Slipping from ocean bed

He had convinced himself that affection was a weakness a prince could not afford, that his heart belonged only to House Targaryen, to the realm, and to the children who looked to him as their father.

Yet love is a cruel thing to deny.It settled in the quiet spaces between your words, in the way your hand instinctively reached for his after long days, in the fierce devotion with which you loved his children as though they had sprung from your own blood.

Every act of kindness was another spark against dry tinder, every smile another ember refusing to die. Maekar was a man forged by fire, but you were the flame that consumed him.

Not with wild passion alone, but with relentless patience, unwavering loyalty, and a stubbornness that rivaled his own.

You never demanded his heart.

You simply remained, through his silences, his temper, his endless burdens, until one day he looked upon you and realized the battle had long since been lost.

Through relentless stubbornness and quiet devotion, Maekar found himself burning for you—the embers of a love that neither time nor sorrow could extinguish.

And though dragons were said to be creatures of fire, he came to understand that the fiercest blaze was not one that destroyed.

It was the one that endured, which was the current reason why he found himself balls deep in the warm walls of your clenching cunt, hands threaded through your hair as he pulled you against his chest, teeth nipping and tongue slipping into your parted lips as he fucked you without abandon, “Fucking take it, woman.”

Your own arms held unto his, moaning, shaking, trembling beneath the brutal onslaught of his cock hammering into you from behind, sweat clinging unto skin.

“Maekar,” you had mewled into the air.

Maekar didn't answer with words; he answered with a guttural growl that vibrated through your spine. His grip on your arms tightened, his knuckles white as he anchored you firmly, pulling your hips back to meet every devastating thrust.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, a wet, rhythmic percussion that drowned out everything but the sound of your own desperate gasps.He was relentless.

Each plunge of his thick cock was a brutal invasion, bottoming out deep inside your pussy with a force that made your vision blur.

You felt the friction building, a searing heat that threatened to consume you as he hammered into you, driving himself home over and over again. “Woman, you make me fucking insane,” he breathed against your neck, your breasts swung wildly with the impact, your nipples peaking and rubbing against the sheets as you trembled under the sheer weight of his dominance.

“Look at you,” Maekar rasped, his voice a low, dangerous rumble against your ear. He leaned forward, his chest slick with sweat pressing firmly against your back, his breath hot and smelling of desire.

“Shaking for me. Taking every inch like a good little slut, it's your fucking fault, with your insufferable fucking kindness and not once understanding what you're fucking doing to me.”

The words only fueled the fire. You arched your back, pushing your ass further back against him, begging for more of the onslaught.

You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching tight around him, milking his shaft with every shuddering breath. The tension coiled tighter and tighter in your gut, a pressure building that felt like a storm about to break.

He shifted his grip, one hand sliding from your arm to wrap firmly around your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to make you feel completely possessed.

He accelerated the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, and more violent. The brutal friction sent sparks through your nerves, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Please... Maekar, please!” you sobbed, your voice breaking as your climax began to ripple through you.

He let out a sharp, jagged breath, his own composure finally snapping. With one final, deep surge, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing violently inside you as he erupted.

You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your depths, filling you to overflowing and a the same moment, your own orgasm crashed over you in waves, your pussy clamping down on him in rhythmic, desperate spasms that drew every last drop from him.

You collapsed forward, your muscles turning to jelly, while he remained buried deep inside you, his heavy chest heaving against your back, both of you drenched in sweat and shaking from the intensity of the release.

“Gods,” you had murmured into the sheets, legs trembling, “what brought that on?”

He grunted, baring his teeth as his cock hardened once more, “I want to give you your own children to fucking fuss over, fuck, watching you with mine has made me come undone.”

You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your face still pressed into the damp sheets, but the sound was cut short as you felt him stir behind you.

The sensation of his cock thickening and hardening again, stretching your walls while he was still buried deep, sent a fresh jolt of electricity straight to your core.

The sheer hunger in his voice—the raw, possessive need to plant his seed inside you—made your pussy twitch and clench instinctively around him.

Maekar didn't wait for a response. He gripped your hips with bruising force, his fingers digging into your skin as he hauled your ass back against him. He withdrew almost entirely, the wet, sliding sound of his shaft leaving your heat echoing in the quiet room, only to slam back in with a sudden, violent force that knocked the wind out of you.

“I'm going to fill you so full of my cum you'll be leaking it for days,” he growled, his voice thick with a primal, breeding lust.

He began to fuck you with a renewed, frantic energy, his thrusts deep and punishing. He wasn't just seeking pleasure now; he was claiming you. Every time he bottomed out, his pelvic bone slammed against your backside with a heavy thud, driving his cock upward against your cervix.

The thought of him wanting to impregnate you, of his seed taking root inside your womb, turned your insides to liquid.You reached back, your fingers clawing at his thighs, pulling him even closer. “Do it,” you whimpered, your voice a desperate wreck, “fill me... Maekar, put it all inside me.”

Hearing your submission snapped the last thread of his restraint as he flipped you over with a sudden, powerful movement, pinning your wrists above your head and looming over you.

His eyes were dark, blown out with lust, as he stared down at your flushed face and heaving chest. He lifted your legs, draping them over his shoulders to open you up completely, exposing your dripping, swollen pussy to his gaze.

“Look at it,” he rasped, staring at where his thick cock disappeared into your soaking wet folds. “Open and ready for me. You're going to take every drop.”

He began to hammer into you again, the angle allowing him to go even deeper. You could feel him hitting the very back of you, stretching you to your limit.

The friction was intense, a searing heat that built rapidly as he drove himself home over and over. Your head tossed from side to side on the pillow, your moans turning into loud, uncontrolled screams of pleasure as he relentlessly pounded into your depths.

He leaned down, biting hard into the curve of your neck, marking you as his own while his lower body worked like a piston.

The pace became frantic, a blur of skin, sweat, and raw friction. You felt the pressure building again, a tight coil of tension in your belly that demanded release.

“I'm... I'm close!” you wailed, your hips bucking wildly beneath him.

“Good,” he groaned, his breath hot against your skin. “Take it all. Take every fucking bit of it,” and with a final, guttural roar, Maekar surged forward, burying himself to the hilt and pinning you firmly against the mattress.

His body stiffened, his muscles locking as he erupted inside you. You felt the hot, pulsing torrents of his cum hitting your cervix, filling your pussy to the brim, the sheer volume of his release making you feel stretched and full.

As he poured himself into you, your own orgasm ripped through you, your walls clamping down on his shaft in violent, milking spasms that sucked him deeper.

You shook beneath him, your vision white, completely consumed by the feeling of him filling you with the promise of his children.

“I am not done, woman.”

His thumb pressed to a page where the ink was still fresh, you had written this sometime in the night, after he'd fallen asleep, after he'd held you against his chest and kissed your hair and told you that you were his whole world in that quiet, reverent way he had.

The afternoon light caught the silver in his hair as he read the line again. I want him to take me without asking. I want him to pin my wrists and make me feel his strength. I want him to stop being so careful, stop treating me like glass, stop holding back the part of himself he thinks I can't handle.

His breath had stopped somewhere in his chest. He read it a third time, and a fourth, tracing each curve of your handwriting with his eyes, feeling the shape of the words settle into his bones like a truth he had always known but never dared to name.

You wanted him rough.

You wanted him to stop being gentle.

“Gods, the fucking cheek of this woman,” Maekar had murmured into the silence, because now he could not stop thinking about how you had been lying beside him every night, burning with a hunger you were too afraid to speak aloud, while he gave you tenderness you had never asked for.

The diary lay open across his palms, the leather warm from his grip. He could smell you on the pages, a faint trace of the lavender oil you rubbed into your wrists each evening, and something else, something that was just you, that he had memorized in the long months of your marriage.

He closed the book slowly, the leather creaking under his fingers, and when he looked toward the door where you would walk in any moment, there was a new stillness in his shoulders, a decision already settling behind his violet eyes.

He did not put the diary back.

He held it, feeling its weight, feeling the confession it contained as if it were a live thing pressed against his palm. You had written other things too, pages and pages of them, fantasies you had never whispered, desires you had blushed to even think.

He had read enough.

He had read the part that mattered.

The part that changed everything, the part that had awakened something within him he had no intention of ever showing you. Dyanna had never been this brazen, she had never hidden her desire for him—what she wanted, she had received tenfold, so what the fuck had possessed you to hide this from him?

The room was still, velvet hung motionless around the bed, the air thick with the memory of your bodies from the night before.

He could still feel the ghost of you against his skin, the way you had curled into him, the soft sound you made when he touched you and now he understood that sound differently.

It was not contentment, but rather that it was hunger, banked and patient, waiting for him to finally see it.

He rose from his knees, the diary still in his hand, and crossed to the carved oak table where you kept your hairbrush, your silver ring, the Targaryen pendant you never removed.

He set the diary down beside them, deliberately, as if placing an offering.

Then he turned and faced door.

The moment stretched as he could hear the distant sounds of the keep, a servant's footsteps in the corridor, the murmur of conversation from the courtyard below. None of it reached him.

He was suspended in the space between who he had been and who he was about to become.

He had been gentle because he thought you needed gentle. He had held you like you were precious, like you might break, because the idea of causing you even a moment's pain had been unbearable, the mere thought that you had wanted that part of him unleashed made his cock stir within the confinement of his breeches.

He had learned to be soft from a lifetime of watching what unchecked Targaryen passion could do to those caught in its path and the last thing he wanted was to frighten you.

He had sworn to himself that he would never be that kind of husband—not even with Dyanna and most certainly not with you—that he would love you with patience and care and the steady warmth of a hearth fire rather than the consuming blaze of dragonflame.

But you had not wanted a hearth fire. You had wanted the blaze. You had wanted the part of him he had locked away, the part that watched you with something darker, something that stirred when you bit your lip or looked at him from beneath your lashes.

You had wanted him to take, not to ask and he had been too afraid to see it.

The door opened.

You stepped into the room, your hair catching the afternoon light, your eyes lifting from the floor to find him standing there and you stopped.

Your hand still on the latch, your body half-turned as if you might step back out, as if you had sensed something in the air that did not belong.

“Maekar.” Your voice was soft, uncertain. Your gaze flicked past him to the table, to the diary lying open beside your brush, and your face went pale. “You—”

You did not finish.

He watched you process it. Watched the color drain from your cheeks, then rush back in a flush of heat that spread down your throat.

You knew.

You knew what he had found, what he had read. Your diary. Your secrets. The hunger you had never dared to show him.

“I found it beneath the sheets,” he said, his voice lower than usual, carrying a weight that made your breath catch. “I did not mean to read it. I meant to put it back, to pretend I had never seen it.” He took a step toward you. “But I read one line. And then I could not stop.”

Your lips parted but you said nothing, your hand came away from the latch and pressed against your throat, that nervous habit he had always found endearing, and watched your fingers curl against your collarbone as if you could feel his gaze there, as if the air between you had thickened with something you did not yet trust.

“You want me to stop being gentle.” He said it plainly, without accusation, but the words landed like stones in the silence between you. “You want me to pin your wrists. To take you without asking. To make you feel my strength.”

You flinched, a small, almost invisible movement, but he saw it, saw it in the way your eyes dropped, the way your throat worked as you swallowed, the way your hand pressed harder against your skin as if you were trying to hold yourself steady.

“Tell me,” he said, and his voice dropped lower still, rough at the edges, carrying the first hint of the fire you had written about. “Tell me if it is true.”

You looked up and met his eyes and in that look he saw everything, the fear, the shame, the desperate wanting that you had hidden behind shy glances and soft sighs.

You nodded. A single, small movement of head.

“Say it,” he said. “I need to hear you say it.”

Your lips moved, but no sound came. You wet them, tried again, and your voice emerged as a whisper, fragile and raw. “Yes. It's true. I want—” You stopped, your breath hitching. “I want you to stop being careful with me. I want you to take what you want. I want—”

He crossed the room in three strides.

His hand found your waist, not gentle, not hesitant, and pulled you against him so hard you gasped. His other hand came up to your jaw, fingers pressing into the soft flesh beneath your ear, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Do you know what you have done, woman?” he asked, his voice barely above a murmur, vibrating with something that made your knees weaken. “Do you know what you have unleashed by writing those words?”

You shook your head, a tiny, trembling motion against his grip.

He lowered his mouth to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You have given me permission to be the husband I have always wanted to be. The one I locked away because I thought you needed softness. But you do not need softness, do you?”

You made a sound, a small, desperate sound that was almost a sob, almost a moan and your hands came up to clutch at his doublet, your fingers curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself against the current you had set in motion.

“Answer me,” he said, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “Do you need softness?”

“No,” you breathed. “No, I don't—I need—”

“What do you need?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes dark and wet, your lips parted, your breath coming in uneven gasps. “I need you. The real you. The one you hide.”

The words hit him like a blow.

He stared at you, at the woman who had been sleeping beside him for months, who had smiled at him over breakfast and blushed when he caught you staring, who had written your darkest desires in a leather-bound book because you had been too afraid to speak them aloud and in that moment, he saw you clearly for the first time.

He released your jaw.

His hand slid down to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse hammer against his palm, you did not flinch and you did not pull away, but rather you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed, your lips parting on a soft exhale.

“From now on,” he said, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, “you will tell me what you want. You will not hide it in a book. You will not bury it beneath your pillow and hope I do not find it. If you want something, you will say it. Do you understand?”

You nodded, your throat moving against his hand.

“And if you do not say it,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that was almost a growl, “I will find out anyway. I will learn every corner of your desire. I will take it from you, piece by piece, until there is nothing left you have not given me.”

Your breath caught.

Your hands tightened on his doublet and when you spoke, your voice was barely audible, trembling with a mixture of fear and want that made his blood run hot. “Yes.”

He kissed you, not the soft, reverent kisses he had given you every night for months—no, no, this was a claiming, a taking, his mouth hard on yours, his hand pressing against your throat, his body crowding you back until you hit the doorframe with a soft thud.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting the shock and the surrender and the relief you could no longer hide.

When he broke the kiss, you were both breathing hard, your lips were swollen, your eyes dazed, your fingers still clutching at him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly tilted off its axis.

“Take off your dress,” he said.

You stared at him as your hands trembled as they went to the laces at your shoulder. You fumbled, your fingers clumsy with nerves and want, and he watched you struggle without helping, without offering any of the gentleness he had always given you before.

The dress slipped. It pooled at your feet in a whisper of fabric. You stood before him in your shift, the thin linen doing nothing to hide the shape of you, the rise and fall of your breathing, the way your nipples had hardened beneath the cloth.

He looked at you, slowly, intensity burning and letting you feel the weight of his gaze, the heat of it, the hunger he had finally stopped hiding.

“On the bed,” he said. “On your knees. Face down.”

You moved without hesitation, no questions, no fear as you crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, the velvet rustling beneath your weight, and you arranged yourself as he had commanded, knees apart, face pressed into the pillows, your spine curving into an arch that made his mouth go dry. “Fuck me, woman.”

You said nothing, but he groaned at the unmistakable shake of your shoulders as you muffled the small giggle that tumbled from your lips, “I do not find this amusing, wife. You have undone me.”

The afternoon light fell across your back, across the curve of your hips, across the thin linen that separated you from his hands.

He stood at the foot of the bed and watched you, letting the image burn itself into his memory, his wife, the woman he had held so carefully, now offered to him with a trust that made his chest ache.

He removed his doublet, the leather slid from his shoulders, and the fine linen shirt beneath it followed, falling to the floor beside your dress. “I am going to fucking ruin you.”

He walked around the bed slowly, letting you hear his footsteps, letting you wonder what he would do next, letting the anticipation build until he could see your fingers grip the velvet covers.

When he climbed onto the bed behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight, you made a small sound, a breathless anticipation that tightened his jaw and hardened the cock already pressing against his trousers.

He settled behind you, one knee on either side of your legs, and let his hand rest on the small of your back, “You have been wanting this,” he said, his voice low, his palm pressing down until you arched deeper. “You have been lying beside me, night after night, wanting me to do this.”

“Yes,” you whispered into the pillow.

“Say it again.”

“Yes.” Your voice was stronger this time, carrying a note of desperate relief. “Yes, I have been wanting this. I have been wanting you.”

His hand slid down, over the curve of your hip, over the thin linen of the shift, until his fingers pressed between your legs.

You were wet, so fucking wet that the dampness of your desire soaked through the fabric, and he groaned at the feel of you, at the proof of your desire that you had hidden from him for so long. “You are soaked,” he said, his thumb pressing against you through the linen, making you gasp. “How long have you been this wet for me?”

“Months,” you breathed. “Since—since our wedding night. Since you held me so gently that I almost cried, because I knew—I knew you were holding back, and I wanted—”

“What did you want?” He pressed harder, circling, felt your hips push back against his hand.

“I wanted you to take me. I wanted you to fuck me like you meant it, like you needed it, like—” Your voice broke on a moan as he pinched you through the fabric. “Like I was yours to take.”

He pulled his hand away, and you whimpered at the loss. He grabbed the hem of your shift and pulled it up over your hips, baring you completely, the curve of your ass, the wet heat between your thighs, the glistening proof of your hunger.

He stared at you, his breath coming hard, his hands aching with the need to touch you. “You are mine,” he said, and his voice was not gentle. It was rough, possessive, dark with a fire he had never let you see.

“You have always been mine. But now—” He leaned over you, his mouth close to your ear, his cock pressing against you through the fabric of his trousers. “Now you are going to know what that means.”

You trembled beneath him, a full-body shudder that ran from your shoulders to your thighs. You did not speak as you did not need to, your body told him everything, the arch of your spine, the spread of your knees, the way you pressed back against him as if you could not get close enough.

He reached down and freed his cock from his trousers, the head already slick with need, and guided it to your entrance. He did not push inside. He held it there, pressing just at the opening, letting you feel the pressure, the promise, the heat of him ready to fill you.

“Look at me,” he said.

You turned your head, your hair spilling across the pillows, your eyes finding his. They were wet, dark, full of a wanting that mirrored his own. He held your gaze as he pushed inside you, slow and steady, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

You gasped. “Fuck, woman. How the fuck—,” his jaw clenched as the words tumbled from him, “are you still so tight?”

Your eyes fluttered, but you did not look away, your body gripped him, hot and tight, and he felt the tremor run through you as you adjusted to the fullness of him.

He stayed still, letting you feel it, letting the moment stretch until you were breathing in short, shallow gasps that told him you were ready.

He began to move, not gentle and most fucking certainly not slow.

He fucked you with a rhythm that was hard and deep, his hips driving into yours, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. You made sounds he had never heard from you, raw, desperate, broken sounds that drove him harder, that told him this was what you had needed.

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth at your ear. “Is this what you wanted?”

You could barely speak. Your voice came out in fragments, broken by each thrust. “Yes—yes—Maekar—”

“Tell me. Say the words.”

“I wanted you—to fuck me—like this—I wanted you—to not hold back—”

He reached around and found your clit with his fingers, pressing hard circles that made you cry out. Your body clenched around him, your muscles tightening as you neared the edge, and he drove into you deeper, faster, chasing the release that was building in both of you.

“Come for me,” he said, his voice a growl against your ear. “Come for me, and I will give you everything you have ever wanted.”

You shattered as your body arched, your cry muffled by the pillow, your cunt clenching around him in waves that pulled him over the edge with you. He came hard, his hips pressing deep, his fingers digging into your hips as he emptied himself into you, his breath ragged against your skin.

The room was silent except for your breathing, the ragged gasps slowly settling into steadier rhythms. He stayed inside you, not wanting to leave, not wanting the moment to end, and he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, soft, reverent, the ghost of his old gentleness.

But when he pulled out and you turned to face him, when you curled into his chest with your eyes still wet and your lips still parted, he knew. He knew that the gentle husband was not gone, that he was only one part of who Maekar Targaryen could be.

And now you knew it too.

He held you, his hand tracing slow circles on your back, and he looked at the diary still lying open on the table, at the words that had changed everything.

“No more secrets,” he said softly. “No more hiding what you want from me. I will be the husband you need, all of him. The gentle and the rough. The fire and the hearth. But you must promise me the same.”

You looked up at him, your dark eyes meeting his violet ones, and you nodded. “No more secrets.”

He kissed your forehead, a benediction and a promise. And in the quiet of the afternoon, with the diary still open on the table and your body warm against his, he began to understand what it meant to be the husband you had always wanted and to want it for himself.

The warmth of your body against his chest was still settling when he felt it, a twitch, a pressure, the slow resurgence of blood moving south. You must have felt it too, because your breath caught, and your fingers, which had been tracing idle patterns on his ribs, went still.

“Maekar.” His name on your lips was not a question. It was an acknowledgment, but rather a sudden flash of heat that had built beneath you once more.

He did not answer with words.

He rolled, taking you with him, pinning you beneath his weight before you could draw another breath, his hand found your throat, not the gentle resting touch from before, but a grip that pressed your head back into the pillows, that made your eyes go wide and your lips part on a sharp inhale.

He watched your pupils dilate, watched the rush of color stain your cheeks, watched the way your hands flew up to grip his wrist, not to push him away but to hold on. “I am not done with you,” he said, his voice low, rough, carrying an edge that had not been there the first time. “I barely started.”

You swallowed against his palm, your throat working, and the movement sent a pulse through his fingers that he felt all the way down his spine.

Maekar pulled his hand away just long enough to grab your hip and flip you onto your stomach and you gasped, the sound muffled by the pillows, and he dragged you up onto your knees, your ass pressing back against his thighs before he had even settled behind you.

He grabbed a fist of your hair and pulled, forcing your spine into a deeper arch, until your cheek was pressed flat against the mattress. “You said you wanted to know the real me,” he muttered, guiding his cock through the slick mess he had already left inside you. “The part I locked away. Look at me, and tell me you still want it.”

You turned your head, your eyes finding his over your shoulder. They were wet, wild, dark with a hunger that made his blood roar. “Yes,” you breathed. “Yes. Give me all of it.”

He drove into you in one, brutal thrust, no slow easing this time, no steady inch-by-inch. “You fucking wanted this, now take it.”

He buried himself to the hilt in a single motion that punched the air from your lungs and made your fingers claw at the sheets. He did not give you time to adjust. He pulled back and drove in again, harder, the slap of skin against skin sharp in the quiet room, the sound of his breathing ragged and harsh above you.

You made a sound that was almost a sob. Almost a plea. He did not slow down. He fucked you with a rhythm that was punishing, deep, each thrust driving your body forward until your knees slid against the velvet, until you were braced against the headboard, until the only sounds in the room were the wet slide of him inside you and the broken moans you could not contain.

His hand stayed in your hair, pulling your head back, keeping you arched and exposed. His other hand found your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave crescents. He wanted to mark you. He wanted you to feel this tomorrow, to walk through the keep with bruises blooming on your skin that no one else would see, to know that every ache in your body came from him.

“You like this,” he said, not a question. “You like being taken like this.”

You could barely speak, your voice breaking on each thrust. “Yes—yes, Maekar—please—”

“Please what?” He slowed, just enough to make you feel the difference, to make you desperate. “Tell me what you want.”

“Don't stop,” you gasped. “Don't—please—I—”

He drove into you again, hard, and you cried out, your body clenching around him, your thighs trembling. He could feel you approaching the edge, could feel the way your muscles tightened and fluttered, could feel the heat of your rising to meet his.

He pulled out.

You whimpered at the loss, a desperate, broken sound that nearly undid him as he grabbed your hips and flipped you onto your back, spreading your legs wide, positioning himself between before you could catch your breath.

He did not enter you.

He leaned over you, his weight on one arm, his other hand wrapping around his cock and sliding the head through the wet mess he had made of you, teasing your entrance, letting you feel the pressure without the relief.

“Look at me,” he said. “Do not fucking move an inch,” and then he left you, his presence an absence that made you mewl in protest.

You did not move, your eyes were glassy, your lips swollen, your chest heaving. You looked wrecked, and beautiful, and utterly his.

He retrieved the diary from the table. He did not close it. He held it out to you, the pages facing you, and said, “Read to me. The entry you wrote last night. The one about my mouth.”

Your cheeks flamed and your hands trembled as you took the diary, your fingers brushing against his.

You looked down at the page, your lips moving silently as you found the passage. And then you began to read, your voice low and shaky, the words spilling into the space between you like a confession you had never meant to speak aloud.

He watched you and listened as you read, about his tongue, about the way you imagined him tasting you, about the shame and the hunger, he felt something settle in his chest, a hunger of his own.

The chapter was not over. It had only just begun.

Your voice trembled through the first sentence, then steadied as you found your rhythm. The words you had written in the dark, when you thought no one would ever read them, now filled the space between you like smoke, intimate, unavoidable, burning.

“I imagine him on his knees,” you read, your cheeks flushing deeper, your eyes fixed on the page. “Between my thighs. His mouth—,” you stopped, wet your lips, and continued. “His mouth on me like I am something he needs to survive. Not gentle. Not careful. Devouring. Like he wants to consume me.”

He watched your throat move as you swallowed, watched your fingers tighten on the leather binding, in the way your thighs pressed together, as if the words themselves were enough to make you ache.

“Go on,” he said.

You turned the page.

Your breath caught.

“I want him to hold me down and taste me until I forget my own name. Until I can't think, can't speak, can't do anything but feel his tongue inside me. I want—,” your voice cracked. “I want to feel his beard against my thighs, his hands gripping my hips, his mouth—,” you stopped, your eyes squeezed shut, the diary trembling in your hands.

He took it from you gently, set it aside on the bed beside you and then he took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the heat in your cheeks, and he kissed you.

Soft, reverent, the ghost of his old gentleness. “You wrote about my mouth,” he said against your lips. “Now you will feel it.”

He pushed you back onto the bed, your hair spreading across the pillows, your legs falling open without hesitation. He settled between them, his shoulders fitting into the cradle of your thighs, his breath warm against the slick heat he had already filled twice that afternoon.

You were still wet with him. His seed leaked from you, mixed with your own desire, and he pressed his mouth to you without hesitation, tasting you both, tasting the evidence of what you had done. You gasped, your hips bucking, your hands flying to his hair.

He did not start slowly.

He devoured you, just as you had written, his tongue flat against your clit, his mouth open and hungry, his fingers gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks. You cried out, your back arching, your fingers twisting in his silver hair, and he felt the vibration of your moan through his lips.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his mouth still against you. “You taste like us. Like everything we have done today. Like everything we are going to do.”

You made a sound that was not quite a word, your hips pressing against his face, and he gave you what you wanted, his tongue sliding inside you, tasting the depth of you, feeling you clench around nothing as he worked you open with his mouth.

He stayed there for a long time, not rushing and not holding back either as he licked and sucked and pressed until your thighs were trembling against his ears, until your breath came in ragged sobs, until you were so close he could feel it in the way your body tensed, in the way your fingers tightened in his hair, in the way you whispered his name like a prayer.

He pulled his mouth away.

You whimpered, your hips chasing him, and he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then the other, working his way up your body slowly, deliberately, letting you feel the absence of his mouth where you needed it most. “Not yet,” he said, his voice rough, his chin slick with you. “I want you to watch me when you come this time.”

He positioned himself above you, his cock pressing against your entrance, and held your gaze as he pushed inside. The angle was different like this, deeper, fuller, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he filled you completely. You gasped, your hands finding his shoulders, your eyes never leaving his.

He fucked you slow at first, deep, grinding thrusts that let you feel every inch of him, that made your breath catch on each withdrawal and rush out on each plunge.

He watched your face, watched the way your lips parted, the way your eyes glazed, the way your hands slid from his shoulders to his chest to his face, tracing the lines of him as if you were memorizing him by touch.

“You are everything,” he said, his voice breaking. “Everything I was afraid to be. Everything I locked away. You—” He thrust deeper, harder, and your back arched. “You set it free.”

You pulled his mouth to his, kissing him hard, your tongue sliding against his, tasting yourself on his lips. He groaned into your mouth, his rhythm faltering as the heat built, as your legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him deeper, as your cunt clenched around him in waves that told him you were close.

He broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged. “Come for me. Look at me and come.”

Your eyes locked onto his. Your body tensed, your mouth open on a silent cry, and you shattered beneath him, your cunt milking him with a force that sent him over the edge with you. He drove deep, pressing you into the mattress, and let go, filling you again, his body shuddering with the force of his release.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you with him, his arm wrapped around your waist, his face buried in your hair. The room was darkening, the afternoon light fading to the amber glow of early evening, and the diary lay open on the bed beside you, its pages catching the last of the sun.

You turned in his arms, your hand finding his chest, your voice barely a whisper. “There are more entries.”

He looked at you, at the flush still staining your cheeks, at the trust in your eyes, at the woman who had hidden your desires in a leather-bound book and now lay naked and spent in his arms, your secrets laid bare.

“I know,” he said softly. “And I will read every one of them. But not tonight.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Tonight, I want to hold you. Tonight, I want to feel you sleeping against my chest, knowing that you are mine, all of you. The gentle parts and the hungry parts. The parts you showed me and the parts you are still afraid to speak.”

Your eyes glistened as you nodded, curling into him, your cheek pressed to his heart. The diary lay open beside you, a witness to the change that had passed between you, a record of the hunger that had finally been fed.

He reached over and closed it. The leather creaked under his fingers, and he set it on the table beside the bed, beside your hairbrush and your ring and your pendant.

“Hmm.”

“Maekar?”

He grunted, something between hunger and an incredulous laugh, “I am particularly interested in how the fuck you want me to fuck you on the Iron Throne, but I suppose the vivid imagination you had bled into that fucking book will give me an idea.”

“You are insufferable.”

“You words, woman, not mine.”