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Enver gets back from whatever frivolous date he’s been on with Lady Jannath, going into his study after shedding his coat, a bit miffed, a bit exhausted with all the charming posturing – not that he doesn’t love manipulating her, she’s just so utterly boring and predictable. He’d had her on her settee, with her skirts pushed up, slow and hard with her blunt nails digging into his shoulders; he’s glad that he doesn’t have to worry about faking orgasms. It was a release, but a chore all the same. He heads straight for the liquor cabinet, thumbing the ring on his pinky with a private smile. It was, of course, worth it.
It’s not until he’s poured himself two fingers of fireswill and turned to his desk that he realizes he’s not alone. Dubhsláine is lounging on one of the armchairs by the fireplace, her legs slung over one of the armrests, a book perched in her lap. Her own mantle has been discarded, draped over the back of the chair, and she’s not in her leathers, for once. The firelight glances off the pale scales on her cheeks and forehead.
“Do have a care not to get blood on the upholstery.” He slinks over to her, sipping his drink and sinking into the opposite chair, sprawling his legs out. She doesn’t look up from her book- probably one of his own. She turns a page.
“No more than you’d get on it.” She drawls. Her eyes flick to him, then back to the text. Her lips lift in an unsettling smile. He draws one of his heels back toward the base of his own chair and laments that he’s still in his boots.
“Yes, but I’m particular about the blood I spill in my quarters, my friend. Knowing you, you’re getting gnome blood all over my fine velvet.”
Áine snorts. “Don’t be so squeamish, Enver. It’s unbecoming of you, especially when you’ve your own seed drying on your breeches.”
He raises a hand to his laces and looks down with a start, brow furrowing when he finds no such thing. She laughs now, and he watches her throw her head back against the wingback with delight. “Oh, you’re so easy.”
“Horse’s arse.” He spits back at her, hiding a grim smile behind the rim of his glass when he raises it to his lips.
She ceases her reading, setting aside the tome on the little table at her elbow, and instead pillows her chin atop her arms on the armrest she’s not thrown across. “How do you stand it? I can smell her on you- all ridiculous pomp and wisteria. Don’t you hate wisteria?”
“My, but I’d almost believe you sound jealous, dove.” He takes one last long pull from his glass and sets it aside, relishing in the way her eye flashes and her jaw tightens. Enver leans down and begins to unlace his boots. “We can’t all kill our way through life. Well, only kill.”
She is right, of course. He detests Jannath’s perfume, and it lingers after he leaves her, especially after he’s fucked her. Stooped as he is, he can smell it on his trousers; they’d barely disrobed before the deed, this evening, he was so eager to be done with her. The diamond on his pinky catches in the orange glow of the fire, reminding him that it was worth it.
“Don’t tell me you’ve gone so soft.” is Áine’s reply, and he whips his head up to glare at her. He yanks his laces free and kicks off both boots, standing to his full height to instead glare down at the elf spread across his chair. She remains languid in disinterested repose, watching him with chilly regard, even as he steps over to her and reaches down to push her hair behind one ear with a careful hand.
“If you want me to fuck you, dove,” and he watches with pleasure as her eye darkens, as her scales seem to gleam whiter against the flush of her skin, “you know how to ask.” And you know I won’t say no remains unsaid.
But instead of the ready agreement he had- unrealistically- expected, she asks “You think I want your whore prick in me?”
He tightens his fist in her hair and yanks her head back. Her chin and chest rise, but she doesn’t let the rest of her body move with the motion, digging her fingers into the armrest. He looks down her corset, at the sliver of exposed cleavage, milky white and dotted with freckles. His cock throbs valiantly, even more so when he looks up at her face and finds it red, lips parted and pupils dilated. Enver doesn’t ease his grip as he leans over her, his other hand rising to the high back of the chair, casual, with so much more consideration than the hair in his fist.
“Think? No, dove. I know that you need it; that you ache for it. Isn’t that right?”
She licks her lips and works her jaw. He smiles placidly as he waits for her response, and freezes when she spits in his face. She grins, filthy and bloodthirsty, and he hardens in his trousers so quickly it makes his head spin.
“Alright.” He murmurs, and that’s all the warning he gives before he pulls her out of the chair by her hair, relishing her cry of pain as he drags her to her knees. He holds her neck at an uncomfortable angle, forcing her to continue looking at him as he fumbles one-handed with his laces. When he loosens them enough he shoves them down, along with his smalls, letting them hook under his balls. Her mouth falls open in expectation, but he laughs wryly. “Oh, no, you had your chance.” He strokes himself, keeping her centimeters away by his grip in her hair, pulsing over his own fingers as her face morphs with outrage.
“Enver,” she growls, and tries to stick her tongue out to lap at his tip. He jerks her head back even further, until a whine crawls up her throat. He twists his hand up his shaft, shivering minutely, his own mouth falling open on a hushed sound of pleasure as he watches a long stream of fluid drip from his cockhead onto her breasts. He could come like this; he has come like this, painting her in his spend while she tears at the backs of his legs and writhes against him. She always looks so beautiful dripping with him.
He widens his stance, stepping forward and forcing her back- she whimpers with alarm and throws her arms behind herself for additional support, scrambling as he bends her awkwardly over the seat of the armchair. Her chest heaves as she peers at his cock, eyes nearly crossed with how close it is to her face. He can feel the warmth of her breath when she gasps. More of his pre-come drips onto her mouth, her cheeks; her lids fall as she licks it off her lips, as if she’s tasting a delicacy. Enver cannot stop the groan he releases.
“Fuck,” he hisses, releasing his cock and grabbing her jaw, forcing his thumb into her mouth, pressing her tongue down. She moans, deeper, and tries to suck on the digit in her mouth, whining when he keeps her held open. He feeds his cock between her lips – clumsy without the help of his hands, the tip smearing across her chin and cheek until he slots it into her mouth and pushes into her throat brutally. The sound she makes is breathless, choked, relieved. He slips his thumb to the side, into her cheek, and as he fucks her throat it sounds louder, this way, the clench of her muscles, her gagging, the slick and frothy sound as he forces drool out around his cock and finger. When he looks, her good eye is dazed and all pupil.
“There we are,” he hisses out, stilling himself deep in her throat until her eyelashes flutter, only pulling back when her nostrils flare. “-there we are, see?” And he releases her hair to caress the other side of her jaw, almost-tender, before he slips it around her neck and grips her at the nape. “Deep breath now, hm?”
She nods minutely, the barest scrape of teeth against his dick making him curl his toes into the plush rug beneath them. He pulls back enough to let her follow his command, then plunges in again, holding her in place to fuck her mouth with uninhibited gusto.
Dubhsláine moans, now, the sound hoarse and broken up by the click of her throat opening around his cockhead. It makes his hips stutter, drives them both higher in their pleasure. He imagines how wet she is, how easily he could fuck her. Her face is deeply flushed, her mouth bruised, drool shining down the perverse angle of her throat in the firelight. He feels his balls draw up; a tear slips out of her eye, falls quickly down her cheek and across his thumb. He knows that he can push her further; he could have her sobbing, he could fuck her until her nose runs, until her lashes clump, until she truly gags on him- he could keep going after she’s dry heaved enough, until she’s nothing but a slack, wet mouth and trembling chest. She’s let him, before; she’s begged him, before.
He rips out of her mouth before he loses himself. His cock jerks, dribbles a thick glob of spend onto her still-open mouth. He tries to focus on his breathing as he slips his thumb to the back of her molars, his middle finger massaging the hinge of her jaw from the outside. Her eyes slit open and she sighs something satisfied and thankful.
“I’ll give you another chance,” he pants out. “Why don’t you tell me how you want me to fuck you, dove?”
He slips his thumb out of her mouth, finally, and cradles her jaw so that she’s still forced to crane to look up at him. When she speaks, her voice is rough as gravel, cracked and broken. “Fuck me like you fucked her.”
Heat flares under his skin, high on his cheekbones. He looks around the study, at the chaise just barely in his periphery. “Jannath is a woman of… basic tastes, my dear. I’m not sure you’d enjoy that.”
She growls, but it sounds much less threatening from a fucked-raw throat. “You didn’t ask me for what I enjoy, Enver. You asked me for what I want.”
“Well, now I know you’re jealous.” He quips, still shifting before her uncertainly. His erection has flagged; it is not that he is disinterested, but rather, he is so very desirous of what she is asking for that he fears it might reveal far too much. “Tell me, how did she taste?”
Gods, but he does love provoking her. She moves lightning fast, arms around his knees forcing him to buckle, using her weight and speed to sprawl him out and climb astride him, her hands around his throat and her mouth on his like a demanding, searing brand. He gathers her against him once his brain has caught up, sucking on her tongue and tasting copper where she’s ravaged his lip and the salt of his own seed. Her thumbs crush the sides of his neck, the lack of blood flow quickly turning him lightheaded. His hips jerk up against her, finding friction against the curve of her bottom. Enver slips his hands into the back of her pants, untucking her shirt with one and slipping the other down to grope her ass.
“I could have you like this,” he grits out around the fingers still clasping tight around his throat. “-I know how you like to hold me down and take what you want-”
It’s her that ruts against him, now, and he swears he can feel the heat of her, the dampness of her core seeping through the fabric. She sits up, her gaze dark and her hair frazzled, then deliberately grinds against him so that he tosses his head back and moans for her.
“What I want is for you to show me how you fuck that little tart of a courtier. Does she get you hard, like this, Enver? Does she get your cock wet like I do?”
He surges against her and slams her back against the carpet, the opposite way, his knuckles catching the brunt of force that her skull would’ve taken from the floor. Her legs part, his knees sliding up under her thighs to push them higher as he drives his cock against her, smearing come across her laces. He starts tearing at them, but grows frustrated with the knots- she’s always double- and triple-tying them- so he reaches over for his boots, finds the one with the dagger hidden inside, and resituates himself between her thighs before cutting them with one slick twist of the wrist.
“Bastard!” she huffs out, squirming violently to topple him, but he just presses the tip of the blade below her navel and clicks his tongue.
“Behave.” Only when she stills does he trail the dagger down, using it to nudge aside her frayed laces, her placket sagging open, then beyond, pausing over the apex of her cunt outside of her trousers, the fabric dark with her desire. He hums appreciatively. “So stubborn. Fine, I’ll give you what you want.”
“This can’t have been part of your play.” she snarks, nodding at the dagger still poised above her sex. He cocks his head and tosses it aside, the hilt thumping mutedly against the carpet.
“No.” Enver agrees. He pulls down her trousers and smallclothes slowly, peeling them away from her glistening cunt with lecherous enjoyment. “I told you, dove, she’s simple; she doesn’t get wetter for a blade on her.” He leaves her pants around her thighs, to her obvious frustration, and slips a hand between them, his palm heavy and warm on her stomach, his thumb hovering over her clit. He tilts his head and presses a soft kiss to her knee, her brows rising at the action. “Let me show you.”
Her hips stutter up towards his hand when he presses his thumb to her. She’s so wet it makes his mouth water, so wet there’s no friction at all as he rocks his fingertip over her hood, pulling it back and forth over the swollen head of her clitoris. He wants to sink his cock into her and fuck her until she’s wincing away from every deep kiss of his tip against her womb; he wants to fold her over and watch her face go slack as he splits her open. He wants to give her what he knows she truly wants, their usual rough-and-tumble couplings, the kind that leave them both bruised and exhausted but sated. But she asked for this, the thing he has never given her, the thing he’s never been so foolish as to show her.
He shuffles back, wrangling her legs to his left side, before notching his elbow under her knees and pushing them up. She grunts, but doesn’t fight against the way he manipulates her limbs. It presses his thumb deliciously hard against her clit; this time when he grinds it, she moans. He slips his hand free of her thighs and spreads her pussy, looking down on it with a contemplative hum. “Get out of that corset, or I’ll cut it off next.” With this directive given, he leans down and dips his tongue into the wet flutter of her hole.
Beyond the rush of his blood and his heartbeat in his ears he can hear the sound of her laces loosening in their eyelets, her breath starting to come quick with arousal and frustration. He savors the flavor of her, salt and musk flooding his palate; he spreads her labia with his pointer and middle fingers before delving his tongue further inside. He sucks messily from the hot, wet core of her, smoothing both hands up the backs of her legs. The muscles of her thighs are thick and powerful, the skin just as pale and freckled as the rest of her. Enver digs his thumbs into the creases of her groin, tasting her deeper, filthier. She whines this time, when he shoves her knees up to his liking. He laves up her slit, letting the tip of his tongue flick just once over her clit. She nearly knees him in the nose.
Enver sits up to pull her trousers completely off, pleased to see that she takes the opportunity to squirm out of her loose corset. She’s laying on the carpet in only her undershirt, now, her legs falling open to reveal her deliciously wet cunt. He thinks the shirt will do, in place of a dress rucked up around her waist, but he wants to see her tits, wants to bite her nipples until they’re peaked and sensitive. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
“Hm. On the floor is a tad more adventurous than I gave her credit for.”
He smirks down at her and pinches the inside of her thigh. She hisses and does kick him, this time, her heel perilously close to his dick. He catches her ankle, squeezes it, then stands. “Of course I didn’t have her on the floor- she’s no feral dog.” He takes a step back, pushing down his breeches, then another, undoing the clasps on his shirt slowly. She watches him, eyes slitted and dangerous, but doesn’t move until he lets his clothes pool on the floor and sinks back on the chaise.
“She rode you?” Áine sounds just as speculative about this.
He shakes his head. “Wrong again. Come here, dove.”
She rises smoothly, slinking up in front of him. Enver takes her by the hips, reaching up under her shirt and raising the fabric until she gets with the program. He lets her take over removing it, and when she’s shaking her hair out he spins her, pressing her to the open length of the chaise. One of her legs curls up around his, allowing him to press his thigh up against her cunt, much to her apparent enjoyment. She undulates against him and sighs, stretching her arms out behind her.
“Ah, like a true lady, then. Just laid there and took it, hm? Was she all soft sighs and blushing like a maiden?”
Yes, she had been; she always was, pretending to be oh-so-innocent but letting him fuck her every time. But she didn’t look like this: radiant under firelight, imperfect brown curls spread across his furniture, eyeing him like he was as much of a meal as she was. Enver laid both hands beside her arms, caging her in as he leaned in and murmured against her mouth: “Exactly.”
He kisses her then, more tenderly than he’d ever done before. She tries to deepen it but he moves his palms to her arms, holding her down and gently squeezing her biceps. Hovering just-so above her, he can press light, open-mouthed kisses to her lips, and then her jaw, and then her throat. He feels her swallow and gently bites her there.
“I’m not done tasting you,” he tells her, still moving his mouth down, lips brushing over her breast as he speaks. Her nipples harden to attention under his ministrations, so he licks one almost as an afterthought. Beneath him she sighs beautifully, her body always so responsive to him. Enver squeezes her arms again. “-leave these here.”
At this he slips from the chaise. She looks down at him through the valley of her breasts, but remains dutifully reclined with her legs spread enticingly. He shoulders under her knees and drags her to the edge of the seat, casting an appraising eye over her body. Dubhsláine had always been tall, but she’s grown ever more muscular and stocky. Her long, long legs drape over his back, one of her heels digging into a shoulder blade. This he doesn’t do- won’t do- for Jannath. Does she realize this? Does she realize that hers is the only cunt he ever wants to sup from?
After he’s had his fill of her body, he buries his mouth back into her sex. He ignores her clit: this part is for him. She knows it, too, whining plaintively as he licks into her as deeply as he can. Slippery arousal coats his tongue, his lips, gentles the catch of his stubble against such sensitive skin. It keeps coming, the more he licks her open, and he groans for it, wrapping his arms about her thighs. Her hips chase his mouth, her breath goes shaky and high. Enver wants to crack her open; he wants to taste every salty, sickening part of her, from her cunt to her arse, from her mouth to her flayed open skin, her slick, her blood. He palms her belly roughly, pushing down and up, and drags his mouth over her clit with a greedy suck.
He has to hold her down. Her muscular thighs clench around his head, leaving him pleasantly lightheaded. Later, he’ll have to punish her for the way she lowers one hand over his, massaging her mound and revealing more of her engorged clit to the suction of his mouth. Their eyes meet over the planes of her body, again, though this time she’s shimmering with perspiration and her breasts heave with her restrained noises of pleasure. Holding her gaze, he begins to flick his tongue across her clit, tauntingly slow, building up to a pace that has her legs twitching, tightening, jerking open then shut. It’s the threat of his teeth on her hood that brings her to her peak, throbbing under his tongue and soaking down his chin.
She sags against the lounge, her mouth dumb under his when he climbs up to kiss her again. She’s much more pliable now, groaning softly when he hitches her back up on the chaise and slips between her thighs. He takes himself in hand and wets himself with her slick, the head of his dick catching against her clit and making her hiss.
“Surely, she didn’t… you didn’t…” Áine slips that errant hand into his hair and yanks him around to face her. Gods, but she does make a picture. Enver will never tire of having her beneath him, or even above him, a bloodthirsty animal brought not to heel but to selfish capitulation. She’s flushed down her chest, her lips still swollen, her pupil surrounded by the barest ring of citrine, but he would be a fool to think she couldn’t flip him over and rip his throat out. He wants to make her scream.
“No.” He agrees, voice gone low and dark, before pushing into her in one thrust, satisfied down to his core with the way she gasps and jerks against him. Enver leans back and resituates his hand on her pelvis, possessive and placating in equal measure. He slips his other hand around her hip, pulling from the small of her back until she arches enough for him to get one of his knees under her ass. He can’t help but laugh when her mouth drops open.
The angle is good for both of them: she’s tight and hot, clenching wantonly when he hilts himself inside her. He doesn’t quite know where to look. Should he watch her face, the way she works her mouth around questions that never form? Should he watch her writhe, grappling for purchase at the silk pillows and woolen throw behind her? For a moment he contemplates the swell of her breasts, bouncing every time he thrusts in, down the line of her stomach, a soft, scarred layer of fat over powerful muscles. Here’s where he watches: her cunt easily parting around him, so wet that his cock glistens and her pubic hair is plastered to her flushed skin. She’ll be furious if he comes in her, which is why he will- though the sight of his release dripping out of her is equally as enticing. Besides, he can’t help but entertain his curiosity, usually kept so close to his chest- this may be the only time he gets to make love to her, after all. No, he won’t let it drip out, after all- he’s going to shove it back inside, he decides, encourage it to take, see what kind of little monster they could make together.
“Nnh-” She thrashes beneath him. “Faster.”
He thrusts hard enough, deep enough, that she winces and cries out. Leaning over her again, he gathers her close, his chest hair chafing across the sensitive peaks of her nipples. She bares her teeth at him, but he merely smirks.
“I told you to be careful what you ask for.”
“If this is the pace you kept, she must have faked it.” Áine grits out.
He hums contemplatively before roughly grabbing her by the throat, digging his fingers into her cheeks so hard her skin goes white under his nails. “One of these days I’m going to cut that tongue out.”
“Who’d blow you then?” she slurs, her face writ with mischief. “Don’t tell me the lady’s a cocksucker, too.”
He won’t let her goad him- she’s going to lay here as long as it takes, with his prick splitting her open and drooling against her womb, wincing and crying for it until she accepts his pace. Then he’ll give her what she wants; then he’ll make her come. Still, it won’t do to let her mouth off. He keeps his hand on her throat as a warning before leaning down to claim her lips.
She bites him several times, his fingers squeezing tighter with each nip, until she’s wheezing through parted lips that he licks slowly, teasingly. With each thrust inwards she emits a little strained uhn; on every slick slide out, she breathes in on a whimper. Enver slows ever further, pulling out to the tip and slamming home in long, indulgent pulls. He loosens his grip on her throat to card his fingers through her hair before cradling her by the nape of her neck, their noses touching, her breaths panting across his mouth.
Her eyes are practically crossed, again, but then again so are his. His hips stutter to look at her: she’s a little senseless, perhaps from the choking, but maybe… Her thighs have risen around his hips, her heels meeting at the center of his back, and her hands are grasping weakly at any part of him she can reach: his wrists, his sides, the paunch of his stomach where it touches hers; the scarred divot of his chin when he pulls away to stare down at her. Wishful thinking, he tells himself, but it doesn’t stop him from rolling his hips in sensuous grinds at the very depths of her cunt. He wouldn’t want her like this always; he likes her fire, her brutishness, likes that she wants it to hurt, wants him to bleed and quiver under her just as much as he wants the same from her. Enver is greedy; he wants her any way he can have her. Even if only the once.
“There’s no need for you to be jealous, you know,” he murmurs against her mouth, unthinking, “-she might have my body for the time being, but you have my heart.”
“Nnh, quit- quit it.” Dubhsláine clenches around him, as if that’s some kind of deterrent. “I already get your point.”
Fool, he thinks, sucking on his bottom lip and bracing himself to fuck into her harder. She moans graciously, twining both arms over his shoulders and around his neck. He tucks his mouth against her throat again, mouthing to her earlobe and biting it viciously.
“Fuck!”
He growls, impatient, his chest tight with something painful and unknown. He grapples her, arms slipping behind her back, pressing them so tight together they’re just a long line of sweat and heat. The sound of their skin meeting fills the room, loud plaps that echo off the stone walls. He wants to ruin her. He wants to rip her asunder. He wants to taste her beating heart.
“S’not-” his voice drops on a low moan; he drags his nose across her cheek and sucks in a centering breath. “-Gods, how I-” love love love “-hhhhhhate you.” With those words his hips jerk, three quick pulses; she wails with each of them, her pussy clamping around him like a vice.
“Enver…” she moans, and it makes him feel more unhinged than aught else. “-close, fuck…”
“Who’s the whore now,” he asks, but his voice is full of too much blatant desire, and he’s working her body with too much familiarity, dutifully driving her closer to her peak.
She’s had her eyes shut, but they squeeze open at the provocation. Something has her face softening and the apples of her cheeks fill with color. She stares at him dumbly, murmuring “Oh.” at him, like it means anything, and then she’s delving both hands into his hair and pulling him down into a searing kiss. There’s no teeth or blood, just the salt of their arousals mingling between their tongues.
“Won’t you make me come?” She asks it between kisses, every word punctuated by her lips against his. “Make me come for you, Enver.”
A moan rips up his throat, utterly genuine. He reaches between them to jerk her clit in time with his thrusts. She throws her head back, going supine and relaxed beneath him before seizing up, bearing down on his cock as she comes hard enough that he whines. He’d never admit to it, but she’s so tight around him that he can only rut into her a few moments more; her legs slip from his back expectantly, but he buries himself inside her and floods her with his spend.
“Hells,” he moans, chasing his pleasure in her quivering walls, making her whimper and swear. Enver lets his forehead rest against her collarbone as he rocks in her, icy shivers wracking down his spine, her voice growing wet and desperate. “Oh, there we go.” He reels back, quickens his fingers against her once more, gritting his teeth against his oversensitivity while he forces her towards another peak with lightning speed. She’s glaring up at him, expression bordering on tears, but the rocking of her hips betrays her; the clench of her walls around his softening cock betrays her. He looks down, to the wet mess between her thighs, her pulsating quim squeezing his seed out around his prick. Another low moan leaves him, and he presses hard against the most sensitive part of her, stroking her so roughly that she comes wailing, her hips jackknifing and her legs shaking violently beside his waist.
“Stop,” she pleads, arching her hips away from his hand, and he only teases his finger against her once more to hear her sob before pulling away, slipping out of her for good measure. A wet mess follows, dripping down the crack of her ass. Well. There goes the upholstery.
As if sensing his thoughts- or, more likely, thoroughly pissed that he’d released inside of her- she waves her hand and mutters “Abstergo.” He blinks as magic crawls over his skin, leaving the both of them clean as a whistle.
“Sluggard,” he accuses.
“Bastard,” she readily snipes back.
Dubhsláine stretches with a groan, her back popping and her knees pressing into his ribs. She regards him from that position, eyes lidded with fatigue, body relaxed, unguarded. He pitches himself over her, sliding his hands up the chaise to find her wrists, loosely cuffing them in his grip. A peculiar expression passes over her face, curling her lips.
“Another round? I didn’t think you had it in you.”
Enver watches her lips as she talks. He expects her to stop him when he kisses her, this time, or at least bite him. She just parts easily under his mouth, humming contentedly when he dips his tongue inside.
“Have I fucked the sense out of you?” He releases her to sweep her hair out of her face, idly petting over it. She yawns into his face.
“Fucked it out of yourself, I’d wager.” One of her gorgeous legs slips back around his. “Take me to bed.”
“Demanding.” Enver twirls a lock of hair around her finger, tugging gently.
She wrinkles her nose. “You love it.”
“Hmm. Can you do that fancy little trick on my sheets? I’ve a mind to have you in the morning, if you’re imposing yourself on me.” He grunts as he stands, his own back cracking loudly. She remains limp when he pulls her back to the edge of the lounge, and similarly is uncooperative when he tries to sit her up by yanking on her arms. “I am not carrying you.”
She sighs and sits up, and he feels a plaintive hunger deep in his stomach. She’s a woman that looks… well-fucked. Well-loved. Red marks litter the line of her throat and circle her nipples, and finger-shaped bruises litter her neck and hips. Her lips are swollen, her chin red from his stubble, and she seems hardly able to stay awake. Best of all, her already frazzled hair is a disaster, even when she tries to shake it out with an irritated noise. His cock throbs; she laughs and strokes his abdomen.
“I was only kidding about another round.”
He whirls around, stooping to recover his pants. He retrieves her shirt, as well, handing it over as he pulls his breeches up just enough to tuck himself away, leaving the laces hanging. Her shirt slips over her with a soft rush of satin over skin, and then she’s looping her arms about his torso and using him to stand. She is unusually tender- his own behavior, he kept telling himself, could be explained away by her damned request. But the way that she’s trailing her fingers up and down his sternum could not.
“So uncouth, Lord Gortash,” she murmurs, and he goes rigid at the impishness of her voice, “-to treat a lady so coldly after having her in your study.”
“I think it was you who said the point had already been made.” His voice is a dangerous, revealing mutter.
Her hands leave him, and she sighs. “Perhaps your own.” She steps around him, walking towards the door that leads out into the corridor, wearing nothing but her shirt. It barely covers her ass. She pauses with her hand on the doorknob, and looks over her shoulder at him.
“Oh, and Enver?”
He inclines his head.
“I hate you too.”
She opens the door and strolls down the hall. He hears the resounding echo of his chamber doors opening down the long, empty corridor before he moves to join her.