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and, yeah. he knows he should send you away. should tell his guards to take you elsewhere, should give you a golden dragon for your troubles and tell you to buy yourself a nice gown or a good meal.

he should do the right thing. the godly thing. but then you come near him smelling of honeysuckle and ambrosia and every godforsaken tempting thing in all the seven kingdoms, and ormund is done for.

at first, you only sit in his lap and kiss his cheeks. and he tells himself it's fine, you know? it's not like you're really doing anything wrong. just worshipping a man you'd been paid to make feel good. and it does make him feel good, your soft lips against his skin.

but then he lets himself touch you.

slow at first. a hand on your thigh—over your dress. albeit a thin barrier of lace and silk, but a barrier still. and then he drags his knuckles down the back of your smooth neck, stroking the sweat-slick hair that clings to your nape.

you thread your own fingers through his curls, mouth drifting lower to lay kisses over his pulse. you're good at what you do, he realizes quickly. because before he can even register what's happening, you're turning fully to staddle his hips and hiking your dress up your legs.

he can feel you, even through his trousers. the heat that emits from between your thighs, the wetness, the desire. it makes him feel dizzy. drunk, even.

you give a tentative roll of your hips over his bulge and his head falls back, knocking lightly against the top of the mahogany chair. it's too much, and he knows it, and there's a thought in the back of his head as you create a delicious rhythm that he might be damned for this.

but he's too far gone now, that iron grip on his control slipping through his fingers like smoke. he can only feel the remnants of it like a thick humidity, can hardly remember those life-long teachings of the faith.

when your fingers unbuckle the iron buttons of his doublet, he lets you. doesn't push you away like he should when you push it over his shoulders and down his strong biceps, either.

you're so soft. tracing his scars with eager hands, still humping his clothed cock like you're the most desperate girl he's ever seen. he tugs roughly at the tie at the back of your dress, the fabric over your chest falling away with little resistance.

his big hands come to cup your breasts, massaging the supple flesh, calloused thumbs stroking over the peaks of your nipples. his mouth waters at the sight of you, bare and free and open, all for him.

his for the taking.

his for the feasting.

ormund leans forward and suckles your tit into his mouth, tongue demanding as it flicks across your nipple. he kisses his way across your sternum to the other, sucking and biting, unable to stop himself from making some sort of claim on you despite being fully away you're not his to claim.

he's not an indulgent man, no. but greedy? well...that's another matter.

your breath is warm against the shell of his ear as you say, "i want you inside me."

he should say no. he knows that.

but then you say, "please, ser."

and gods. what's a man to do? deny a pretty woman? deny the prettiest woman?

ormund doesn't have the strength. not when you beg so beautifully.

"get up," he says.

you do without a moment's hesitation. perfect girl. obedient girl.

ormund stands to his feet and crowds your space until you have to take a step back. one, and then another, and another. he tilts his head and smiles with a wolfish grin until your back hits the edge of the desk.

he sees it there, for a fleeting moment—the fear in your eyes. but you don't have to be afraid, not of him. he's a godly man, don't you know? he would never hurt a woman, let alone one like you.

gently, he lifts his hand to your face and strokes the back of his knuckles over the curve of your cheek. "do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

the fear subsides, and ormund traces the shape of your sweet mouth with the pad of his thumb.

"if it weren't for coin, would you still want this? and don't lie, girl."

he watches as your pupils dilate. you nod, slowly at first, but then again with more certainty. "yes."

"good." he presses his thumb past your lips, feeling the soft wetness of your tongue and she sharpness of your teeth. you hollow out your cheeks, staring up at him through your lashes the whole time.

a moan escapes him at the sight of you. pretty and sinful and irresistible all the same. he lets you suck his thumb for a few precious moments, committing the feeling of your warm mouth to memory.

but the moment his desire for you grows impossibly more suffocating, he brackets an arm around you and lifts you onto the desk. ormund pushes your shoulders back and pulls your dress up right over the ravens he'd been writing moments before you'd stepped foot into his space, ink likely still drying.

you lift your legs; the heels of your feet hooked right at the edge. ormund gorges himself on the sight of you; bare and spread wide for him, beautiful and womanly and so very wet.

with one hand, the knight undoes his belt. and with the other, he strokes a finger through the seam of your cunt. finds your clit and circles it carefully, delighting in the way your eyes flutter closed and a hum leaves your lips.

his cock is aching now. throbbing in his hand as he pulls it from his breeches and strokes it desperately.

this would be enough to finish him, he knows. a firm grip around the base of his cock and the most mouth-watering sight before him. an interactive display of indulgence.

it should be enough.

and yet it is not.

ormund brings his hand, wet now with your arousal, to his lips. he inhales deeply, taking the scent of you deep into his lungs, before he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you off of it.

he makes space for himself between your spread thighs and watches curiously as you prop yourself up on your elbows. "i want to watch it go in," you admit sheepishly.

there's a tone of innocence in your voice that has him trembling with need. it makes him feel...powerful, almost. like you're at his mercy.

and maybe you are.

ormund knows he shouldn't like the feeling, but he does. and he's already gone this far, and so he grips the back of your neck hard and pulls you forward, abdomen curling to get a better view.

he lines himself up at your entrance, coating the tip of his cock in your slick, and then slides in deep.

the thought crosses his mind that you feel like heaven.

tight and wet, a kind of worship in it's own right.

ormund fucks you hard. tugs at your hair and slams his hips against yours with reckless abandon. kisses your cervix with the tip of his big cock, stretching you wide.

he doesn't kiss you, because it's too intimate.

but his lips hover over yours, breathing in your moans, swallowing up your exhalation. ormund thinks you're beautiful as you are, but when your eyes are wide and you're all filled up with him?

gods.

it's something else entirely. makes him throb inside of you, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds you upright. "you're perfect," he says, and means it. doesn't throw the word around lightly.

but it's true.

ormund circles your clit with his free hand after gathering spit from his own mouth for ease of friction. he smears his saliva over your cunt, slapping his fingers against you slit, twice gently, and then once sharp.

but he soothes the ache quickly, shushing your whining with a steady pressure against your swollen clit.

he spreads his fingers and slides them down, two on each side of his cock that still pistons into your opening. sweat begins to bead along his hairline. "tell me you want me," he murmurs, voice low and thready.

"i want you," you say.

and it satisfies him, but then you keep going and his knees grow weak.

"want you to—to defile me. feels so good. so—so good inside of me, please. don't stop. please don't stop. i want to be your woman. i'll do anything, my lord. anything, please."

there's a part of him that doesn't believe it. ormund tells himself you're being paid to say these things. that it's about the gold and not about him.

but you beg so beautifully and he thinks that yeah, he might want that, too.

might want to keep you at his bedside for his own twisted pleasure. for his own relief. his pet. his plaything.

his woman.

your cunt squeezes tight around him, and your knuckles around the edge of the desk blanch as you hold tight. "oh, gods."

he groans, the sound reverberating deep in his chest, and then empties himself deep inside of you. fills you up and doesn't stop his thrusts. his cock twitches and becomes coated with your release and his.

he doesn't slow his pace until your muscles go slack, until the oversensitivity becomes borderline painful.

carefully, he releases his hold on you and lays you back against the desk, a small smile forming on your pretty face. a look of pure bliss, provided by his touch alone.

ormund gently pulls himself back, and watches as the sticky white mess of his cum spills out of you. he gathers it with his fingers and pushes it back in, thumb stroking lightly over your clit.

it's wrong, and he knows it, but he hopes that it sticks. hopes that one day your belly will be rounded with his baby, and he'll have no choice but to marry you. to raise you up from a girl in a brothel to a lady of his house. a hightower.

ormund hopes he'll get to keep you.

ormund also hopes the gods might forgive him.