His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

He came with a grunt — pleasure and agony arriving at exactly the same moment — spilling hot across the sheets, his whole body shuddering through it. He collapsed beside her, chest heaving, heart slamming against his ribs. His arm found her waist and drew her in — pulling her against his chest.

He pressed his lips to her forehead and held her there. "Thank you," Henry said quietly. "I know it was hard for you."

Livia shifted slightly against him, her head resting near his shoulder. "No... no... it felt... good," she replied, she was still trying to make sense of it herself.

"You don’t have to wear a brave face."

"I have borne much more pain than that, Henry," she said, her tone light. "It was merely for a minute."

The words unsettled him more than if she had complained.

Henry’s jaw tightened slightly. "Exactly what has Beaumont done to you," he muttered, the anger simmering just below the surface.

"I don’t want to talk about that now," she said. She shifted closer, pressing into him. "I just want to be in the moment with you."

He exhaled. "You were beautiful," Henry said, his tone thoughtful, distracted, replaying the moment in his mind. "Every time you cum" he paused, "your face changes. Your cheeks... they become rosy. There’s this light about you."

Livia’s lips curved into a small smile, her eyes lowering slightly.

"And you stick out your tongue just a little," he added, a faint grin breaking through. "I want to catch it with mine."

Her fingers traced idly along his arm, then his chest. Unfortunately for him, the lingering effects of whatever Lionel had forced into that flask stirred him awake once more.

He closed his eyes briefly. He wished—truly wished—he could say the worst of it had passed, that whatever madness had taken hold of him earlier had finally burned itself out.

But there was more. Still there. Still present. Still very much a problem. And Livia, entirely unaware was not helping matters at all.

"How do you feel?" she asked softly.

The words did not come easily to him. He thought for a moment.

"Free," he finally said.

The word surprised even him. Livia tilted her head slightly, trying to understand what freedom could possibly mean to a man like him.

"I finally found where to steal it," he added, a faint, almost boyish smile touching his lips.

"You don’t have to steal it," she said. "I’ll offer it to you... if you promise to keep doing that thing you did earlier."

There was teasing in her tone now, warmth, a lightness that hadn’t been there before.

"And I can offer you yours," he said, "you just have to promise that I will only and always be just Henry to you."

That made her laugh.

"What the hell kind of request is that?"

"A necessary one," he replied. He reached for her then, lifting her chin gently so she would look at him fully. "Just promise me, Livia."

"You will always be just Henry," she said. Then, with a faint smile, she added, "my Henry."

His hand remained at her face, then he leaned in. His lips found hers again. A promise forming without being spoken. His fingers traveling to her breasts, tugging at her taut nipples. He wanted her again and again and again and this was not just from the concoction Lionel had fed him.

He’d never been one for lingering. The arrangement had always been pleasure given and then the suggestion of a door. He simply had no interest in the part that came after.

But he lay there with Livia tucked against his chest and the thought of moving didn’t once cross his mind.

She’d done something to him. Reeled him in with those eyes and that mouth and hooked him somewhere deep — somewhere he didn’t have a name for and wasn’t sure he wanted to examine too closely.

Her fingers found his cock. Exploring him carefully. His cock, apparently unbothered by what they’d just done, rose to meet her without hesitation.

He covered her fingers with his, wrapping her hand properly around him, guiding her — the pressure, the rhythm, the pace — until her grip grew confident and his breathing grew ragged.

He lasted as long as he could. Then he rolled her onto her back, settled between her thighs, and pushed inside her.

Again.

*****

Lionel met the king just as Henry slipped out without waking Livia. She remained asleep, and thank God for it. She had looked utterly spent and he felt guilty but satisfied.

He had watched her for longer than he should have before leaving, memorising the loosened spill of her hair across the pillow, the softness of her face without worry in it. Then he had forced himself away, because dawn was a traitor and kings did not have the luxury of being found in places they ought not to be.

Outside, the air was cold enough to clear his head a little. The city had not yet fully woken. London lay beneath a dim, bluish hush, its rooftops black against a sky still holding back the sun.

Lionel was waiting with the horses. He looked like he had been waiting for a while. Stephen stood nearby too, silent and stiff-backed, his gloved hands clasped before him. The carriage lantern had burned low, throwing a weak golden circle onto the wet stones. Both men looked grim.

Henry noticed none of that at first. He was too occupied with revenge. "Lionel," Henry said, walking toward him with murder in his voice, "when we get back, I am going to have you flogged."

Lionel bowed his head at once. "Yes, Sire."

The ease with which he accepted the threat only irritated Henry further.

"I mean properly flogged. Publicly."

"Yes, Sire," Lionel repeated. "But I have news."

That was when Henry truly looked at him. The faint amusement that had been warming the edges of his anger disappeared.

Lionel’s face was wrong. Stephen would not meet Henry’s eyes at all.

(This is to 100 power stones. Yay!)