His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

His fingers moved inward. He pressed against her through the fabric — slow, firm strokes along her pussy lips, feeling the warmth of her even through the cotton, watching her face with an unbearable attention.

"Your grace—"

Perfect, he thought. Absolutely perfect. He stepped back. Livia made a sound of protest that he filed away with considerable satisfaction as he went through the process of removing his clothes.

He stood before her. Her eyes moved over him with wonder and mild alarm that he found extraordinarily flattering. He reached for her hand, wrapped her fingers around him and began to move them in a slow, firm stroke, his hand over hers, teaching her the rhythm. His exhale was ragged.

"A great many nights," he said, jaw tight with the effort of remaining articulate, "I have imagined your fingers around me." His eyes found hers. "Exactly like this."

Livia’s other hand found his chest. She spread her palm flat against him — feeling the warmth of his skin, the firm muscle beneath, the way his heartbeat was considerably less composed than his expression suggested. Her fingers traced downward slowly, following the line of him, learning the shape.

She leaned in and pressed her lips against his chest. Just that. Soft, open-mouthed kisses against the broadness of him — his sternum, the curve of his shoulder, the place just below his collarbone that made his breath change when she found it.

Richard kept the rhythm going with her hand around him. "Yes," he breathed. "That hand. Those lips. Every night — every single night I thought about this. Thought about your mouth on my skin, your fingers stroking me, my cum all over your fingers instead of mine."

She ran her tongue across his chest. A slow, flat stroke — tasting him, feeling him shudder beneath it — and Richard’s hand tightened over hers momentarily before he made a decision.

He pulled her away from him by her hair. His fingers wrapped in her hair at the nape of her neck, drawing her back until her eyes met his. He slipped his thumb between her lips.

Livia held his gaze and ran her tongue around his finger. Then she drew it into her mouth and sucked watching his face the entire time.

"Fuck—" His eyes darkened. He pushed forward. His cock pressed between her thighs — the thin cotton of her drawers shifting, straining under the pressure of him, the barrier negligible. Richard’s hand left her hair and found her jaw instead. He tilted her face up. "Do you want me?...Answer me."

His hips pressed forward. "Do you want me to fuck you?" He waited.

Eyes dark. Jaw tight. Every muscle held in suspension, waiting on a single word from her lips.

"Yes," she whispered.

He pulled her drawers down, and then his hands found her hips and he pushed inside her. He made a long, low exhale — relief and triumph — as her body opened around him and took him in. His forehead dropped briefly to hers, eyes closing, every muscle in his body absorbing the reality of what he’d been imagining since the first moment he’d looked at her and lost the ability to think about anything useful.

She was sweeter than anything his imagination had managed to construct. Her walls gripped him — warm and tight and perfect — massaging him as he began to move. Slow at first, giving her time to adjust, reading every flicker of her expression. She adjusted faster than he expected.

He picked up the pace. His lips refused to stay idle — they moved constantly, finding her mouth, her jaw, her neck, the curve of her shoulder. Pressing kisses into her skin between every thrust.

Her breasts. The hollow of her throat. Back to her lips. His arm wrapped around her back, supporting her, because the movement was pulling her away from the window ledge by degrees — each thrust sliding her incrementally toward him.

Livia solved this problem herself. Her hands shot out and grabbed the sides of the window frame — fingers curling around the wood — and her legs wrapped around him simultaneously, locking him in place, pulling him closer.

He went harder, faster, pulling her down to meet every thrust, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, her gasps climbing in pitch and frequency until they were the only thing he could hear and the only thing he cared about hearing. He was crazed.

Her body. The grip of her only made him more feral. He pulled out of her and gathered her against his chest, crossed the room and laid her down on the bed. He looked down at her, flushed, breathless, hair spread.

He pushed inside her again but reduced his pace this time. It cost him considerably. He deepened each stroke instead, feeling every inch of her with agonising attention. "My God," he gasped against her temple. "You’re so sweet—" He felt her clench around him and swore. "Fuck."

He knew. In that precise moment, with her beneath him and her legs around him and her body doing absolutely unconscionable things to his ability to reason — he knew with complete and inconvenient certainty that he wasn’t going to be able to walk away from her. He was done.

You’ve ruined me, he thought. Completely ruined me and you don’t even know it. His lips found her ear. "You feel like you were made for me. Every other time was just practice for you. "

"Richard — Richard—" she cried, fingers digging into his back.

"You want to cum, baby?" he murmured against her jaw.

"God yes—"

He felt her tightening around him — her body gathering itself, coiling toward the edge — and she waited for him to push her over it. One more stroke. Two. That was all she needed. He pulled out completely.

"Your grace!"

Richard looked down at her smirking. She wanted to kill him.

"Not so fast, sweetie." His voice was steady which was offensive given that his own body was currently staging a full revolution against him, demanding release with urgency. "I don’t want it to end quickly."