his stomach, staring at the ceiling.

“My back is killing me,” you mumbled into the dark, a pathetic offering to break the tense silence. “I must have slept on it wrong in the car.”

He turned his head on the pillow to look at you, his profile etched in the silver moonlight. “Where?”

“Between my shoulder blades. It’s just a knot.”

“Roll over,” he commanded.

Your breath hitched. “What? No.”

“Don’t be a child. Roll over. I’m an expert. I have a horse,” he said, as if that explained everything.

With a defeated sigh, partly born of genuine pain and partly of a morbid, dizzying curiosity, you shifted onto your stomach, hugging the pillow. The bed dipped as he moved, and then you felt the heat of him as he sat beside you. His hands, when they landed on the bare skin of your shoulders, were warm and surprisingly gentle. His thumbs found the epicenter of the pain, a knot of pure, knotted steel right next toyour spine, and pressed.

A gasp, half-pain, half-relief, escaped you. He worked in silence for a moment, his touch firm and knowledgeable, kneading the tension away with deep, circular strokes. His fingers were long and deft, and they seemed to know exactly where to apply pressure. The pain began to dissolve, replaced by a spreading, liquid warmth that was far more dangerous.

Then, his touch changed. It was no longer therapeutic. His hands stopped their firm, purposeful kneading and began to wander. A slow, exploratory slide of his palms down the sides of your ribcage, just over the thin cotton of your tank top. The pads of his fingers traced the knobs of your spine, one by one, in a slow, reverent descent. The air in the room thickened, charged with an unspoken question.

“Aerion…” you breathed into the pillow, your voice a shaky, muffled thing. It was meant to be a protest, but it sounded like a plea.

His hand stilled on the small of your back. Then, he shifted his weight. You felt him move, leaning over you, his body a wall of heat along your side. One hand came up to gently brush the hair away from your neck. His lips, when they pressed against the sensitive skin just below your ear, were searing.

“You are,” he murmured against your skin, punctuating each word with a soft, deliberate kiss along your jawline, “the most. Infuriatingly. Blind. Woman. I have. Ever met.”

And then he was kissing you. Properly. He turned your head with a finger under your chin, and his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t a gentle, tentative first kiss. It was demanding, a kiss that had been waiting to happen all day, maybe for years. It tasted of frustration and sharp, silver fire.

You melted into it, a gasp swallowed as your lips parted, your body betraying every sensible thought you’d ever had. You twisted around to face him, your arms snaking up around his neck, your fingers tangling in the fine, soft hair at his nape.

The kiss deepened, a frantic, desperate tangle of tongues and breath. He made a low sound in his throat, a sound of pure triumph, and his body pressed you down into the mattress.

His hand, which had been resting on the curve of your hip, began a slow, torturous migration downwards. It slid over the flimsy material of your pajama shorts, his fingers tracing the crease where your thigh met your hip, and then, with a devastating pressure, he ground the hard, unmistakable length of his erection against your thigh.

A choked moan was lost in his mouth. He swallowed it greedily, his body a delicious, heavy weight against yours. He was all heat and hard muscle, and the friction of the thin layers of clothing between you was a sweet, agonizing torment. He rocked against you, a slow, sinuous rhythm, his mouth never leaving yours, his tongue emulating the motion of his hips.

His hand slipped from your hip to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers teasing the bare skin of your stomach just above it. A question, a final, silent request for permission. You arched your back in answer, a silent, desperate yes. His hand slipped inside, his long fingers delving through the thatch of curls to find your slick, aching core. You were soaked, embarrassingly, gloriously wet, and the knowledge of it only seemed to inflame him further. A ragged groan tore from his chest.

He swallowed the sound of your sharp cry as one deft finger, then two, slipped inside you, curling upwards to stroke a spot that made stars detonate behind your eyes. All the while, the heel of his hand ground against your clit, a steady, brilliant pressure.

He drank down every whimper, every frantic, half-formed moan, as if they were fine wine. He played you like an instrument he’d mastered a lifetime ago. The world shrank to the feel of his hand, his mouth, his heavy, wanting weight. You were climbing, hurtling towards a shattering peak, when he suddenly tore his mouth from yours and his hand stilled.

His forehead was pressed against yours, his chest heaving, his violet eyes black with dilated pupils in the dim light. His expression was a mask of agonized frustration.

“Fuck,” he swore, the word a ragged, desperate whisper. “I don’t have…they’re in my backpack. In the other room.”

A half-hysterical laugh bubbled up in your throat at the sheer, ridiculous, Aerion-like nature of the problem. “Go,” you commanded, your voice thick and unfamiliar to your own ears. “Quickly.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He was off the bed and out the door in a second, leaving a cold, aching void in his wake. You lay there, breathless, trembling, your body a riot of unfulfilled sensation. The seconds stretched into an eternity.

And then he was back, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. He didn't speak. He just shed his clothes, the moonlight painting the long, lean lines of his body in shades of silver and shadow.

He was a masterpiece of pale skin and taut muscle, and his arousal stood proud and demanding from a nest of pale curls.

He was on you in a heartbeat, the foil packet discarded on the nightstand, his naked body a searing, perfect weight.

He nudged your thighs apart with his knee and settled between them. He guided himself to your entrance, and then he was pushing inside you, a single, deep, merciless thrust that filled you completely. A gasp, torn from the very core of you, was smothered by his mouth. The feeling was overwhelming, thick, hot, and impossibly deep. He gave you only a moment to adjust, a single, shuddering pause as he looked down at you, his eyes burning with a fierce light. And then he began to move.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a thorough, devastating fucking, a frantic, driving rhythm that was a direct physical manifestation of all the day’s frustrations and teasing. The headboard knocked against the old wall with a rhythmic thud. He fucked you on your back, your legs hitched high over his hips, his mouth a frantic, hot brand on your throat, your collarbone. He swallowed your cries, your litany of broken syllables that might have been his name.

You shattered with a broken scream, the climax tearing through you with the force of a storm, inner muscles clenching around him in a furious, fluttering rhythm.

The sensation pushed him over the edge. He followed you with a guttural, shameless groan of your name, buried deep inside you, his body going rigid, every muscle a corded line of tension, before he collapsed, a delicious, trembling weight.

But he wasn’t finished with you. Not nearly.

He pulled out, and the loss was a sharp bereavement. But before you could even catch your breath, his hands were on your hips, guiding you, flipping you onto your stomach.

“Up,” he murmured, his voice still husky with sex, his palm smoothing over your spine. “On your knees.” You complied, limbs pliant and

obedient, sinking onto your forearms, presenting yourself to him.

He ran a proprietary hand over the curve of your arse, squeezing, kneading the soft flesh as if he owned it. He pressed a kiss to the small of your back, a surprisingly tender gesture amidst the carnality.

Then you heard the rip of another foil packet, and a moment later, he was blanketing your back with his chest, his body pressing you into the mattress. One arm snaked around your waist, pulling your hips up to meet his. He notched himself at your entrance from behind and thrust home again, a single, slick, deep stroke.

This angle was deeper, more primal. He wasn’t just fucking you, he was surrounding you, his chest a warm, solid wall against your back, his breath a hot, ragged pant in your ear.

His hips found a slower, more devastating rhythm, a deep, circular grind that had you whimpering into the pillow.

His hands were everywhere, one still a tight band around your waist, holding you steady, the other kneading the flesh of your arse, his fingers digging in with a perfectly balanced edge of pain and pleasure.

He was speaking in your ear, a low, continuous stream of filth and praise that you could barely process, the meaning lost to the overwhelming sensation of him.

“So fucking perfect…been wanting this…have no idea, do you?…the things I want to do to you…”

The second climax hit you like a wave, gentler but deeper than the first, a slow, full-body shudder that drew a long, keening moan from the depths of your soul.

He felt it, a deep, guttural groan escaping him as your body milked his. His pace stuttered, his fingers digging into your hip, and with a final, desperate, beautiful shudder, he spent himself again, his forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, his breath a hot, humid storm against your skin.

For a long time, there was only the sound of ragged breathing. He was still buried inside you, his weight a comforting, monumental presence. Finally, he stirred, pressing a slow, soft kiss to the curve of your shoulder before carefully withdrawing and dealing with the condom. He cleaned you up with a warm, damp washcloth from the tiny ensuite, his touch now gentle.

He tossed it aside and crawled back into the narrow bed, pulling the duvet over both of you and wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.

The silence was different now, a warm, drowsy cocoon. Your mind was a blissful, static blank. Then, a thought, mundane and hilarious in its inappropriateness, bubbled up.

“If Daeron kicks in his sleep,” you murmured into the dark, your voice hoarse, “won’t he notice you’re gone?”

Aerion’s chest vibrated with a silent laugh against your back. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I could go back and give him a few more kicks, just to cover my tracks. But he wouldn’t notice a dragon landing on the bed. The boy sleeps like the dead. Besides,” he said, his arm tightening around you, his voice dropping to a low, serious murmur, “I’m exactly where I’ve been trying to be all day. I’m not moving. Now, for the love of all the gods, stop overthinking and go to sleep. We have another whole day of Kiera’s playlist to endure tomorrow, and I intend to spend the entire night thoroughly wearing you out.”