Going Through It

It's been a long time since you've felt this thrill—this need. Let yourself get pulled away from your friends in a crowded bar, pressed against cheap vinyl in a secluded corner as a man you barely know grabs your hips to keep you still, keep you tucked against him. Sloppy kisses beneath a framed picture of Elvis. Smearing. Wet. The scratch of stubble. The nip of teeth. A sting soothed with the lash of a soft, fleshy tongue. Fingers diving beneath the hem of your pants because he can't get enough. He's solid against you, warm—burning like a furnace. A heat you can feel, pulsing, between your hips.

You feel the buzz of alcohol a lot more, too. A potent thing in your veins—syrupy and thick; your head feels full of it, heavy and liquid. Your whole body is just that—liquid. A slow ooze. He's the only thing keeping you up, holding you steady. Without the press of his fingers, the nudging rolls of his hips, you'd melt into the sticky linoleum.

You thank him with a slurred murmur, a clumsy kiss, and he laughs it off. Tucks you tighter against him as he says to thank him later, when he brings you back to his hotel—

This isn't like you. You can't even remember his name—a laugh, and he whispers it again with an edge of teeth that feel like a reprimand; so you won't forget it this time—or how you got here, in this corner, with a man you vaguely remember offering to buy you a drink at the bar. His accent stood out, like it does now when he says come on, let's go, and just as suddenly as you ended up pressed against the wall, you're being pulled into his arms. Breathless and clumsy. Cute, he says, and it's a hazy, dimpled thing that tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You came here with friends. Know better than to leave without them, with a man you don't know—a man they don't know—but when you slur this into his chest, he peels away. Steps back. And that chasm makes you whine. Keening in the back of your throat because the space, the distance feels too big. Too wide. Your struck, suddenly, by thigmotaxis. A small, soft-bodied thing that's too vulnerable without the hard lines of his body propping you up. He fits like a corner for you to hide inside, and you miss that more than you should. Need it more than you can understand with your thoughts stuck in a gauzy web. In this state, the sheer size of him, the solid wall of skin-warmed muscle and meat, is anxiolytic.

He shushes you—more dimples. The edge of teeth. Steps back into place, and let's you melt against him, a safe nook, but his words rake across that part of you that knows this isn't normal, that this isn't like you. You've only had four drinks. Three of which he bought.

But when he says c'mon, doe, let's get outta here, all of the things you should say are damped by that ooze. That slick, sticky thing in the back of your head, cradled between your thighs. You nod, a slow, dizzy thing, and watch the shape of his maw shift up into a wide, sharp toothed grin.

It stays—a permanent etch across his too-handsome face; lingers in the spill of daylight when you wake up to something heavy, tight on your ring finger. There, pressed into the corners, all teeth and deep dimples, when the slow, steady drip of the night before comes back to you and you realise that instead of leading you back to his hotel, he took you to a sleazy, twenty-four church. The license signed—your messy, drunken scrawl on the paper confirming that you did, in fact, get married to a man you knew for less than an hour, with the bulk of that time being kissed senseless in a corner and told drink up, doe.

You slip out of the room when he's in the washroom, hurriedly running back to your apartment to scrub the night off in the shower—the phantom touch, the ghost of his words (am catholic, he'd said in the cab after telling the driver to head to the nearest, sleaziest church. cannae fuck before the ring, doe, no't' a good Catholic boy like me)—trying to find some fix for this mess you'd gotten yourself into. It can't be permanent. It can't be real.

The only place you feel safe is with your friends, family, but that charm he laid on so thick last night shows itself in a new light when you find him sitting at their table already. Oozing a sweetness that makes your teeth ache when you see the approval gleaming in their eyes as the story he tells is wrapped up in romance. In love at first sight. And the problem is that he's cunning. Too smart for his own good. He can see the vulnerability, the weakness in your family—in their penultimate dream for you: happiness, a family, one of your own—and he pounces. Convinces them that he's so good for you. That this spur of the moment decision wasn't as sudden as you keep telling them it was—chalking it up to embarrassment, of all things; that you were too shy to admit to having an online relationship with a man you'd never met before—and despite everything, they believe him.

Maybe it's wilful ignorance. Maybe he's just such a catch, a good guy, that they want this work out for you more than they want to see the cracks in a good man's veneer. Whatever the reason, it culminates in them welcoming him into the fold as your unexpected husband. Inviting him places as mean to get to know him—an opportunity for him to ooze as much charm as he needs to in order to sway them to his side. Spreading like a spore amongst your core group with the intention of sticking. Even going so far as to have your friends talk you out of a divorce, siding with him on the (manufactured) reasons why you two should stay together. Or—

give him a chance.

But it won't last long. Soap knows this. Eventually, the cracks will appear. Someone will look beyond what they wish you really had to see how unnerved by the situation you are—something he won't be able to chalk up to shyness or embarrassment for much longer. Not when you're so against this "sham" marriage.

Which is why he sneaks around to plan a "honeymoon" with your friends and family, getting them involved in a surprise trip back home with him.

Despite your misgivings about him, there is a brightside to this—a vacation you don't have to pay for. And what is the worst that could happen in a small cabin nestled in the Highlands, really.

the moment john sees her, he abandons his reading and swings off the bench, opening his arms to her.

she puts one wobbling foot after another, babbling as she slowly crosses the floor. neither of you breathe. her tiny arms windmill as she closes the distance to her father, at last pitching forward into his waiting arms with a squeal. john laughs, delightedly hauling her up against his chest while she giggles and takes big handfuls of his beard. she swivels toward you with a big smile, and john catches your eye over the crown of her head.

here it is. the future john dreamed of and whispered to you night after night for years.

you both spend the day coaxing her to wander around the cabin. he takes her outside to walk the garden and along the fence at the property line.

later, after supper and a bath, you lay her down in her crib and soon enough, she's fast asleep. she sprawls, mouth stuck open, one tiny fist curled under her chin. you watch her for a long while, still in a daze of how your life has changed yet again in the span of a single day. tomorrow, john'll have to check every room with fresh eyes, reassessing all his baby-proofing so far. he'll think about what she can reach now, what she'll pull herself up on, and any escape route she might discover.

he's leaning in the door frame when you turn to leave, backlit with the hallway light. you go to his side and tuck into it like he likes, and together you stand in silence for a few minutes more. eventually, he presses a kiss to your head and takes you to bed.

it's better because he's happy. slower and gentler.

"remember when you used to cry an' cry about this? used to beg me to not come in you," he grunts as he bottoms out. "hard to believe, isn't it."

he slows to slip his hand beneath your chin, tilting your face up just enough for his thumb to rub along the collar locked around your neck. it's long since softened from years of wear, so soft that you often forget you're wearing it.

“C’mon, it wasn’t even close. You,” his gaze swings accusingly towards Simon, “were letting her squirm around too much.” Simon shakes his head.

“Didn’t want to break her.” You’re fragile. A little kitten in the jaws of wolves. Breakable like a pane of glass. Even more so now, since you’re sick. The bond corroding away inside your body hasn’t done you any favors.

The smallest amount of guilt pinches in his stomach. They’ve made a mess of everything.

Only right they clean it up.

A small cough echoes from the bedroom, and Simon frowns. You should be asleep. There was enough sedative in that water to knock out a horse. He jerks his head towards the sound. “Johnny.” His mate nods, and silence fills the kitchen as he disappears down the hall.

“So what’s your plan here?”

“Ger her on the plane, get her home, go from there.” There’s more, a methodical step by step plan, but he doesn’t care to elaborate. Kyle can infer most of it already. He’s familiar.

A hand rests on Simon’s shoulder, thumb working slow circles into the tense muscle. “She’s in the closet,” Johnny murmurs, “passed out. Must’ve been feelin’ really anxious, poor thing.” The sympathy is dripping with something darker, something sinister. You’re anxious, you’re fearful, and though it’s their fault, they don’t truly care, not in this moment. Once they get you home, get you settled, they’ll work on it, right the ship. But for now, it’s fuel for a machine that has to keep churning, has to carry you across the finish line. Fear is a powerful motivator, they know. If you threaten someone’s life, scare them into thinking they’re in real danger, they’ll do anything to protect themselves.

Anything.

“Closet again.” Johnny shoots him a mischievous grin. It’s been hours since you retreated back to your room after dinner, tucking yourself away in your nest. “Gonna be a tight squeeze.”

“‘m not crawling into that closet unless it’s to drag her out.” He tells his mate with a flat look, trying to curb his frustration. He knows it wasn’t a conscious decision to build your nest in there, more so your biology urging you to find somewhere safe, your omega trying to retreat, protect herself, but bloody hell do you make everything so difficult. “Did you take her temp?” Johnny hums.

“Borderline high. Think we’ve got one more day before it hits, maybe two.” His mate is almost giddy, the overwhelming happiness flowing down the bond like warmth, filling an empty space in Simon’s chest.

And why shouldn’t he be? They’re getting everything they ever wanted, everything they’ve dreamed. All their planning, their strategizing, everything put into motion finally paying off. If they’re lucky, they’ll get through this unscathed, they’ll bite you, bond you, keep you forever, and you’ll never know the truth. He can taste it, taste you, on the back of his tongue, and it’s more than just perfume, pheromones. It’s clean and buttery and sweet…

and made for his mouth.

Made for their mouths.

There isn’t a gift quite like having a mate. Someone predestined for you, a mate is the only thing in the world that belongs to you before you ever see them, lay a hand on them. There is no ownership greater than the bond, no claim stronger.

There is no choice.

Only fate.

“Bleedin’ christ.” Johnny swears, laser focused on the rear view mirror. He’s rattling in the passenger seat, shaking from the amount of energy it’s taking to restrain himself.

“Stay calm.” Simon grits from a clenched jaw. He’s clinging to shreds of control, his alpha instincts surging to the surface, trying to break free. Johnny sits frozen in the passenger seat, still locked onto the mirror watching you fade into the distance.

“Ghost, Soap. Status?” The earpiece chirps, John’s voice echoing between them.

“Clear. Lost the target, we’re returning to base. There’s been… a complication.” The line is quiet for a moment, no doubt their captain weighing their words, trying to discern their meaning. Eventually, he just acknowledges them, but it hardly registers.

“Copy.”

“I cannae believe this.” Johnny hisses, half mad. His scent has turned feral, rimmed in rage, in confusion, as Simon’s teeters on a similar edge. They’re a powder keg right now. “Of all places…” Simon grimaces.

“Nothin’ we can do about it now.” It’s rotten luck, at the end of the day. Finding their scent match, their omega, should have never happened while they’re on a mission, in some unknown in a foreign country. It’s the perfect storm of wrong place, wrong time, and all he can do is hope that their little show was enough to convince whoever is tailing them you’re not of interest. “We’ll get clear of this, ask for leave, come back for ‘er.” Johnny’s eyes are dark as they flick towards him.

“She’s no’ gonna come willingly, not after that.”

“No.” Simon agrees, his hand coming down to lay atop Johnny’s, their fingers intertwining. “She won’t.” An unspoken certainty settles between them, a silent promise to do what it takes.

Whatever it takes.

Johnny is out for a run during breakfast.

It’s his normal, and they’ve tried to get back into their usual routines, their normal life, without exposing themselves as much as possible. They’ve scrubbed the house clean, anything personal or meaningful loaded into storage crates, cardboard boxes and bags, all of their belongings that made this house their home hidden away. Everything from photos to tea towels, all of it crammed along the walls of their bedroom.

It makes Simon’s skin itch.

The sooner they can move on from this, the better.

“Johnny’s gone on a run,” he tells you, not surprised at the answering silence. You try not to speak to them, insisting on kicking and screaming, digging your heels in like a petulant toddler.

He wishes you’d just give it up already, but he can’t deny he enjoys your stubbornness, your strong will.

It makes everything more interesting. More fun.

You’re worse for the wear this morning, listless, slightly swaying in your seat, pushing food around your plate, scent tinged slightly sour at the edges. Just enough that his alpha bristles, an overwhelming need to fix it, fix you, rolling through his blood like a wave.

“Feelin’ alright?” You blink at him, brow furrowed for a moment before it smooths away and you shake your head.

“I’m fine.” You croak, reaching for the pill bottles. He feigns disinterest as you shake them into your palm, watching you from the corner of his eye. You’re a dutiful patient, clinging to the hope that the medication will help you, ease your suffering, completely oblivious to the truth.

They tossed that poison weeks ago, and what’s left of it is currently burning through your system. The last line of defense disintegrating before his very eyes, castle walls collapsing into dust around you.

He smothers his smile.

It’s not that he’s taking pleasure in your suffering, because he’s not, but he can’t help but silently celebrate the inevitable. Every second, every hour brings you closer to the finish line, to the moment where you’ll be so overtaken by your biology that you won’t be able to fight it, or them. Your protests, your fear, your rational thought will fade away as your instincts take over and you beg them for bites, knots… bonds.

You’ll become theirs, and they can leave this entire mess in the past where it belongs.

“She has it..” Johnny scrubs a hand over her face. “She’s sick, Si.”

They watch from the SUV as you come out of the clinic, zipping your jacket up to your chin. Your eyes are dull, lifeless, and a chill runs up Simon’s spine.

Bond corrosion. They’ve felt the effects too, the rot festering under their ribs, their biology slowly turning on them, punishing them. They’re just too strong to succumb.

Johnny taps away at the keyboard of the laptop balanced on his knees, your medical records spread across the screen in a dozen different windows. “Been gettin’ treatment for it for months. Suppressants, blockers, painkillers. The whole lot.” Simon grits his teeth. “Says here she had…” He trails off, focuses through the windshield to where you’re standing on the sidewalk.

“Had what?”

“A heat. After we left.” Regret tinges Johnny’s scent, and it pinches his heart. It shouldn’t surprise him, considering they went through a rut around the same time, but at least they had each other. They always had each other. You had no one.

You look over your shoulder for a second, eyes sweeping across the street. Simon freezes.

“Can she…” Johnny whispers, Simon shakes his head.

“No. She might feel us, maybe. But if she’s this sick, I doubt her instincts are reliable.” The moment passes. You turn away, flipping your hood up over your head, walking in the opposite direction, walking away from them.

“We need to move in. No more waiting.” Johnny pulls his phone from his pocketing, opening their text thread to Keller. A hot flare of jealously rises in his stomach. His alpha is possessive. Alex has no right to see you, smell you. You’re theirs.

“He doesn’t touch her,” Simon warns. “We only want him to spook her. Make sure he understands.”

“Tonight?” There’s hope in Johnny’s eyes, excitement. A little bit of worry too, for you, but overall, this is a good thing. An expedited timeline just means they’re one step closer to bringing you home. Sick, but they’ll fix it. They’ll take care of you. Simon nods his affirmative.

“Tonight.”

“Dove?” A small crease forms between your brows, as Johnny gently shakes your shoulder. “Dove, ye alright?”

“Mmm?” You shake him off, pressing deeper into the cushions of the couch. Simon’s fingers find your cheek, backs of his knuckles brushing upward, over your temple, across your forehead. Hot. Your skin is hot, nearly burning, damp with sweat. Dark satisfaction burns through his veins. How long will it be before you’re begging for them? Crying for them? How long will it be before you forget how they’ve hurt you, all the suffering you’ve endured because of them, and crawl towards them on your hands and knees?

Your scent blooms, flowers into something sweeter as you lean into his touch, lashes fluttering as your eyes open.

“What is it?” You mumble, pushing yourself up on an elbow, shaking your head like you’re trying to shed the clutch of sleep. It’s no use. It’s not sleep that has its hooks in you but heat, biology building to a crescendo, an overwhelming symphony drowning out your rational mind, your logical thoughts.

“You’re sick, sweetheart. Think you’ve got a fever.” He lies easily, and you try to push him off, but there’s no strength in you, your effort feeble.

“No, ‘m fine.”

“Ye’re not.” Johnny argues, propping you up with arm around your shoulder. “Did ye take yer meds?” Simon swallows his snicker.

“Y-yeah, I don’t know why they’re not working.” You moan, attempting to pull away. All it does is give Johnny an opening to hold you closer, and his mouth brushes across the top of your head when you instinctively turn your face into his neck, seeking his scent. “It’s so hot.” You complain, and Johnny smiles, unabashed since you can’t see his face.

“Aye. Want to get in the shower, try to cool off?” You nod miserably, and Simon urges you up, supporting your weight as you struggle to your feet.

“Take it slow,” Simon murmurs as you tackle the stairs, one painstakingly drawn out step at a time. Johnny’s behind you, fingertips at your waist, as Simon shoulders your lack of balance from the side.

Your scent is overwhelming. Burnt sugar turning to caramel, it mixes with Johnny’s excitement, his joy, tangling together in a perfect, heady combination that nearly has Simon’s mouth watering. He can’t wait to taste you, can’t wait to spread your legs and bury his face in your pussy, taste your slick.

The bathroom in their room is large, more than enough room for them to maneuver around you as Simon holds you upright where you’re sitting on the closed toilet lid and Johnny tests the temperature of the water.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes.” You shake your head, try to pull away as they curl under the hem of your t-shirt.

“It’s alright dove,” Johnny reassures you, now kneeling at your feet. “We’re jus’ gonna get ye cooled down.” They synchronize their movements, Simon lifting you slightly so Johnny can hook his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and pull, Johnny holding you at the waist so Simon can get your bra off. You’re left only in your underwear, listing weakly to the side into Simon. “Such a good girl,” he croons, rubbing your thighs, “such a good omega.” You mumble something into Simon’s stomach, an objection maybe. A last line in the sand. “Up ye get.” Johnny pats your waist, and they herd you into the shower, supporting your weight, carefully holding you under the spray.

“Don’t…” You protest, but it’s fruitless. Your body is bared to them, naked while they're clothed, and Johnny grins with a full mouth of teeth, the widening maw of a predator. He drinks his fill, sweeping over you from head to toe, his fingers lightly brushing your nipples as he soaps your skin. When you shudder, Simon can't help himself, can't stop from splaying a hand across your belly, feeling your softness, the goosebumps rising beneath his touch. 

“You’ll feel better after this,” He promises, moving you deeper into the shower, rubbing your back as water cascades over your shoulders. This won’t do much to keep you cool, not for long. It’s a temporary balm, but until you’re panting and presenting, they need to stay the course. Try to keep you cool, keep you comfortable, until you’re overwhelmed by your heat and unable to fight it.

“Cold,” you whimper under the lukewarm water, instinctively pressing yourself into Simon. You fit there so perfectly, and Johnny smiles, sweet and sharp, the loofa in his hand sliding down your spine, soap working into a lather.

“I know dove, I know.” Johnny keeps his voice even toned, pillow soft. “Jus’ a minute more.” You shake your head against Simon’s chest, your nose turning inward, dragging across his wet shirt like you’re searching for him, seeking his scent. You sniffle, fists clenching and then relaxing, a battle unfolding inside your head, your body, a whine growing in your throat as the shift you further under the water to rinse off.

Johnny starts to hum. It’s a gentle, slow rumble building from his chest, and Simon presses a thumb into your nape, careful and firm. You’re powerless against his touch, Johnny’s subharmonics, your muscles immediately softening, turning more pliant by the second. Johnny kills the water and you sag between them, boneless and shivering. “Poor thing,” You shake your head.

“No.” It’s a whisper on deaf ears. Simon reaches for the clean towel they hung on the rack, wraps it around your shoulders. “No.” You say again.

“Aye, we heard ye.” Johnny rubs your shoulders, your arms dry, and you try to take a shaky step away, a small, half attempt that ends with your knees buckling. Months of sickness, meds, futile efforts, has wrecked you, left you defenseless, and he considers it a small stroke of luck. It’s easier, like this.

Simon leads you out of the bathroom, an arm wrapped around your waist, as Johnny moves ahead, pulling back the covers of the bed.

Their bed.

Not yours.

Not guest bed, not the little nest you’ve built in the closet, but their bed. The one that’s saturated with their scent, their warmth, the one that will become yours.

“No,” you rasp, pushing against Simon’s chest as he lowers you to the sheets, “not in here. I want m-my room. My...” The rest goes unsaid. Your nest.  Your omega is seeking her safe space, you don’t realize yet that this is where you’re truly safest. With them.

“I know,” Johnny soothes, cupping your cheek. “But we need to keep an eye on ye.” Simon tugs at the towel, your grip falling away, anger igniting behind your eyes for a brief moment before it’s snuffed out again, and you hang your head.

You don’t fight as Simon pulls the sheets and blankets up to your chin, you don’t push Johnny away as he fluffs the pillows behind your head. The heat roiling under your skin has drained your energy, and once they’re done tucking you in you roll onto your side, turning your back, shutting them out.

He’ll allow it, for now.

Johnny is already climbing into bed, over eager, eyes shining, murmuring into the crown of your head sweetly. Lies, probably. False promises meant to relax you, and Simon watches as your shoulders hitch once Johnny’s arm folds over your waist.

You do not have the strength to push him away.

Simon takes the other side. Your eyes crack open, fever heavy and suspicious.

“Close your eyes dove. Sleep.” Your mouth opens, closes, and he waits for your temper, your questions, but your lower lip trembles instead, and you bury your face in the pillow, hiding from him. From them. From everything.

He squeezes your hip, relaxes his palm next to Johnny’s, their thumbs folding over one another atop your body.

This is it. This is right. This is how everything should have been all along, you here, with them, cradled between their bodies, an omega made for her mates.

This is where you belong.

The air was thick with everything at once—roasting mutton, dark ale, sweat from a hundred bodies packed onto rough-hewn benches, the smoke that curled lazy and grey toward the high rafters where banners hung in the dim.

You sat pressed against your husband's side, your amber silk gown warm against your thighs where it pooled across the bench, and you were not listening to Lord Harren Blackwood.

You had stopped listening approximately seven minutes ago, somewhere between "barley yield" and "and if you consider the oat rotation, my lord, the true cost is—" and you had not been missed.

Lord Blackwood's attention was fixed entirely on Maekar's face, his ruddy cheeks flushed from wine and earnest desperation, his hands gesturing with the ink-stained cuff of his wool tunic as he charted numbers in the air like a septon casting prayers.

He did not see you.

He did not see how your fingers had begun to trace slow circles on your own knee beneath the table, or how your gaze had drifted from his tedious mouth to your husband's jaw.

Maekar's jaw.

That hard line of it, the close-cropped beard that did nothing to soften the cut of his bone, the muscle that worked beneath his temple as Lord Blackwood droned on.

He was being patient.

You could feel it in the way his hand had gone still around his cup of wine, the way his shoulders had settled into a posture of strained courtesy. He was letting the man finish.

And you were very, very bored.

“My lord, as I was saying,” the elderly lord continued, oblivious, “the western granaries produced nearly twenty percent less grain than expected.”

Prince Maekar nodded once. “Then import from the Reach before winter drives the prices higher. Waiting will only worsen the matter.”

You sat beside him, slowly dying of boredom.

Grain.

More grain.

An astonishing amount of grain.

“My prince is wise,” the lord agreed. “Though transportation costs remain a concern—”

You leaned toward your husband. You shifted closer to him, letting your shoulder press against his arm, the silk of your gown whispering softly against his sleeve. He did not react—not visibly—but you felt the slight hitch in his breathing, the way his chest paused for half a heartbeat before continuing its steady rise and fall.He knew you were there.

He always knew.

“Maekar.”

His violet eyes flicked toward you briefly. “Not now.”

Lord Blackwood continued. “If we could negotiate lower tariffs—”

A rather pleasant thought crossed your mind at that moment, humming beneath your breath as you took a sip of your wine and then smiled sweetly.

“Did you know,” you murmured into Maekar's ear, “that I've spent the last ten minutes imagining how quickly you'd drag me out of this hall if I interrupted your very important discussion about wheat?”

The moment the words slipped from your mouth, Maekar froze, a brief moment long enough for him to send you a scalding glare, “Tariffs,” he said evenly to the lord, staring straight ahead, “can be renegotiated.”

The lord nodded eagerly. “Yes, exactly, Your Grace.”

Your lips brushed the shell of your husband's ear, close enough that your breath was warm against his skin, and you let your voice drop to a low, honeyed purr that only he would hear.

“My lord husband,“ you murmured, your tongue tracing the ridge of his ear just once, featherlight, “I have been sitting here for the better part of an hour, listening to a man describe the moisture content of barley, and I have come to a decision.”

The muscle in his jaw jumped. His eyes did not leave Lord Blackwood's face, but you felt the shift in the air between them—the way his attention, that vast and careful attention he was giving the grain lord, fractured.

“Is that so,” he said, his voice flat, pitched for the conversation he was still technically having. Lord Blackwood, blessedly oblivious, continued talking about soil acidity.

“It is,” you breathed. You hand slid from your knee to his thigh beneath the table, palm flat, pressing through the wool of his breeches. “I've decided that you are paying too much attention to oats and not nearly enough to me.”

The muscle beneath your hand tensed. Hard. His thigh was solid, all dense strength from years of riding and sword work, and you traced the edge of it with your fingertips, a slow exploration that stopped just short of where he would feel it most.

“And I've further decided,” you continued, your lips still brushing his ear, “that if you do not find a way to end this conversation in the next minute, I will slide my hand higher. And I will find out exactly how much of your attention I can claim while Lord Blackwood explains the difference between spring wheat and winter wheat.”

Maekar's hand moved.

It dropped below the table and closed around your wrist—firm, his calloused fingers a band of heat around your delicate bones. He did not squeeze hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to stop you.

“Wife,” he said, and his voice had dropped. Lower now. A growl that vibrated through his chest and into your shoulder where you leaned against him. “That is not a game for this table.”

“I'm not playing a game,” you said, and you let your teeth graze his earlobe. Just once. Just enough to feel him shiver. “I'm making a point.”

Lord Blackwood took a breath. “—so you see, my lord, the adjustment would only be a few silver stags per bushel, and I assure you the yield increase would—”

Maekar turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough that his mouth was against your temple, his breath hot against your skin, and his voice was a low, rough warning that only you could hear.

“If you do not stop,” he said, “I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of this hall like a sack of flour. In front of every lord here. In front of your Dornish friend, who has been watching you since you sat down.”

Your heart stuttered.

A flash of heat, sharp and bright, that traveled from your chest straight down to your core.

You knew that tone.

You knew the weight in it, the promise that was not a threat but a statement of intent. He would do it. He absolutely would do it.

You drew back.

Just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes catching the firelight, and you let your mouth curve into a slow, deliberate smile.

“You wouldn't,” you said, and your voice was a challenge now, a dare wrapped in silk.

His violet eyes held yours.

“Try me.”

You should have stopped there. You knew you should have stopped there. The line was drawn, the warning delivered, and any sensible woman would have pressed her knees together, taken a sip of wine, and waited for the conversation to end with her dignity intact.

But you had never been sensible. And you were not done.

You let your smile widen—just a fraction, just enough to show you knew exactly what you were doing—and then you turned your head.

Across the table, Lord Anders Dustin sat lounging in his seat with the easy grace of a man who had no particular business at this feast and no particular care for who knew it. His dark hair was pulled back from his face, the silver scar on his brow catching the torchlight, and his sharp brown eyes had been watching you for some time.

You had felt his gaze on your skin like a whisper, like a question. And now you answered it.

You smiled at him. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of smile that meant something—or at least, the kind of smile that could be mistaken for meaning something.

Anders's mouth curved in response, a lazy, knowing tilt that acknowledged the game you were playing. He raised his cup to you, just slightly, a salute that said I see you, and I see him, and I am very curious how this ends.

Lord Blackwood was still talking. He had moved on to drainage. Nonsense words, water and silt and percentages that you did not hear because you were still smiling at the Dornishman, and because Maekar's hand had tightened around your wrist.

“That,” Maekar said, his voice so low it was barely a vibration, “was a mistake.”

And then you squeezed his thigh, palmed the visible evidence of his straining cock and grinned.

Hard.

The lord blinked. “Are you unwell, Prince Maekar?”

“No.”

You squeezed once more and feeling quite emboldened by the wine and the fact that your husband hadn't paid you much attention since the feast began, moved your hand higher and slipped beneath his legs, fluttering your eyelashes when your husband quietly groaned beneath his breath.

“You appear tense.”

“I am listening.”

“You do not seem to be listening.”

“I assure you,” Maekar replied through clenched teeth, “I hear every word.”

You rested your chin on your hand. “How impressive. A prince capable of discussing grain and tariffs while wondering whether his wife is about to behave herself.”

Maekar inhaled, slowly, dangerously and you smirked behind your cup, taking another sip as you tried to appear as innocent without making it obvious that you were now rubbing the evidence of his hardening cock beneath—as you promptly deemed it at that moment—too much clothing.

The lord frowned. “Your Grace?”

“The harvest,” Maekar said, voice strained, “was lower than expected.” a hiss tore from his lips as he rolled his shoulders, your fingers squeezing once more over the fabric of his breeches, grinning innocently at him, though he paid you now attention.

“Yes.”

“And the grain must be moved before winter.”

“Yes.”

“And if my wife says another word, I may personally carry her from this hall.”

Lord Blackwood blinked.

You grinned. “Carry me?”

Maekar finally looked at you. The stare promised consequences.

“Be quiet.”

You rose an eyebrow in challenge. “Make me.” The silence that followed was deafening. Across the table, one knight abruptly became fascinated by his wine. Another choked on his drink.

The lord looked between the two of you and wisely decided that perhaps grain could wait until tomorrow. “On second thought,” he said, standing quickly, “I believe we have discussed the matter sufficiently.”

The moment he was gone, Maekar seized your wrist beneath the table.

“Seven hells,” he muttered as his head tilted back, violet eyes darkening as you looked entirely too pleased with yourself.

“At least you're paying attention to me now.”

His jaw tightened.

“Keep smiling.”

“Why?”

“Because in five minutes,” Maekar said, rising from his seat, “you are going to regret reminding me that I have been ignoring you all evening.”

For the first time during the feast, you were no longer bored. “Is that a threat, Your Grace?”

He leaned towards you, lips pulling back and then he did not unexpected—your husband's lips wrapped around your earlobe and then he nipped, “No, sweet wife, it's a fucking promise. Now behave, or else I'll bend you over this fucking table and shove my cock so deep in your cunt that you'll be screaming my name,” and then he leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with himself at the flustered look on your face, “and I am seconds away from doing so.”

You cleared your throat, but his fingers wrapped around your wrist before you could pull your hand away, “I do not think I gave you permission to stop,” and then your lips parted, his violet gaze clashing against your own and then he grunted, “fuck it, we're leaving.”

You laughed.

It was a bright, ringing sound, the laugh you used when you knew you were being wicked and wanted everyone to know you knew it. It cut through Lord Blackwood's monologue like a blade, drawing his attention for the first time in minutes, drawing the eyes of the nearest tables, drawing Anders Dustin's amused gaze and the tilt of his scarred brow.

The lord, who knew better than most than to utter a word, glanced away and took careful interest in the plate of untouched food in front of him, “We will continue this discussion on the morrow, I find that I must tend to far more important matters.”

You did not see the hear the scrape of Maekar's chair. You only felt the air shift, the sudden absence of his warmth at your side, and then his hands were on you—one gripping your arm, the other sliding around your waist as he pulled you up from your seat with a strength that left no room for resistance—

and then threw you over his shoulder, ignoring the several gasps that tumbled from the ladies huddled somewhere in the corner of the hall, gossiping most like, your husband paid them no mind and turned to face his brother, Prince Baelor Targaryen who looked far more amused at the lack of decorum than he had any right to be.

“Maekar,” Baelor murmured beneath his breath, “this is not a fitting image of a prince of the realm to act,” Maekar grunted.

“Fuck off, I've had enough of this fucking feast and talks of grain, now please excuse me, I have to teach my wife some manners,” and then Maekar did indeed keep promise to his words when he carried you the hall.

The world swung upside down, stone and torchlight and gasping faces tumbling past your vision as Maekar's shoulder drove into your stomach hard enough to steal your breath.

His arm locked across the backs of your thighs like iron, your crimson gown pooling around your ears, the silk of your skirts sliding against your face as the hall spun to a stop.

“Maekar,” you gasped, the word punched out of you by the impact, but your husband was already walking, boots striking the flagstones with the unhurried rhythm of a man who had nowhere else to be and no one to answer to.

Behind you, the hall erupted. A lady's shriek, cut short. The scrape of a chair pushed back too fast. And beneath it all, Baelor's laughter—low, silken, utterly delighted—following you past the doors like a ribbon of sound.Your hands found Maekar's back, gripping the leather of his doublet as you tried to right yourself, but the angle was wrong, your weight balanced on his shoulder with nothing to brace against but the broad span of his spine.

Your hair swung forward, strands catching in your mouth, and you spat them out with an undignified huff.

“Put me down.” His hand slid up the back of your calf, callused fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks.

“No.”

The corridor swallowed the torchlight. Damp granite chilled the bare skin of your arm where your sleeve had ridden up, and the echo of Maekar's boots flattened against the narrow walls, footsteps chasing each other into the dark ahead.

You heard the whisper of a servant pressing themselves against the wall to let the prince pass, heard the sharp intake of breath, heard the scurry of retreating feet.

“Everyone is staring,” you said, your voice muffled by the angle, by the fabric of his doublet pressing against your cheek.

“Let them.” His hand was still on your calf, thumb tracing the seam of your stocking, and the touch was deliberate—not absent, not accidental. He was touching you like he owned you, like the corridor was his chamber and your leg was his to map in the dark.

Your face burned. “You made a scene.”

His laugh was a grunt, barely a sound at all, but you felt it move through his shoulder, through the meat of his back where your hands still clung. “I haven't even started.”

The corridor turned. The air changed—cooler, damper, the smell of old stone and something earthier. The tower stairs. You heard them before you saw them, the hollow echo of a space that opened upward into darkness.

Maekar's hand left your calf. You felt the absence like a loss, the ghost of his fingers still warm on your skin. Then his palm landed flat on your arse, squeezing once, hard, and you yelped.

“That's for smiling at the Dornish lord.”

“I didn't—”

“You did.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Three times. Once when he complimented the wine, once when he said your gown suited you, and once when he leaned close enough to touch your hand.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. “He was being polite.”

“He was being a cunt. You thought I didn't pay attention to you? You grabbed my cock, teased me and now you want to complain? Fuck that.”

The stairs began. Each step jolted through you, his shoulder driving into your stomach with every downward stride—no, upward. He was carrying you up, not down. The tower. The royal apartments. Your chambers.

His thumb hooked the top of your stocking and pulled. The silk snapped against your skin, sharp and stinging, and you gasped.

“You should have thought twice before wearing red,” he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “Makes me want to tear it off you.”

Your pulse hammered. “It's the Targaryen color.”

“It's my color. On you. In this light.” His hand slid higher, fingers brushing the bare skin of your inner thigh, and you felt the heat of his palm like a brand. “Makes me want to put my mouth on every inch you've covered.”

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The stairs kept turning, the walls close and dark, and his hand was still moving, fingers tracing the edge of your smallclothes through the silk of your stocking, and you were wet—you could feel it, the slick heat gathering between your thighs, the shameful, aching want that bloomed every time he touched you.

“Maekar.” His name came out wrong, too breathy, too desperate. “I was bored and you were talking about grain.”

He stopped walking.

The sudden stillness was worse than the movement. You hung over his shoulder, your blood rushing in your ears, your cunt clenching around nothing, waiting.

His hand left your thigh. “And you thought smiling at another man, teasing me like you didn't expect this outcome? Oh, no, no. You'll fucking learn, sweet wife.”

You heard the click of a latch. The groan of a door swinging open. Warmth washed over you—candlelight, the smell of beeswax and dried lavender, the familiar scent of your chambers.

He stepped inside. Kicked the door shut behind him. The sound of the lock turning was louder than you expected.

He crossed the room in three strides, and then you were falling, the world righting itself as he dumped you onto the bed, the mattress catching your weight with a creak of ropes and feathers. You bounced once, your gown tangling around your legs, your hair wild across your face, and before you could push yourself upright, he was there—one knee on the bed, his hands gripping your ankles, pulling you flat.

“Stay.”

The word was a command, not a request, and your body obeyed before your mind caught up, your legs stilling, your hands falling to your sides.

He looked down at you. The candlelight caught the silver of his hair, turned his violet eyes to molten amethyst, and his jaw was set, his stubbled cheek shadowed, his chest rising and falling with the breath of a man who had carried his wife through the Red Keep and was not finished with her.

“You're going to learn,” he said, “what happens when you smile at other men.”

So perhaps this wasn't because you had teased him, but rather assumed that he hadn't paid attention to you

Your throat tightened.

“I—”

“Shut up.” He said it without heat, the way he said everything, and then he leaned down, his hands finding the neckline of your gown, and he pulled.

The fabric tore.

Not the careful unlacing of a maid's hands, not the patient work of a husband undressing his wife—a rip, a surrender, the sound of silk giving way to force. Cool air hit your chest, your stomach, the tops of your thighs as he rent the gown down the middle, baring you to the candlelight in your shift and stockings and nothing else.

You gasped. Your hands flew up to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists, pinned them to the mattress above your head, and held you there with one hand while the other traced the line of your collarbone, the swell of your breast through the thin linen of your shift.

“Pretty,” he said, and the word was rough, almost reverent. “So fucking pretty like this. Spread out for me. Waiting.”

Your breath came in short, sharp pulls. “Maekar—”

“I'm going to fuck you," he said, his voice dropping, his thumb finding your nipple through the linen and pressing, circling, watching your face as you bit your lip. “I'm going to fuck you until you forget every man in that hall exists. Until the only name you remember is mine.”

He released your wrists. Stepped back. His hands went to his belt, working the buckle with the practiced ease of a man who undressed in the dark more often than the light, and you watched him—watched the leather fall away, watched his fingers find the laces of his breeches, watched him free his cock.

It was thick.

Heavy.

The head flushed dark, already slick with something that caught the candlelight, and your mouth went dry.

“On your knees.”

You moved before the words finished leaving his mouth, rolling off the bed, your bare feet finding the cold stone floor, your knees pressing into the rug at his feet. The torn gown pooled around your hips, your shift rucked up to your waist, and you looked up at him from the floor, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.

His hand found your hair.

Wrapped around the tumbling waves, twisted, pulled until your head tilted back, your throat bared, your lips parted.

“Open.”

You opened your mouth. He guided his cock to your lips, the head pressing against the soft heat of your tongue, and you tasted him—salt and skin and the musk of his arousal, clean and sharp and wholly him. Your lips closed around him, and his hand tightened in your hair, and he pushed deeper.

Not rough.

Not gentle.

The weight of him filling your mouth, stretching your lips, sliding across your tongue until the head pressed against the back of your throat and you gagged, your hands flying up to grip his thighs.

“Breathe through your nose,” he said, his voice steady, his hips rocking forward once, twice, seating himself deeper. “You can take it.”

You tried. Your nose burned, your eyes watered, and his cock was thick in your throat, pulsing against your tongue, and you wanted—gods, you wanted—to please him, to take all of him, to feel him lose control in your mouth.

Your hands found the backs of his thighs, nails digging into the leather of his boots, and you relaxed your throat the way you'd learned, the way you'd practiced in the dark when you were alone and thinking of him, and he slid deeper, his cock filling you completely, your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base.

He groaned.

The sound was low, guttural, punched out of him, and his hand in your hair tightened, holding you there, holding you still while his cock twitched on your tongue.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fucking good girl.”

He pulled back, slow, letting you breathe, letting you gasp against his skin before he pushed in again, setting a rhythm—deep and slow, each thrust pressing you open, each withdrawal leaving you empty and aching for more.

Your jaw ached.

Your throat burned.

Your cunt was dripping, slick and desperate, clenching around nothing as you knelt at his feet and let him fuck your mouth, let him use you the way he needed, the way you needed him to.

His breathing changed. Shortened. His hips stuttered, once, and he pulled out, his cock sliding across your lips, leaving a trail of spit and the taste of him on your tongue.

“Maekar...” you whined in protest.

“On the bed.” His voice was rough, frayed at the edges. “Face down.”

You scrambled up, your knees weak, your shift clinging to your sweat-slicked skin, and you threw yourself onto the bed, face-down, your cheek pressed to the furs, your arse in the air.

You heard him behind you—the creak of the bed frame, the rustle of fabric, the low, rough sound of his breathing.His hands found your hips. Gripped. Pulled you back until you were on your knees, your face buried in the pillows, your cunt bare and wet and waiting.

“Look at you.” His voice was almost wondering. “Soaking, just for me.”

You couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. Your whole body was a prayer, a plea, a desperate, wordless begging for him to fill you, to take you, to claim you until you couldn't remember your own name.

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear. “You want my cock?”

“Yes.” The word was a sob.

“Say it.”

“I want your cock.” Your voice broke. “Please, Maekar, please—”

He pulled back. His hand left your hip. And then he was there, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slick and hot and thick, and he pushed.

The stretch was everything. The burn, the fullness, the way your body opened for him, swallowed him, gripped him like it had been waiting for this since the moment you met.

He seated himself to the hilt in one long, slow thrust, and you cried out, your fingers clawing at the furs, your back arching, your cunt clenching around him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, you're tight.”

He didn't move.

Just stayed there, buried inside you, his cock throbbing, his breath ragged, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

“You feel that?” His voice was low, almost tender. “That's me. Inside you. Where I belong.”

You nodded, your face pressed to the pillows, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“Say it.”

“You're inside me.” Your voice was muffled, broken. “You belong inside me.”

He pulled out.

Slow.

Almost all the way, until only the head remained, stretching your entrance, and then he thrust back in, harder this time, the slap of his hips against your arse loud in the quiet room.

You moaned.

Lost.

Shameless.

He set a rhythm. “This is what you wanted, isn't it? To fucking tease me, to test my fucking patience? Now fucking take the punishment.”

Hard and fast, each thrust driving you forward into the mattress, your body rocking with the force of him, his balls slapping against your clit with every stroke.

The sound of it—wet and obscene and perfect—filled the room, filled your ears, filled your head until there was nothing but him, his cock, his hands, his breath, his voice.

“Whose wife are you?”

“Yours.”

“Whose cunt is this?”

“Yours.”

“Who do you belong to?”

You couldn't answer.

The pleasure was building too fast, coiling in your belly, spreading through your limbs like fire, and you were close, so close, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust, your body begging for the release it couldn't name.

His hand found your hair. Pulled. Forced your head back, your spine arching, your throat bared to the ceiling. “I asked you a question, woman.”

“You,” you gasped. “I belong to you.”

“Good girl.” His hand released your hair, slid down your spine, gripped your hip. “Now come for me.”

Your orgasm hit like a wave, like a fall, like the world ending and beginning in the same breath. Your cunt clenched around him, gripping him in waves, and you cried out—his name, a sound, a sob—as the pleasure tore through you, leaving you shaking, gasping, boneless beneath him.

He didn't stop. Kept fucking you through it, his thrusts growing rougher, less controlled, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps.

And then he stilled, his cock buried to the hilt, his body shuddering, and you felt it—the hot pulse of his release, filling you, marking you, claiming you from the inside.

He stayed there.

Breathing.

His forehead pressed to the back of your neck, his weight heavy and warm, his cock still twitching inside you.

Minutes passed.

Or hours.

You couldn't tell.

Finally, he pulled out. You felt the loss like a wound, the emptiness where he'd been, the trickle of his seed sliding down your thigh as you collapsed onto the mattress, your body spent, your mind blank.

The bed creaked. The candle flickered. And then his hand was on your hip, warm and heavy, and his voice was low in the dark. “Next time you smile at a Dornish lord, I'll make you suck my cock in front of him.”

You laughed, a broken, breathless sound. “You wouldn't.”

His teeth found your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to sting. “Try me.”

His teeth stayed sunk in your shoulder, the sting of his bite a living brand, and you felt the low rumble of his approval vibrate through his chest against your back. Then his hand moved—slid down your hip, across the curve of your belly, and slipped between your thighs from behind.

You gasped as his fingers found the wet heat of your cunt, slick with your combined release, his seed already cooling on your skin. He didn't pause. Two fingers pushed inside you, gathering the proof of what he'd done, and you felt the stretch, the intrusion, the obscene wet sound of his touch.

“Still dripping,” he murmured against your shoulder, his lips brushing the mark his teeth had left. “Still hungry. I can feel it. The way you clench around my fingers like you're begging for more.”

You couldn't deny it. Your body was already responding, your hips pressing back against his hand, seeking more friction, more depth, more of him. The aftershocks of your orgasm still trembled through your thighs, and yet—gods—you wanted him inside you again. Wanted to feel him stretch you, fill you, claim you all over again.

His fingers curled, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur, and you moaned, your face pressed to the furs, your hands fisting the bedding.

“That's it,” he said, his voice rough, approving. “That's my wife. Always ready for me. Always wanting.”

He withdrew his fingers, and you felt the absence like a loss, felt the cool air against your wet skin. Then his hand landed flat on your arse—a sharp, stinging slap that echoed through the quiet room, and you cried out, more surprise than pain, your hips jerking forward.

“That," he said, his hand rubbing the reddening skin, "is for teasing me at that feast. For making me watch you smile at that Dornish cunt while I sat there with my cock hard under the table, imagining bending you over the dais and fucking you in front of the whole hall.”

Your breath caught. The image bloomed in your mind—the cold stone of the throne room, the gasps of the court, Maekar's hands on your hips, taking you in front of everyone—and your cunt clenched around nothing, desperate and aching.

“You liked that.” His voice was flat, knowing. “You liked the thought of everyone watching while I took what's mine.”

Another slap, harder this time, and you sobbed—a broken, shameless sound. His hand soothed the sting, his palm warm against your heated skin, fingers tracing the curve of your arse before dipping lower, finding the slick evidence of your arousal smeared across your thighs.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “Wetter now than when I had my cock inside you. You're a wanton thing, aren't you? My wanton little wife.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yours.”

His hand left your skin. You heard the wet sound of him slicking his cock, and then the head was pressing against your entrance again, and you held your breath, waiting, aching.

He pushed in.

The stretch was sharper this time—your body still sensitive from the first fucking, still raw and open, and the sensation bordered on pain before it blurred into something deeper, something that made your toes curl and your back arch.

He seated himself slowly, deliberately, his cock filling you inch by inch until his hips pressed flush against your arse.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a prayer. “You feel that? The way your cunt grips me? Like it knows where it belongs.”

You couldn't answer. Couldn't think. His cock was throbbing inside you, and you felt stretched, full, claimed in a way that went beyond the body. He was inside you, and you wanted to stay like this forever—his, filled, possessed.

He pulled out.

Slammed back in.

The sound of skin meeting skin was obscene and perfect, and you moaned, your fingers clawing at the furs, your body rocking with the force of his thrusts.

“You want to know what happens when you tease me?” His voice was low, dangerous, each word punctuated by a thrust. “I fuck you. I fill you. I put my seed so deep inside you that it takes root.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I want to see you swell with it.”

His hand found your belly, pressed flat against the soft curve of your stomach, and you felt his cock moving inside you through the pressure of his palm. “I want to watch your body change. Watch your tits grow heavy. Watch you round with my child.”

A sound escaped you—something between a sob and a moan, your throat tight, your eyes burning. The thought of it, of his child growing inside you, of being so completely his that you carried his legacy in your body—it undid something in you, loosened a knot you didn't know you'd been holding, because gods you understand now why the man had six children.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” His thrusts slowed, deepened, each one pressing against your cervix, pushing deeper than before. “Being filled with my seed. Carrying my children. Walking through the Keep with my child in your belly, and everyone knowing exactly who put it there.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, Maekar, please—”

“Please what?”

“Please fill me. Please put your child in me.”

The words tumbled out, broken and desperate, and you meant them, meant every syllable, meant the want that burned through your veins like wildfire. “I want to carry your children. I want everyone to see. I want to be yours in every way.”

Gods, had you imagined this would happen because you had teased him, well, you knew for certainty that you would have done so sooner.

He groaned—a guttural, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into your back—and his hand left your belly, found your hip, gripped hard enough to leave bruises as he fucked you harder, faster, each thrust driving you deeper into the mattress.

“I'm going to fill you,” he said, his voice ragged, frayed. “I'm going to fuck you until my seed takes, until you're so full of me you can't walk straight. And then I'm going to fuck you again and again,” his teeth sunk into your shoulder once more, every word muttered answered with a harsh, brutal thrust, “every night until you are pregnant.”

Your orgasm was building again, coiling low and tight in your belly, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust. The sensation was overwhelming—the fullness, the rhythm, the sting of his hand still warm on your reddened skin, the weight of his words sinking into your bones.

“You're close,” he said, “I can feel it. The way you grip me. The way your breath catches.”

His hand slid between your thighs, found your clit, pressed and circled in time with his thrusts, and the pleasure spiked, sharp and blinding, tearing a scream from your throat.

“That's it,” he said, his voice a growl. “Come for me. Come on my cock. Let me feel you fall apart around me.”

You shattered. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave breaking against stone, your body arching, your cunt clenching in violent pulses around his cock, and you cried out—his name, a prayer, a surrender—as the pleasure tore through every nerve, left you trembling and gasping and utterly his.

He didn't stop.

Maekar fucked you through it, his thrusts growing rougher, less controlled, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. And then he stilled, buried to the hilt, and you felt it—the first hot pulse of his release, flooding you, filling you, spilling into the deepest part of you.

He kept coming, his hips pressing against you, his cock twitching as he emptied himself inside you, and you felt the warmth spread, felt the excess leak around his shaft and run down your thighs.

He stayed there, buried, refusing to let a drop escape, his hand pressing against your belly as if he could hold it in by will alone.

“Breathe, sweet wife. I am not done. Do not move, no drop is to be wasted. You wanted this, you knew exactly what you were doing.”

Maekar Targaryen was not a man that wasted words.