✮⋆ READ SLOWER, FOR I WOULD LIKE TO STAY A LITTLE LONGER
Summary: Your husband, Ormund, likes having you read him letters and petitions from other lords. But besides the contentment of hearing your voice, he also seeks other pleasures... 'multitasking', if you will. (AT! THE! SAME! DAMN! TIME!).
Warning: Straight up cockwarming, 18+, MDNI, p in v.
You were just about to turn the page of the book you were engrossed in when the heavy oak door swung open, and Ormund’s tall figure entered the room without delay.
You remained where you were, lying in your sheer nightgown, as your husband moved around, tossing a few sheets of paper onto the bed before hastily removing his doublet. His urgency bordered on desperation.
Ormund Hightower was a man of grace, the esteemed pillar of the Reach. Behind closed doors, however, that grace began to unravel. And you recognised that look instantly.
He craved warmth. He sought the solid comfort of his wife. He needs you.
Understanding better than to ask about the cause, you set the book aside and allowed him to adjust the skirts around your waist, positioning his body over yours. He unlaced his pants, allowing his thick cock to spring free. In an instant, he plunged deep into your wet, pulsing heat, accompanied by a shuddering exhale that caressed the shell of your ear.
Your walls stretched at the familiarity of his size, fingers pressing into the taut muscles of his shoulder. Yet, instead of moving his hips to seek release, Ormund remained still.
He slowly lowered himself onto you, nestling his face into the crease of your shoulder. A soft hum escaped him as he settled comfortably. "The petitions. Read them for me, please."
With one hand gently tousling his hair, you reached for the stack of letters beside you with the other. Holding the first page up, you began to scan the words for Ormund.
"Lord Redwyne addressed the shipping tariffs in the bay," you began. His body was fully relaxed now, given over entirely to the soothing sound of your voice.
It was an intoxicating feeling. While your voice carried on about the tedious bureaucracy of a Great House, your insides, on the other hand, were wrapped around the hardness of a man who had momentarily forgotten how to breathe.
When the letter brought up a dispute over wool shipments, you noticed a slight tightening in his core.
“Did he truly expect a rebate on the harbor fees?” Ormund’s voice vibrated low, a minuscule movement that sent a jolt of electricity coursing through your nerves.
“Hmm, he only said that the storms damaged three of his main vessels. Nothing beyond that,” you said, turning your face to catch a better glimpse of his handsome features. He offered no reply, only drawing closer and hiding his face in the crook of your neck, taking comfort in the familiar scent of your oils.
He nudged his hips upward to adjust his position slightly. A slow, grinding pressure that made your toes curl into the velvet upholstery. You could sense a rhythmic throb. The desire to rock on him was overwhelming, but you knew better than to rush him before he cleared his mind.
This was one of the reasons he constantly sought your company. He often expressed that the world demanded he embody the name ‘Hightower’ - to be rigid, cold, and unyielding. But here, in the embrace of the woman he loved, cocooned by your warmth, he was permitted to be soft.
The more you read the flowery prose and the fervent pleas for prestige, the more you felt him relax, shedding every burden of the day.
You turned to the next letter, a petition from a lesser house requesting a marriage alliance, as it mentioned. "This is quite tedious, my dear husband. Are you prepared for this?" you asked with a playful tone.
He responded with a low groan, weary of the endless petitions and demands that came with his role as the Lord of Oldtown. "Just read it. I enjoy the sound of your voice, especially when you're bored.”
As you giggled, the vibration rippled through you before reaching the place where your bodies were connected. Ormund let out a deep growl before nibbling on your neck, causing your breath to catch. “Stop moving,” he pleaded.
A soft moan escaped your lips as you began to feel a pulsating need in your pussy. You weren’t sure how much longer you could endure this. "The petition asks for a marriage alliance to be considered between—"
"Deny it," he interrupted, cutting you off mid-sentence.
“I haven’t read the rest. Let me finish,” you bit your lip to keep from laughing.
"I don't need to hear it to know the sheer absurdity these men are requesting. Utter nonsense." He shifted his weight once more, pinning you securely against him, allowing you to feel the soft brush of his chest hair against your skin.
The heat between you had escalated to a feverish intensity, a shimmering warmth that made your head spin. You closed your eyes and let the parchment slip from your fingers, fluttering down like a fallen leaf.
Urging him to penetrate deeper, you wrapped your legs around his waist. The abrupt change in pressure caused him to let out a sharp hiss. Ormund froze, his muscles growing tense.
“All good?” you asked. Dampness pooled around your thighs.
“You’re too… mm— warm,” he choked out a reply. The way he clung to you indicated he never wanted to escape the sensation.
But Ormund remained still, teetering on the brink of something, unwilling to break the spell. You knew he craved the tension to build, the slow burn of warmth to ignite into a raging fire.
So you decided to make the first move. Reaching up, you threaded your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing his head closer for a kiss. His lips were infused with salt and yearning. His tongue danced with yours before he softly whispered your name into your mouth.
The room seemed to constrict until all that remained was the aroma of oils and the sound of tongue sliding against tongue. Then slowly, he began to move.
“I can't remain still any longer,” Ormund said. His eyes were heavy-lidded and dark, a blend of fatigue and desire.
“Fill me then, darling,” you commanded.
He needed no further instruction. Ormund lunged forward, pumping in and out, in and out, completely losing the composure of Lord Hightower. The way he thrust into you revealed a desperation born of hours of pent-up desire; his movements were raw and unrefined.
You matched him stroke for stroke, bodies colliding with a wet slap that echoed in the quiet of the room. It was like a war drum.
His name flowed from your lips sweetly like honey, “Ormund, Ormund, Ormund.”
The climax that arrived felt like a cascading wave. You sensed him shudder intensely, his whole body trembling with the force of his release. His cock twitched as he spilled his seed inside you, while you let out a long, broken sob of relief. Ormund held you close, tightening his grip and drawing out every last bit of tension from his body.
After some time, he turned to face you, smiling as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead and showering your damp skin with kisses. His now-soft member remained deep inside you, showing no signs of withdrawing soon.
As your own breathing began to calm, your gaze wandered to the letters strewn across the bed. There were still many that required his attention and decision. "We missed a few. There’s one from the Citadel though."
Ormund let out a rumbling groan and sank back down. Resting his cheek against your chest, he closed his eyes, content to remain enveloped in your warmth until the sun set and the world called its lord back once more.
"Read to me, my darling," he murmured, his voice trailing off as he almost drifted into sleep. "Let me hear your voice."
You reached down to retrieve the crumpled papers and began to read again. Your voice flowed softly in the room, a gentle counterpoint to the raw act that had just happened. Tales of tariffs, Citadel appointments, and the everyday disputes of men filled the silence as you continued, creating a world of words around you both - a cocoon of stories and skin.
Ormund stirred slightly, an instinctive movement that reminded you he was still there, still connected, still yours.
As the candles burned low and darkness enveloped the room, you kissed his shoulder and leaned back into the velvet, gazing up at the ceiling while listening to the distant chime of the tower bell.
The world continued to spin; the politics of the Seven Kingdoms persisted. But in this room, time had come to a standstill.
All that existed was the scent of your skin, the feel of silk, and the enduring, golden warmth of a man who feared that the heat might dissipate if he released his hold on his wife, even for a moment.
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