we play an ugly game

You nodded slightly, knowing perfectly well that your husband found you dazzling whether you were in a dress or not. The second option was probably far more preferable to him.

You sighed again, barely hiding the slight frustration that had taken hold of your thoughts. Your maid fussed around you, adjusting the sleeves of your emerald-colored gown. Mentally, you kept returning to the image of your husband gripping his sword tightly. Ormund looked so resolute and proud as he watched your firstborn deftly dodge his strikes. Your son beamed just as brightly. He looked like a polished knight's helmet. Fortunately, he was still too young to wield a real dangerous and sharp weapon, but Lyonel was no longer the little boy who trustingly pressed against your side, seeking protection from something he didn't understand. You missed those times when his cheeks were still plump and pink like roses from the bushes. He was your tiny baby, following you everywhere and flinching at the sudden sound of a bird taking flight. Now Lyonel no longer needed your care as fully as before. At his age, he already considered himself grown, or at least approaching adulthood. Young Hightower probably had no idea how deeply he wounded his mother's heart when he dismissively waved off your advice. Now he clung to his father more and more, eagerly questioning him about the burdens of being head of the house. Your other two boys were also growing rapidly. It had been a long time since any of your children with Ormund had knocked on the heavy doors of your chambers in the dead of night. No one jumped into the parental bed, trembling and occasionally feigning fear, swearing about a monster they'd encountered under the bed. Martyn now considered it his duty to tease his younger brother for his cowardly complaints, and Garmund would impatiently lunge at him with his still-fragile little fists, almost growling with frustration. Now their squabbles occupied them endlessly. Garmund would catch his brother's gaze and lower his blue eyes in shame. Your gut told you that your youngest was torn between the need for maternal tenderness and the need for brotherly acceptance. When he so sweetly asked you to sing his favorite lullaby, you could barely hold back tears of emotion. For you, each of them, your three troublemakers, was still a baby, even with newfound ambitions worthy of their father's character.

But on the other hand, when you recently, in the heat of play, scooped up your two youngest sons, you felt that those little bundles with wrinkled faces had changed. They were so sturdy and heavy. Gods, those boys seemed to be filled with cast iron. All three took after their father in the most shameless way, inheriting all his features. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't spot even a trace of yourself in them. Little copies of Ormund Hightower. It sometimes made you uneasy how your eldest smiled at the master-at-arms' daughter. Lyonel had inherited his father's charm and used it expertly, it was unclear when and where he had acquired this experience.

So absurdly, you had recently prayed to the gods that your eldest son would be obedient and steady, that his head would be cold as ice, and that no frivolous thoughts would cloud his heart. The way he made eyes at that awkward girl did not let you rest. Then you prayed to the gods for the well-being of your husband and your other sons, and lastly, you left one final cherished wish. Fervently, tenderly, you begged the Seven to grant your house a little Lady Hightower, your daughter. Perhaps a little vanity had taken hold of you when you thought about stroking the silky hair of your little angel, whose curls would be exactly like yours.

Your thoughts were interrupted when the maid, with some apprehension, shook your shoulder. She always seemed a little afraid of you for some reason. There was no clear reason for it, but it didn't bother you much. She performed her duties well, almost nimbly.

"M'lady, are you unwell? You seem like a different person."

You smiled reservedly, touching your heavy earrings attached to your earlobes. Your husband never stinted when it came to jewelry. You, in turn, considered it a great honor to wear his gleaming gifts every day.

"I feel wonderful, I just got lost in thought about a few things."

The maid straightened up, burning with curiosity, but her lips were tightly sealed, as if any careless word could cost her her head.

"But it's none of your concern," you added sternly and quickly. "Better bring me that new nightgown of mine."

The girl was first confused and looked at you as if you were mad, since she had just fully dressed you, preparing you for the promised walk. The sly squint of your eye said much more.

"I need a private meeting with Lord Hightower," you licked your soft lips, mentally encouraging yourself to carry out your cunning plan. "Now don't just stand there. And bring the jasmine oil."

Your fingers were already buried in your hair, untangling the knots with newfound agility. You sincerely and fiercely wanted to get what you desired, and that pushed you to decisive action. Your husband might call it strategy, and it was. You knew perfectly well that he loved that scent, enveloping your body in the sweetest embrace, making Ormund openly want to devour you.

A little temptation, a little negotiation, and a little fulfillment of a cherished desire. The plan you had conceived was crystal clear and simple, and you had no doubt that Lord Hightower's restraint would burst the moment he found you in that silk nightgown with a little bow on your chest. You looked like a promised gift, which Ormund would unwrap without delay and perhaps without proper tenderness.

The maid closed the door behind her, wearing an understanding and supportive smile on her face, but you didn't need her blessing. You knew perfectly well the power you possessed. Your husband went weak in the knees simply because you smiled.

A few days ago, you had asked to be given separate chambers from Ormund. You had argued not too seriously, but perhaps a bit of drama guided you when you gave that capricious order. For a few days, both your bed and his had remained empty. Only stubbornness kept you from speaking again. You had even planned your walks so as not to witness their training, but then you secretly watched the whole scene from the window of your cold chambers.

You glided through the castle corridors as if floating on a glass lake, your nightgown billowing behind you. Some would have called you a vengeful ghost. Such was your determined gaze. Others, the most charming swan, because it was hard to look away. You moved swiftly, unable to avoid the cold biting your bare feet.

Your hands gripped the forged rings firmly attached to the wooden door, reaching up to the ceiling. You snorted in annoyance. You didn't quite like that the doors didn't open on their own. And frankly, you were a little angry at your husband for not being the first to visit your chambers.

What you saw stole your breath away. Ormund lay in a copper bath, bathed in morning light, sprawled out like a lion in the sun. A servant poured water over his tired, knotted shoulders with a ladle. Your husband didn't even raise an eyebrow when he saw you at the threshold, your chest heaving and your eyes burning dangerously. Lord Hightower barely smiled with the corner of his lips and closed his eyes, as if silently saying, "I knew you'd come." The servant, in turn, dropped everything. The rough sponge fell to the floor as the man bent into a frightened bow.

"Get out," you snapped impatiently, hastily covering your chest with your palms.

Only now did you realize how absurd your plan was, one that in no way included this poor servant. You nearly pressed yourself against the wall by the door, watching him hurriedly retreat from your chambers faster than the wind.

Ormund chuckled quietly, deeply, as if pouring velvet. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a tired but satisfied look.

"If you wanted a memorable entrance, I can guarantee our servant will never forget it."

He turned his gaze to you, slowly, leisurely, his eyes traveling over your body. His tongue darted out slightly, moistening his lower lip. When he waved his hand, rebellious drops of water fell straight onto the stone floor, creating a tinkling melody.

"But I would kindly ask you, on your next visit, to spare the poor man's heart, for the neckline of your very innocent nightgown carries utter ruin, my dear wife."

Ormund laughed again, this time louder, his laughter echoing off the walls of the room. Pulling your hands away from your chest, you clenched them tightly into fists.

"If there's something to show, why hide it?" you thrust your chest out proudly.

You stepped carefully on the stone, returning a detached expression to your face. You deliberately swayed your hips, knowing this mischief would have an effect on Ormund and wipe that insolent smile off his face. Your hand touched the strap of your silk nightgown, letting it fall gently, as if the wind had licked the fabric, shifting it a few inches. Your garment was already semi-transparent and left nothing to the imagination, every curve was clearly defined. The circles of your nipples peeked playfully, hardened from the cold.

His face soon changed. His wet fingers gripped the edges of the copper bath. Lord Hightower's jaw tightened with tension. Inside, you rejoiced as you spotted that familiar, unrestrained, hungry look. You knew you didn't need much, just to fan the fire a little more so it would blaze intensely.

You brushed the second strap aside, so the nightgown hung at your hips, but then coyly covered your bare chest with your hands.

"Or should I hide it?"

Ormund swallowed audibly, already ready to curse you and your damn games.

"Why hide what belongs to your husband?" he rasped impatiently, his hands already reaching for you, his whole body tensing and rising to meet you.

Drops of water raced down his torso too beautifully and slowly, capitulating as they fell. Your eyes gleamed with desire, no less than Ormund's.

"Come here," he said with authority in his voice, but seeing you back away slightly at the command, he softened. "Please, my love."

You chuckled softly. He always obeyed, without question, whispering his "pleases" like a puppy. But as soon as you were close enough to be caught, his demeanor ceased to seem at all pitiable. Ormund pulled your hands away from your chest demandingly, hungrily. Without a moment's hesitation, his large, hot palms covered your breasts and squeezed them firmly. He rubbed your nipples with his thumbs and index fingers, teasing cruelly. His hands felt so masculine, slightly rough from holding not just your soft female body but also rough steel.

Your moan was a loud, mewling sound when he caught your pearl-hard nipple with his lips. His hot tongue traced the bud, playing with it. You grabbed his head, pressing him to you imperiously. He tended to each of your breasts carefully, kneading them and biting the tender skin, reminding you who you belonged to and how unbearably desirable you were in your games.

His hand made its way, roughly pulling down the nightgown. The luxurious garment let out a pitiful squeak, tearing slightly, already clearly unwearable for the wife of Lord Hightower. Ormund wrapped his arm around your waist tightly and lifted you off the ground effortlessly, even though he himself was sitting in that damn bath, smelling of some kind of pine. You squealed and panicked, grabbing his shoulders, but very quickly the room was filled with a different sound, one that treacherously escaped your lips.

Ormund kissed your pussy with his open mouth, wetly and greedily. He couldn't wait any longer. You exuded that sweet scent, teasing him to his limit. He licked your folds with such pleasure painted on his face. His tongue became flexible and firm as it circled your clit and struck it, making you push into his face. The water in the bath sloshed, creating stormy waves in the copper giant. You called his name, not knowing what you expected from your husband, who consumed you with such appetite. Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs from the flood of emotions this intimacy in the narrow bath, certainly not designed for two, gave you. Your thighs trembled with a humiliating ache. Your knees barely held you up. This position was not comfortable at all, as you stood slightly bent over, while your husband looked like a feasting man, submerged in warm scented water.

Ormund's fingers plunged into your dripping pussy, curling inside you, stealing the most obscene, unrestrained sounds from your mouth. Your lashes were wet with the strain of the orgasm that was so close. You were ready to scream his name when he pulled away abruptly and lifted his head to look at your face.

Lord Hightower shamelessly licked your moisture from his lips. His chin still glistened, not letting you forget the intimacy so ruthlessly interrupted.

"Should I continue, or have the kitten's knees gotten tired?"

You wanted to hit him, but all your limbs were trembling and weak as rags. The next thing you wanted was to scratch his face, to paint red, stinging lines across it to remind him how unkind it was to anger your mistress. But you did none of those things and simply sank slowly into the water. Your hair clung to your neck and the back of your head, your cheeks burned with nervous excitement.

"I want a child," you blurted out, frustration settling all over your face. "A girl who will trust all her secrets only to me, her mother."

You pushed his chest with your foot, not hard, or perhaps Ormund simply didn't show it.

"I'm tired of begging the gods for a child."

Lord Hightower ran his fingers along the rib of your foot, sliding it off his body elegantly but gently.

"My love. The gods are merciful, but I think we don't need their blessing. We do just fine together."

Ormund smiled slyly before standing up. The water rushed away from his body in protest. His muscles were solid, firm, as if carved from marble. They rolled under your hungry gaze.

He didn't cover himself, and it would be a ridiculous lie to say that his erect cock wasn't noticeable. The head glistened, and his entire flesh seemed to ache, demanding to be wrapped around your soft body.

Ormund climbed out of the bath languidly, not even bothering to dry off. He offered you his hand like a gentleman, as if he hadn't villainously robbed you of your orgasm a few minutes ago. Your nightgown lay orphaned on the floor, hardly resembling its former seduction. Drops falling from your husband's body landed right on the silk. You looked at that garment and thought that his defiance had defeated your cunning.

Defeated, you offered your hand. Your husband helped you escape the copper bath, dragging you along. You collapsed onto the bed heavily. The fabric clung to wet skin, but that was nothing compared to how your bodies clung to each other. All grievances drowned the moment your lips met in greedy, unending kisses. You bit his lips as he kneaded your skin with his fingers. Your thighs hooked around his waist desperately as he guided his cock, running it through your still-sticky folds. He gathered the moisture that seeped from your desire.

"Do you want this? A child?" Ormund asked softly, touching your lower lip with his thumb, pulling it back slightly.

You whimpered and nodded, rubbing your thighs against his groin, making him hiss from the restraint that overflowed.

"Wouldn't a good husband do this for his sweet wife?" he whispered, wetly kissing your temple.

Lord Hightower couldn't wait another moment. He pushed into you softly before filling your greedy cunt gradually, almost tenderly. You gasped, moving sharply to meet his hips.

"Are you a good husband?" you asked in a strained voice, biting his earlobe.

"If coming in my wife's pussy makes me a good husband, then I suppose yes," he growled, thrusting deep into you.

You clung to him helplessly, surrendering to the passion of his movements, and couldn't tear yourself away from your husband's lips, whispering sweetly and tearfully.

"Then do it. I want this. I want this."

It was hard to describe your state when the peak hit you so suddenly, roughly, taking all your strength. You clenched all over, unable to let go of your husband. Your pussy spasmed, contracting around his cock.

Ormund stopped, but only for a moment, looking into your eyes, his palm stroking your cheek tenderly, caringly. His hips slapped against yours with less force. His movements took on a softer, more loving tone.

You buried your face in the curve of his neck, feeling him come deep inside your pussy, spilling hotly. His breath tickled you as his lips touched your ear.

"There's nothing more pleasant than coming in a wife who begs so sweetly."

Ormund didn't pull out right away, and you both savored the aftertaste of your love, the warmth that spread through your body, or rather, in the pit of your stomach.

"We'll keep trying. One attempt is probably not enough, my love," he whispered with a soft laugh, stroking your lips with his. "And you should come back to our bed. I get a little lonely without my sweet wife and her sweet outfits."

You hugged him as tightly as you could, forcing your husband to press you down with his not-inconsiderable weight. You didn't want him to leave, and you couldn't stop thinking about how intimate you were right now. His cock was slowly softening, and his seed trickled down the inside of your thigh. But in the end, he rolled off, still afraid of simply breaking you. Ormund's palm spread across your still-empty belly. His fingers traced small circles. And something inside you told you that your desire had been fulfilled.

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