"Do you feel this body?" His voice is low, rough, stripped bare. "This is the body of a male who is enslaved by you. Enraptured by you. Every scar, every mark, every mile was for you." He grips my fingers tighter around him, and his breath shudders. "This body will worship you, protect you, and take you apart as many times as you need for as long as you'll have me."
I stroke him. His whole body shudders. His eyes close, his jaw flexes, and the sound he makes is raw and broken.
"Sit down," I tell him.
He sits. Back on the throne, I climb on top of him, straddling his lap, positioning myself above him. I reach between us, guide him to my entrance, and sink down in one slow, devastating slide.
We both groan. The sound fills the room. He's deep inside me, filling me completely, and for a moment neither of us moves. Just breathes. Just feels.
"Gods," he says through his teeth. "You are so tight. So wet. I can feel every inch of you squeezing me, and I will not last if you keep looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you own me." His hands grip my hips. "Because you do. You absolutely do."
I move. Slow rolls of my hips, using the armrests for leverage, finding the rhythm that hits every nerve. His hands tighten on my hips, guiding but not controlling, letting me set the pace.
The vines along the throne respond to my thoughts. I've learned how this works now, how the Verdance reads intent and delivers. So when I think about what I want, the vines obey. Thin, smooth tendrils slide from the base of the throne and curl between his thighs. He jolts, his eyes flying open.
"Elle, what are you…"
"Shh." The vines cup him gently, cradling and rolling with a rhythmic pressure that makes his entire body go rigid. His headslams back against the throne. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough that I'll have bruises tomorrow.
"Fuck." The word tears out of him. "That's. God, Elle. That's… "
"Good?"
"If you stop, I will burn this city to the ground."
I ride him harder. The vines work him from below while I take him from above, and the dual sensation has him wrecked. He's gasping, cursing, saying my name like it's the only word he knows. His hips thrust up to meet mine, and every stroke drives him deeper, hitting the spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
Then he grabs me.
His hands lock under my thighs, and he lifts me straight up off his lap. I yelp, grabbing the back of the throne, but he's already calling the vines. Thicker ones slide from the armrests and wrap around my thighs, supporting my weight, holding me suspended above him at the exact height he wants. He slides down the throne until his mouth is level with my core, and then he leans forward and buries his face between my legs.
I scream. There's no other word for it. The angle, the suspension, the sudden hot pressure of his tongue, it's overwhelming. I grip the vine supports, and my legs shake in their cradle, and he eats me like a man who has been starving for months and just found his first meal.
"You taste like heaven," he says against me, and the vibration of his voice sends a jolt through my entire body. "I could do this for hours. I could live between your thighs and die happy."
His tongue circles me, flicks, presses flat and drags. He adds his fingers, sliding two inside me while his mouth works the bundle of nerves that controls my entire nervous system. The vines hold me steady while he takes me apart with surgical precision, reading every twitch and gasp and adjusting.
The orgasm hits like a freight train. My whole body locks up, suspended in the vine cradle, and I come so hard my vision whites out. My marks blaze golden. The moss flares. Petals fall from somewhere. I don't care. I am gone.
He lowers me back into his lap before the tremors finish. Slides inside me again while I'm still clenching and oversensitive, and the feeling of him filling me while I'm mid-orgasm nearly breaks me.
"Again," he says against my throat. "I want you to come again. On me. I want to feel it."
"I can't. I just..."
"You can." He rolls his hips, slow and deep, and the friction against my still-swollen clit makes me whimper. "You can and you will, because I'm going to make you. That's what I do, Elle. I make you feel things you didn't think were possible."
He stands. He's still inside me, his hands gripping my thighs, and he carries me three steps to the desk. Maps and battle markers scatter across the floor as he sweeps the surface clear with one arm and lays me back across it.
The wood is smooth and warm beneath my spine. He looms over me, his dark hair falling forward, his silver eyes burning in the low light, his corruption marks pulsing against the gold of my own. He grips my hips and pulls me to the edge of the desk.
"I've been imagining you like this," he says, his voice so low it's nearly a growl. "Spread across my war desk. Naked. Flushed. Looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters."
"You are the only thing that matters."
