Save the dragons, ride a Targaryen

Baelor emerged from the shower with the empty cardboard box pinched in his hand, the shower filter's packaging crushed flat. "All done," he said, as you took the box from him, your fingertips brushing the warmth of his palm.

He wore a black polo that stretched across his shoulders, and tailored black slacks that hung from his hips perfectly. Only Baelor could manage this, you thought; performing manual labor while appearing as though he'd stepped from a runway.

"Thank you for coming over," you said, setting the box aside. "This didn't have to be done today."

He crossed his arms, and your breath caught. The hours with his new trainer had carved definition into him that you appreciated, still mapping with your eyes when you thought he wouldn't notice. His biceps pressed against his sleeves, the fabric straining just enough to make your mouth dry.

"No problem."

His tongue swept across his lower lip. He stepped closer, letting his gaze openly travel down your body with clear appreciation, taking in the linen dress that clung to your hips, the way it ended midthigh and left so much leg bare.

"Is there—" he paused, letting his eyes drag back up to meet yours, "—anything else I can do for you before I go?"

You both knew he was really asking.

"I am considering getting a new TV for the bedroom," the words coming out innocently even as heat gathered beneath your skin. "Would you be able to take a look? See if I could mount something bigger with what's there?"

"Yeah."

A smug grin crossed his handsome features as he followed you from the bathroom into the attached bedroom. His hands found your hips, guiding you with gentle pressure that made you acutely aware of every inch of space between your bodies. You stopped before the wall where your current TV rested, and then his chest pressed against your back. Then you felt him, hardening against you, straining through layers of fabric to reach you.

"Baelor—"

He turned you in his arms and swallowed your words with his mouth. His kiss tasted of patience finally abandoned, of restraint cracking open. You melted against him, your hands finding the breadth of his shoulders, the strength you'd watched him build week after week now yours to grip and pull closer. He made a sound against your lips and then his hands were beneath your thighs, lifting you as if you weighed nothing, carrying you the few steps to the bed.

"Good girl," he breathed, his hips settling against your ass before he drew back and slammed forward again. The bedframe knocked against the wall, a rhythmic percussion. "Look at you taking this cock. Taking all of it like you were made for it."

His hands found your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh with possessive strength, and you moaned into the mattress, pushing back to meet his next thrust. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, wet and filthy, punctuated by your broken gasps.

One hand lifted, came down swift and sharp on your right ass cheek.

"Ah!" You yelped, the sting radiating outward, and he laughed, that dark, pleased sound that vibrated through his chest and into your spine where his body covered yours.

"Can feel how much you like that," you could hear the smirk in his voice, could picture his eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction. "So tight. You always like it when I use a little more force."

You did. You had always responded to this, the edge of dominance, the certainty that he could and would take what he wanted from your willing body.

"So good," you slurred, your tongue thick in your mouth, your hips working backward to meet his increasingly brutal rhythm. "Harder—"

"Fuck," he groaned, his head tipping back, the shift in his stance as he gathered himself. Then he was leaning forward, his chest pressing against your back, his beard scraping the sensitive skin of your shoulder as his mouth found your ear. "There you go, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good. Remind you what you've been missing."

"Fuck me—" The plea escaped before you could catch it, before you could maintain any pretense of composure. You were reduced to this, begging, spread open, his cock pounding into you relentlessly, hitting that spot inside that made your thighs tremble and your vision spark with white light.

He wrapped one arm around your waist, his hand sliding between your legs with unerring accuracy. His fingers found your clit and began to rub in tight, merciless circles.

You jerked forward, the sensation too intense, too much, but his other arm caught you, held you in place.

"Don't run now," he chuckled, the sound dark and intimate against your ear. His beard tickled your neck, his breath hot and damp. "Not after you lured me over for this. Calling me to fix things all the time—" A particularly hard thrust cut off your moan, drove the air from your lungs. "When what you really want is me to stuff this pussy."

The words should have stung. Instead, you felt only the truth of them burning through you, the admission that you had been manufacturing reasons for him to come, to be in your space, to look at you with those eyes that saw too much.

"God, Baelor—" Your voice cracked, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer overwhelming pleasure of it, the fullness, the friction, his fingers working you. You were close, so close, your body tightening around him in pulses you couldn't control.

"It's okay," he whispered, his voice softening. "You can come now. I've got you. Let go, sweet girl. Let me feel you."

The permission broke something open in you. Your orgasm crashed through, wave after wave of pleasure radiating from your core outward until your fingers cramped from gripping the sheets, until your voice gave out from crying his name, until you were nothing but sensation and surrender, milking his cock with contractions that made him groan and curse and lose his rhythm.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK—"

He stilled against you, his hips jerking in short, helpless thrusts as he emptied himself inside you. You felt it, the pulse of his release, the heat flooding your already-slick cunt, the way his body went rigid and then slack, his forehead dropping to rest between your shoulder blades, his breath coming in harsh pants that stirred your hair.

You lay sprawled and limp, your face still pressed to the mattress, his weight a comforting blanket over your back, cock still buried deep.

Then he was withdrawing, slowly, carefully, and you felt the immediate loss.

Gentle hands turned you, helped you collapse onto your side, and then his mouth was pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw.

"Going to hop in the shower," he said, his voice still rough. "You want to join? Round two?"

You laughed, or tried to, it came out as a breathless huff. "No. I can't really stand right now."

He laughed too, and gave your ass a light smack that made you twitch and smile despite yourself. "Fair enough. Don't move. I'll be quick."

You didn't move. You couldn't have if you'd wanted to. You lay there listening to the shower run, your body gloriously used, every muscle loose and warm.

When he emerged, towel wrapped low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to his chest hair and the gray-threaded beard, you had managed to sit up against the headboard, your hair a wild tangle that would require serious attention.

"That shower feels the same," he observed, reaching for his clothes where they'd been discarded in haste.

"It's a filter," you replied. "It's supposed to be better for your hair and skin over time."

He paused in pulling on his shirt, filing that information away. "Are you saying I should shower here regularly?"

The heat that flooded your face. You opened your mouth, closed it, felt the corner of your lip catch between your teeth as you considered your answer and found none that wouldn't reveal too much.

He laughed.

"Enough of that." You turned away. "It's time for business."

You forced yourself to stand, to go to the bathroom and begin the work of restoring order to your hair. The mirror showed you flushed and mussed, your eyes too bright, lips swollen from his kisses. You looked exactly like a woman who had just been thoroughly fucked.

"Valarr—" you began.

"Yes, I have interviews tomorrow with tutors for him," Baelor interrupted, smoothing his slacks. "I'll let them know he's a legacy at two schools, but we still want at least a 1500."

You nodded. "Okay. And Matarys started driver's ed. He needs some hours with a parent, and I refuse to get in a car with him ever again."

Baelor chuckled. "It's not funny," you insisted, pouting at your reflection. "He nearly killed us both!"

"Going what? Ten miles per hour?" His eyes were crinkled with amusement, the amber one catching light differently than its blue partner, both focused on you with such obvious affection.

"He ran a stop sign!"

Baelor's expression softened as he watched you. "No worries," he said, reaching to clasp his watch back on. "I'll get him on the road this weekend."

Your hair was perfect once more, falling in smooth waves past your shoulders. You reached for your makeup drawer, doing a light retouch of concealer and lip gloss.

"Thank you, Daddy," your eyes meeting his in the mirror's reflection.

His eyes narrowed, sharpening instantly, as you gave him your filthiest grin in return, one that promised everything you couldn't say in words.

He shook his head, a sharp motion as if to clear it, and stood. "Do you need anything?"

"Could you get me some water?"

"Whatever you want." The phrase fell easily from his lips, natural as breathing.

You stood alone in front of the mirror, studying your own reflection as if it might provide answers. Baelor was the perfect husband. Kind, a good father, a good man, a great provider, and he fucked you through the mattress with devastating skill. He was attentive. Available emotionally and physically in a manner that felt almost performative, except you knew him too well. This was real. This man who prioritized you and the boys above work despite being the head of the restructuring group at one of the largest law firms in the city. He who would drop anything to come to you when you needed him.

He was perfect.

If only he had been this man before you left him.