Chapter Text
January 9, 2024
Kit
Kit strode through the bustling streets of Soho on that crisp Tuesday, the icy air nipping at his skin despite the absence of rain, each breath forming fleeting clouds. Only a few days separated him from his trip to Italy for Milan Men’s Fashion Week—a prospect that inspired little enthusiasm. The thought of extravagant silhouettes parading endlessly down polished runways filled him with a muted sense of dread, a boredom he knew would stretch on like a performance he had no desire to watch.
Yet his publicist had insisted, framing it as a strategic step in his gradual return to the spotlight this year, a calculated exposure to build momentum ahead of the major stage performance looming in the summer. He had resisted at first, reluctant and unconvinced, but Emilia convinced him it was wise to appear beneath a favourable spotlight so early in the year. In the end, it was her reasoning that persuaded him.
Now, amid the best shopping district for his preparations, he carried shopping bags laden with clothes and shoes for the upcoming event, his free hand tucked into the pocket of his dark navy tailored trousers, the relaxed fit offering a semblance of comfort against the cold. He wore a bright blue button-up jacket crafted from a textured, wool-like fabric, layered over a light beige knit jumper and a multicolored scarf wrapped snugly around his neck, the ensemble paired with white trainers that grounded him in the urban chill.
His beard had grown into a light, attractive stubble that framed his features, and after wrapping filming for 'Eternal Return' in late December, he'd finally cut his once long, unruly curls into a shorter, cleaner style—a change that felt quietly liberating.
Wireless earbuds nestled in his ears, Kirk's voice crackled through the connection, the agent's words pulling Kit from his reverie. “Shafran thinks you should consider taking your wife with you, it would reinforce the married image—”
“She knows my answer already,” Kit cut in sharply, his voice edged with irritation, the words escaping in a rush of breath that clouded the air before him. He glanced down at the pavement, his brow furrowing as a surge of defensiveness tightened his jaw. “I’m perfectly capable of reinforcing the image of my relationship without her physically beside me.”
“They aren’t my ideas,” Kirk defended himself through the headset, his tone placating yet firm. “You’re the one who made me manage your affairs with that insufferable publicist. I’m simply passing on her advice.” A brief pause followed. “I’ll tell her your answer.”
“That’s not an answer, Kirk,” Kit frowned, his features hardening into a mask of quiet fury, his voice growing rougher with each syllable. “It’s an instruction. Sometimes Marianna gets far too caught up in her sense of independence and forgets she works for me.” The words landed coldly, stripped of warmth.
As Kirk continued his response, Kit's gaze flicked to the corner of his eye, catching the unmistakable flash of cameras from lurking paparazzi, their lenses trained on him like predators in the shadows. Irritation flared sharply, though he gave no sign of it, schooling his features into practiced neutrality, denying them the smallest reaction.
“Hey, Kirk?” Kit cut in, his voice level, irritation carefully contained.
“Yes?”
“The press and the paparazzi already have the guest list for Fashion Week, don’t they?”
“Of course! It’s their habit to dig deep. Be careful, Harington,” Kirk warned in a firm, serious voice. “They must have gotten your name—they’ll be watching you closely these days.”
“They already are,” Kit muttered, lengthening his stride, the cold air biting a little harder as he tried to put distance between himself and the lenses. “They’re taking photos as we speak.”
“Those bastards never miss a chance,” Kirk said lightly, though the irritation beneath the joke was unmistakable.
Kit turned down another street, his movements measured, his shoulders loosening slightly as the sense of scrutiny eased. “Tell me about it,” he replied—then the line went dead.
He slipped his phone from his pocket just as Emilia’s name lit up the screen. A warmth spread through him instantly, the annoyance of the paparazzi dissolving into the background.
“Alright, Kirk,” Kit murmured, his attention already elsewhere. “We’ll speak later.”
He ended the call without waiting for a goodbye and answered Emilia, her bright voice filling his ear. “I’m home now,” she said, though he detected the subtle tiredness threading through her words. “The meeting with the make-up artist went really well.”
Kit's smile deepened as he walked between the shops, Emilia had dressed and left in the morning to meet the woman, bidding him farewell with a gentle kiss. He knew Emilia valued her professional friendship with the woman and couldn’t refuse a breakfast meeting and a friendly chat outside the scope of work.
“I’ve finished here, I’ll be home shortly,” he replied warmly, crossing the street with a renewed sense of purpose.
“So,” she asked, curiosity lacing her tone, “did you buy everything you needed?”
“Yes.”
“And what colours did you choose?”
“Dark navy and black—”
“My God, Kit!” she cut him off, her voice rising in playful disbelief. “Must you always dress as if you’re attending a funeral?”
He stopped briefly on the pavement, rubbing his beard with mild hesitation. “Just… wait until you see them,” he said defensively. “They’re nice! Dark navy and—”
“That’s exactly what you always buy,” she argued gently. “Go back and get something lighter. I want to see photos of you at that event wearing colours that actually make your eyes stand out.”
“Emilia… I’m finished shopping,” he grumbled, looking ahead. “I’m coming home.”
“Come on, Kit,” she coaxed, that familiar, lilting tone that always made his chest tighten, even as he tried to keep a straight face. “Don’t be stubborn! I want to see you in lighter colours in the photos.”
The idea of diving back into the thrumming shops, of more decisions and more mirrors, felt like another layer of exhaustion. “I’m not going back,” he said firmly, his voice calm despite the inward groan, weaving around a group of tourists on the pavement, their laughter a distant hum. “I’ve got what I need.”
“For me,” she added softly, almost a whisper, a gentle plea that hit him straight in the heart, loosening the edges of his stubbornness.
He let out a quiet, frustrated breath that misted in the cold air. “Sometimes I think you take full advantage of how much I love you, using these teasing tricks of yours to get your own way,” he chided, though a brief, involuntary smile tugged at his lips.
Her laughter spilled through the earbuds, bright and musical. “Me? Never!” she exclaimed, playful denial in every syllable. “I’m completely innocent.”
“Yes, of course you are, love,” he replied, mockingly, turning back toward the shop he’d just left, each step half-reluctant, half-resigned. “Fine, you win, I’m going back.”
Her delight was palpable, her laughter ringing out again. “You have to trust my fashion sense,” she said, her voice brighter, triumphant. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Yes, yes,” he muttered, “you know everything about this ridiculous business!”
“It’s not ridiculous, you grumpy man,” she replied passionately, then added with a touch of wonder, “it’s a world of wonder.”
“This is not my world,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, standing before the store's glass door and catching his reflection.
“Do you have particular colours in mind?” he asked aloud, still staring at himself.
“White, cream,” she rattled off immediately. “Light brown… taupe, beige, light tan… something bright and refreshing.”
He let out a soft chuckle, pushing open the door and stepping into the comforting warmth of the store, a welcome contrast to the sharp chill outside. “Alright, I’ll pick what suits me and be quick.”
“Don’t take too long,” she murmured, a hint of longing in her tone. “I’m waiting for you.”
“Only a few minutes,” he assured her.
“See you soon! Bye!”
“Bye,” he said, ending the call and slipping the wireless earbuds into his pocket, a lingering smile on his lips from her teasing.
“I see you’re back, Mr. Harington!”
The salesperson’s voice called from behind.
“Yes,” Kit replied with a polite smile, turning to face the salesperson, “Just a few last-minute additions—not really replacements. I’m keeping what I bought but fancied a little extra.”
The salesperson beamed, gesturing to the racks ahead. “Of course. Can I help? Same colours as before?” the salesperson asked professionally, walking ahead of him.
“No, lighter,” he said, following her, his eyes scanning the shelves as Emilia’s suggestions of pale tones—white, cream, light brown, and beige—played through his mind.
Kit tossed the scarf aside with a sigh of relief, rubbing the skin of his neck where the wool had begun to itch. He stood beside Emilia, watching her slender fingers sift through the shopping bags he’d dropped on the coffee table. She was still dressed in the soft cream ensemble from her meeting, the cosy, chunky-knit shrug open at the front, revealing the fitted square-neck top beneath. The light from the television danced across the delicate cable-knit pattern on her sleeves, paired this with high-waisted, cream wide-leg trousers, fastened with a concealed clasp.
She looks so at ease, he smiled. Her quiet afternoon—the meticulously arranged tea set, the simple bread, the little cupcakes with their perfect red cherries—felt like a safe haven he’d just stepped into.
The house settled into a hushed stillness, the absence of the children’s laughter a reminder that they were with Rose in Suffolk this week. Kit had agreed to extend her turn to two weeks, given his impending trip abroad—he couldn't predict when he'd return to England. It wasn’t ideal, but it was necessary.
He watched Emilia pulled another bag closer, her brow furrowed in concentration.“Let’s see what you actually bought,” she murmured.
Kit poured himself a cup of tea, his gaze drifting between the steam curling from the mug and her hands as she pulled out a dark green jacket. She looked up at him, a mild reproach flickering in her eyes. “Really? I told you lighter colours!” she chastised.
He smirked, finding her disapproval far too charming to take seriously, and shifted his attention to the plate of bread instead. “I wanted to add my own touch,” he admitted, spreading butter with deliberate care. “I’ll wear the cream polo and the light brown trousers—and throw the green jacket over the top.”
He caught her muttering under her breath, “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” and chuckled, meeting her disbelieving stare. “Don’t look so put out. Your influence is still far stronger than mine.”
She hummed hesitantly, pulling out the previous bag to reveal the darker clothes he'd bought first. “Will you wear these on the first day or the second?”
He took a bite of the bread, setting the knife aside as he chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know… I haven’t really thought about it.”
Her laughter bubbled up, warm and teasing. “Haven’t thought or didn’t care?”
He lifted the teacup, the warmth settling his nerves as he answered without pretence. “If I’m being truthful… I didn’t care.” The words carried his quiet disdain for the spectacle of Fashion Week—a performance he felt obliged to endure rather than enjoy.
She watched him closely, that familiar knowing spark in her eyes. “You don’t even try to hide it.”
He nodded, unoffended, taking another sip as she continued offering her opinions on each item. He listened—not to the clothes themselves, but to the enthusiasm in her voice, to the way she animated the room simply by caring.
Finally, he set the empty cup on the coffee table, while she tucked the bags aside and settled onto the sofa, reaching for one of the cupcakes. Kit moved to the media console, his fingers seeking for his pipe. He opened the drawer, spotting it at once, and retrieved it along with the tobacco pouch, placing them carefully on the wooden panel.
As he began cleaning it, measuring a small amount of tobacco with practiced precision, he heard her call him from behind, her voice hesitant and soft, “Kit…?”
“Huh?” he replied, his focus on the task, eyebrows drawn together.
“I’m nervous,” she said, her words low and trembling with uncertainty.
“Nervous about what?” he asked, his curiosity piqued, as he searched for the lighter.
“Next month,” she continued, her voice wavering. “I’ll be going to Windsor Castle to receive the MBE. I’ll be meeting Prince William—and every time I think about it, I get nervous.”
A tightness formed in his throat. He raised the pipe and lit it, the flame flaring briefly before he spoke, his tone sharper than he intended.
“He’s just a man.”
“Just a man?” she repeated quietly. “Kit, it’s… he’s the Prince of Wales—me meeting the prince!!”
He finally turned, taking a slow drag from the pipe, the rich, earthy smoke curling around him. “Yes. Just a man,” he repeated, his tone flat. “He puts his trousers on one leg at a time. He probably gets indigestion. He’s not a deity, Emilia.”
“He’s not a deity,” she whispered back, “but he’s William. The Prince of Wales. It’s an honour—a moment I never thought I’d have. Of course I’m nervous!” Her words came out in a rush, her hands clutching the half-eaten cupcake, the cherry on top tilting precariously.
“What’s there to be nervous about?” he said, gesturing vaguely with the pipe. “You’ll walk in, they’ll pin the medal on you, you’ll say thank you. It’s theatre, Milly. You’re brilliant at theatre.”
She placed the cupcake back on its plate, her movements deliberate, as she muttering, “It’s not about the theatre, Kit. It’s about… it’s him. The protocol, the… and I’m worried I’ll say something foolish or trip over my own feet or—”
“You won’t,” he cut in, perhaps too quickly. He took a step closer, the pipe held loosely at his side. He could see the genuine distress in her eyes, and he hated seeing her nervous, hated the thought of anything causing her this kind of anxiety.
He reached out, his free hand gently tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice softer now, the smoke from the pipe mingling with the air between them. “You’re going to be magnificent. You’ll stand there, more graceful than anyone else in that room—Prince William will be lucky to be in the same room as you.” A faint, wry smile touched his lips. “He’s the one who should be nervous.”
She reached out, her fingers brushing the back of his hand with a soft, grateful touch, a smile spreading across her face like a sudden shaft of sunlight. Kit noticed the hesitation in her eyes begin to fade, replaced by a quiet confidence.
“You make me feel… like this,” she murmured, drawing the words out, as though searching for the perfect ones.
“Like what, love?” he teased, a knowing grin tugging at his lips.
She pulled her hand away abruptly, clenching her fist and pressing it against the center of her chest, leaning forward as if to illustrate the sensation. “Like this…” she repeated, pressing just a little harder, her voice edged with shy uncertainty. “I don’t quite know… incredible, maybe?”
Kit smiled, wide but not quite a laugh, a soft burst of joy escaping him as he watched her struggle to articulate the feeling. He raised his pipe and took a deep, deliberate drag, the earthy smoke filling his lungs as he settled back onto the sofa beside her, the cushion dipping under his weight.
Exhaling a thick cloud that curled lazily into the air, he let his hand drift to her thigh, reassuring and warm. “You're incredible,” he affirmed, his voice low and sincere, the words carrying the depth of his admiration.
“Stop it, Harington.” she loosening her grip on her chest as a shy chuckle escaped her, her gaze darting away from his.
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the exposed curve of her neck. “There’s no way I’ll stop,” he whispered against her, planting a gentle kiss that lingered, savouring the softness beneath his touch. He felt her fingers weave into his hair, her face turning toward him, followed by her sweet laughter—a sound that filled him with a euphoric lightness, encouraging him further.
A smirk played on his lips as he trailed kisses up to her chin, each one a tender claim, her laughter softened into a moan, her hands sliding from his scalp to his shoulders, pulling him nearer.
He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was at once Hungry and rough. She responded with equal fervour, her lips parting beneath his, her tongue delving into his mouth, tasting of tea and the sweet cherry from her cupcake. He groaned, a low; rough sound, in her mouth, as he deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth, claiming her, tasting her.
She broke the kiss, breathless, her chest heaving as she whispered, “Kit?”
“Hmm?” he hums, raising his pipe to his lips again, taking a slow drag as he watches her with hooded eyes, the smoke curling around them in a hazy intimacy.
“Don’t you have something important you’re meant to be doing right now?” she whispered, her fingers drawing lazy circles on the fabric of his jumper.
His eyebrows furrowed curiously as he leaned closer, the fog of passion clearing slightly. “Something like what?” he asked against her lips, his voice a low murmur.
She leaned in, their lips brushing in a fleeting touch, her arms wrapping around his neck as she held him there. “You were supposed to write the final pages of the 'Psychopomp' script, remember? You said you’d have it done this afternoon—that’s what you said before you went to bed last night.”
His eyes widened slightly as the memory crashed back: the script. The ending. He pulled back from her, holding the pipe stem between his fingers, resting his back against the sofa with a resigned sigh. “I completely forgot,” he admitted, his words mingling with the faint puff of smoke—the last ember of burning tobacco fading in the pipe.
She spoke softly beside him, her hand brushing his arm as he watched the smoke thin and vanish into the room. “That’s because your mind’s been occupied elsewhere,” she teased, leaning closer.
He chuckled, unable to deny it, the sound easing his tension despite the tug of obligation. Then her tone shifted, gentle but firm. “There isn’t much time left. It’s closing.”
“Yeah… just a little more and I’ll finish it,” he said more to himself than to her, taking the pipe from his mouth as he watched the ash lose its warmth, the promise to Fabian Wagner weighing on him—he couldn't postpone sending the script until after tomorrow.
“Just a little more and it’s done,” she urged with a small push of enthusiasm. “Don’t waste time.”
With a nod, he rose from the sofa and walking toward the media console, his steps purposeful now, feeling Emilia’s eyes on him as he glanced at the forgotten tobacco pouch on the wood. He was already contemplating what he'd say if she spoke—and there she was, her voice cutting through his thoughts as he held the pouch between his fingers.
“What are you doing, Kit?”
“Uh… I was just—lighting it again,” he hedged, fingers closing around the pouch, stubborn resolve flaring despite a prickle of guilt.
He felt her steps coming closer as she reminded him of his promises. “You’ve had your smoke for today.”
He tipped the ash into a small cloth, muttering, “It won’t hurt if it’s twice today.”
“But that’s not what we agreed.”
“I know what we agreed,” he said defensively as he began to pack it, “but I need it to focus—to get the ending right.”
Without warning, Emilia’s arm snapped around his from behind, blocking his sight as the pipe appeared in her clenched hand. “Once a day,” she said calmly. “You promised—and you’re breaking it.” Any earlier playfulness was gone now, replaced by steady concern that both warmed and irritated him.
She was right—he knew that—but his need pushed back stronger than logic. “Emilia, just this once—”
“No,” she said, pulling the pipe with the tobacco in one swift motion from in front of him, her actions decisive, “there’s no exceptions.”
He turned to face her, her eyes unwavering in challenge as she held the pipe tightly.
Kit stepped closer, gesturing with his hand as he tried to make his point, his voice rising slightly, “It helps me concentrate when I’m writing.”
“It doesn’t justify going back on your word,” Emilia replied, moving the pipe out of his sight as she headed toward the media console drawer, pulling it open when he opened his mouth to protest. “I’m not justifying it, I’m just saying—”
She cut him off with a tone that brooked no argument, “You are. You can focus with a cup of tea. That’s enough,” and with that, she placed the pipe in the drawer and closed it firmly.
He stared at the closed drawer, the finality of the click echoing in the quiet room. His hand, still half-raised in protest, slowly fell to his side. The need for the tobacco was a physical ache, a familiar itch in his mind that screamed it would help him focus, help him find the right words for the ending that had eluded him for days. But the set of Emilia’s jaw, the unwavering clarity in her grey-blue eyes, told him the argument was over.
He let out a long, controlled breath, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Fine,” he said, the word clipped. He turned away from the console, his gaze landing on the tray with tea and cupcakes. Turning away from the console, his eyes fell on the tray of tea and cupcakes. He crossed the room and lifted it, giving in to her decision with reluctant acceptance—aware, deep down, that she was right, even if the concession left a bitter edge at the back of his throat.
As he carried the tray, he heard her approach, her steps light but deliberate. “It’s not about being fine,” she said gently, though there was no mistaking the firmness beneath it. “It’s about willpower.” She stopped at his side, her hand brushing his back in a quiet, reassuring gesture that loosened the tension in his shoulders. “I hope by the end of the year you’ll have thrown it away.”
The words landed sharply. He turned to her, meeting her gaze, a flicker of defensiveness sparking despite the warmth in her concern. “I might give it up properly next year,” he said, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “But throw it away? You’re asking a lot.”
She smiled, withdrawing her hand from his back and stepping back in a gesture of surrender, her expression softening with understanding. “Alright, alright. Maybe that was a bit much,” she conceded. “Just don’t go looking for it. Let it stay forgotten in the drawer.”
Kit felt the tension between them begin to settle into an unspoken agreement, a fragile peace woven from mutual care and compromise. He turned away, steadying the tray in his hands. “Anything could happen,” he said lightly. “You never know.”
He neither confirmed nor denied, leaving the decision to time to be the judge between them, his voice carrying a quiet hope that mirrored the uncertainty he felt.
Emilia
Evening had descended fully, the clock ticking past ten as Emilia waited in the their bedroom, the hours stretching longer than she’d anticipated while Kit wrestled with the final pages of his script in the study. She'd sipped her coffee and lost herself in the pages of her favourite book, the solitude a gentle companion, but now, with the day winding down, she slipped into her cream-coloured pyjamas.
A fitted camisole with thin shoulder straps and a soft V-neckline, edged with delicate black lace along the bust. The fabric bore a subtle repeating print of little black bows. Over it, she wore a lightweight, matching long-sleeved button-up top, left open and draped loosely off her shoulders, the same bow motif running through it. Paired with lounge trousers echoing the same delicate print, the ensemble felt effortlessly elegant.
She sat at the vanity, applying a swipe of pink lipstick with careful precision, the color on her lips unfolding like a dahlia slowly waking to the warm sunlight. Stepping back, she admired her reflection—the way her hair tumbled over her shoulders, the soft glow of the lipstick enhancing her features, a quiet reminder of the "incredible" Kit had whispered earlier, stirring a warm flutter of self-assurance in her chest.
Just then, she heard his footsteps approaching at last, the sound a familiar rhythm that quickened her pulse. In the mirror's reflection, she watched him enter the room, his gaze heavy and intense, he simply watched her for a moment. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was thick with the weight of the hours he’d spent alone wrestling with words, and the quiet anticipation she’d cultivated while waiting for him.
Her finger tapped thoughtfully at her still-wet lipstick as she leaned forward, eyes following him in the glass. “Have you found your perfect ending?”
He gave a single, slow nod, his eyes still locked on hers in the mirror, a flicker of satisfaction softening his brooding features. “It’s not exactly happy ever after,” he quipped as he moved closer.
She smirked, leaning back in her chair with a teasing glint in her eyes. “So it suits you then?”
“Ohh well now…” he let out a short laugh, standing behind her and resting his hands gently on her shoulders, his touch washing her in a wave of comfort. “…you’re getting harsh on me, my sweet.”
She let out a giggle, leaning into his touch. He bent slightly, warm breath against her ear as he murmured, “I’ve kept only the good thoughts… for you.” His hands moved in slow, deliberate circles, massaging her shoulders, the rhythm wrapping her in a profound sense of ease. Her laughter softened into a contented sigh.
Emilia closed her eyes, a faint smile curving her lips as a wave of anticipation washed over her. “What kind of thoughts?” she asked, her voice a soft whisper laced with playful curiosity.
She didn't hear his voice in reply, but she felt his fingers slide from her shoulders, tracing the thin straps of her camisole with deliberate slowness, drawing a slow, spreading warmth in their wake. “I’ll show you every thought, Emilia,” he said, his voice dropping to that rough.
She opened her eyes to meet his reflection, her gaze unwavering in the mirror as he added, “Every single one,” his voice dropping into an intimate register that made her stomach clench.
“Show me, Harington,” she replied, her voice steady yet breathless, the words a bold invitation that stirred a triumphant spark in her eyes, her body arching slightly.
She watched in the mirror as his hands slid back to her waist, gripping her firmly, and he turned the chair with a firm nudge, forcing her to face him directly. The light cast a halo around his handsome, stormy features, shadows playing across his face in a way that made her breath catch. He looked down at her and smirked, his eyes dark with intent.
“You asked for this, just remember,” he murmured, his words only heightening the knot of anticipation twisting in her stomach.
Before she could utter another word, he leaned down and captured her lips in a hungry, passionate kiss. His mouth slanted over hers, demanding entry, and she gave it willingly, a moan trapped in her throat. She gripped his shoulder, standing on her feet and leaning her body against his.
One of his hands slid from her face into her hair, fisting gently but firmly, tilting her head back to deepen the angle. The other hand tugged at her buttoned shirt, and it fell at their feet as they moved toward the bed.
Lost in the heat of their passion, she found herself falling onto the bed with him. He broke the kiss to catch his breath. She followed suit, her gaze drifting over his features before her eyes caught the smudge of her lipstick on his lips—a bright pink smear against his stubbled jaw. A triumphant glint sparked in her eyes. “It’s a bit messy,” she murmured, reaching up to gently wipe away the smudge with her thumb.
His smirk deepened into a grin as he captured her thumb with his teeth, nibbling lightly. “That’s the point,” he said, releasing it, then taking off his light beige jumper and tossing it to the floor, his movements deliberate, exposing the hard lines of his chest and abs that drew her gaze irresistibly.
Her eyes roamed over the familiar landscape of his body, admiration and hunger mingling in her chest, but Kit didn’t give her time to linger. In one fluid motion, he sat astride her, his legs straddling her hips as he gazed down at her with an intensity that made her pulse race. He leaned forward with his knees bent and his weight balanced. His hands rested on either side of her.
Emilia let out a pure gasp of desire as she watched his new position with wide-eyed curiosity, a thrill of novelty and excitement coursing through her—he had never straddled her like this before.
“Kit,” she whimpered, her voice a breathless plea, as he pulled down her trousers and panties in one swift motion, and he tossed them onto the floor. The sudden exposure left her feeling vulnerable and intensely aroused.
Kit's hands roamed over Emilia's body with a possessive hunger, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, before settling on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, Emilia arched into his touch, a silent plea for more. He responded by parting her folds, sliding a finger inside her with deliberate slowness, then another, his movements precise and unrelenting.
She moaned, her head thrown back in ecstasy as he began to move, his thumb circling her clit in a rhythm that drove her wild, each stroke sending waves of pleasure crashing through her, her senses overwhelmed by the heat coiling tighter and tighter within her.
She raised her head slightly to look at him, her eyes locking onto his gaze—fierce and dark with desire, a raw intensity that mirrored the hunger consuming her. A rough groan escaped his chest, and his free hand slipped from her stomach over her camisole to her cleavage, he gently tracing her lower lip with his thumb, still glistening with lipstick, the soft touch sharply contrasted sharply with the relentless pumping of his fingers below, the duality sending her blood boiling with a blend of surrender and exhilaration.
And then—without warning—he added another finger, stretching her further, and she opened her mouth in a groaning cry—but he silenced her swiftly, slipping his middle and ring fingers between her lips, the intrusion both commanding and intimate.
“That's right, my sweet,” he growled, his eyes holding her captive, the sound vibrating through her. “Show me how you can turn into a feisty little thing.”
He pumped faster, each thrust deeper and more intense than the last, his fingers in her mouth mimicking the rhythm below. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the rough stretch and glide inside her, the salty taste of his skin and the faint, clean scent of soap on his fingers, the pressure of his thumb circling her clit with a punishing, perfect rhythm. She felt herself spiralling, her body tightening around his fingers, her own moans muffled by his hand. Her hips bucked off the mattress, meeting his every thrust, seeking more friction, more of him.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice ragged. Her eyes, which had fluttered shut, snapped open to meet his burning gaze. “I want to watch you fall, right at the edge.”
The command, with an intense look of passion in his eyes, all she needed. Pleasure detonated, a white-hot burst that radiated from her core out to her very fingertips. Her back arched violently, a silent scream trapped behind his fingers as her body convulsed around his hand, wave after wave of release crashing through her, leaving her trembling and boneless.
She watched Kit, his own breathing harsh, his jaw clenched with the effort of holding back. He slowly withdrew his fingers from her mouth, glistening with saliva, and then, with agonising slowness, from her slick heat. He brought his wet fingers to his own lips, never breaking eye contact, and sucked them clean, his tongue swirling around the digits. The act was so blatantly carnal, that a fresh wave of crave ran through her spent body.
He leaned down, his body covering hers, the hard planes of his chest pressing against the soft fabric of her camisole. He nuzzled into the curve of her neck, his light beard scratching her skin in a gentle, pleasant caress. “Emilia,” he whispered, the words strained. “We haven't reached that edge yet.”
He was hard against her thigh, the evidence of his own arousal a palpable, urgent pressure. He shifted his hips, grinding against her, and she whimpered, oversensitive yet already craving more.
“We haven’t,” she gasped, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.
He pressed a long kiss to her neck, his groan muffled against her skin, before pulling away and got up from her. Emilia glanced up at him questioningly, the warmth of his body leaving her with a pang of loss, before a teasing protest slipped from her lips.
He grasped her waist with firm hands, flipping her onto her stomach in one swift, commanding motion that stole her breath, her body yielding to his strength with a thrill of exhilaration. She moaned with pure, new pleasure, the change in position awakening a deeper anticipation.
He seized her arm and bent it firmly against her back, the hold both restraining and exhilarating, his weight settling against hers as his breath hovered close to her ear. “We’re about to reach the edge—hold on tight, baby,“ he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, laced with a short chuckle.
Emilia smirked beneath him, as she shifted her body with slight eagerness, her skin tingling with anticipation. She could hear the soft rustle of fabric as he pulled down his trousers—it wasn't long before she felt the his cock near her entrance; her breath catching in her throat with an impatient need.
He pushed inside her in one deep, powerful thrust, filling her completely, and a choked cry escaped her lips—a raw blend of sharp pain and overwhelming pleasure that made her vision blur, her body stretching to accommodate his fullness, a surge of ecstasy flooding her senses.
He gave her a moment to adjust, his hand still firmly gripping her arm behind her back, she could feel his breath ragged against her skin as he restrained himself.
He began to move, slow and deep at first, each withdrawal and thrust a deliberate act of unspoken hunger, her body responding with a deep, aching need. She tried to push back against him, to meet his pace and claim more, but he held her firm, his control absolute, a dominant force that stirred a blend of frustration and exhilaration in her chest, her defiance yielding to the intoxicating surrender.
“Harder, Kit!” she protested, her voice muffled against the sheets, laced with impatient urgency.
She heard him groan, a low, resonant sound that stirred something inside her, as he complied, his grip tightening on her arm while he increased the pace the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room. He drove into her, again and again, the bed creaking in protest, her moans growing louder, more uninhibited.
His free hand slid under her chin, and he gripped it tightly, as he lifted her head upward. He kept her jaw in his grip, forcing her head to turn, his face hovering beside hers. “You want it harder?” His voice was a low, guttural rasp against her ear, hot and taunting. “Eh?”
“Yes,” she hissed, the word raw with challenge and need.
His short laugh was more of a predatory exhale. “Then show me you can take it.”
He released her chin, his hand flying back to join the other, pinning her arm more securely against the small of her back. The new leverage was absolute. With a groan that seemed torn from his core, he drove into her again, and this time, there was no restraint. The slow, deep rhythm shattered into a relentless, punishing pace that jolted her entire body forward with each powerful thrust.
The air filled with the sound of it—the slick, wet slap of skin on skin, the deep, guttural noises tearing from his throat, the creaking protest of the bedframe taking the brutal force. Emilia’s cries were muffled by the rumpled sheets, but they were no less desperate, a continuous stream of broken moans and gasped pleas. The initial stretch had morphed into a deep, grinding fullness that struck a place inside her that made her gasp with pure pleasure.
She could feel the bunch and flex of the hard muscles in his hips and thighs with every driving movement, a testament to the raw power he was unleashing. She forced her eyes open, twisting her neck as much as the position allowed. His face was a mask of fierce concentration, jaw clenched, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. Seeing him like this, completely lost in the act of taking her, sent another violent surge of pleasure through her.
Her body began to coil again, tighter and tighter, the tension building to a fever pitch. The friction was exquisite, the angle perfect. With her arm restrained and her hips tilted, her inner muscles began to flutter helplessly around his cock, a frantic, involuntary rhythm that had him cursing into her skin.
It was a brief moment before she felt a pleasure detonated, a cataclysm that ripped through her with shocking violence. Her body arched against his restraint, a silent scream locked in her throat as wave after searing wave of ecstasy crashed through her, centering on where they were joined. Her vision whited out, her senses drowning in the pure, unadulterated release.
He lasted only four more thrusts before his own control shattered. With a raw, choked shout, he buried himself to the hilt, his body locking over hers as he came. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release deep inside her, the intimate heat triggering a second, smaller ripple of aftershocks that made her tremble violently.
Kit freed her arm with a gentle release, pulling back from her with a tenderness that contrasted the roughness of moments before, his body collapsing onto his back beside her on the bed, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. With a small surge of her remaining strength, Emilia rolled onto her back next to him, turning her head to meet his gaze, her body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, a profound contentment warming her from within.
She saw him gazing at her with a look of fascination and deep satisfaction, his eyes softening as he reached out to brush the sweat-dampened strands of hair from her forehead.
“Did I squeeze your arm too hard?” he asked, his eyebrows knitting with a hint of genuine concern.
His question prompted her to instinctively move her arm, forming a small fist beside her as she tested it—fine, no lingering discomfort, only the pleasant ache of their connection.
“You didn’t press too hard,” she reassured him with a genuine smile. “Everything’s right… mmm… perfect.”
He smirked, a playful glint returning to his eyes as he extended his arm around her chest, pulling her toward him, her crumpled camisole—damp with sweat and the effort of their lovemaking—sticking slightly to his bare, sweaty chest as he held her close.
“I have to say,” she whispered with a grin, fingers drifting to caress his chest slowly, “I do love your good thoughts!”
“There’s more,” he murmured, hand moving to stroke the soft skin of her arm, the motion slow, soothing, and intimate. “But that will have to wait for another time.”
Her grin lingered as she murmured in quiet agreement, sliding her hand from his chest to rest around his waist, drawing herself closer into the warmth of his embrace. Her body, now relaxed, drifted toward drowsiness, the raw passion of the night giving way to a peaceful exhaustion, her mind filled with serene contentment as sleep beckoned, wrapped safely in his arms.