The war room is locked.
The guards outside have been doubled (by her order).
No one enters until dawn.
Inside, a single branch of twelve candles burns on the great oaken map table that dominates the chamber. The flames throw long shadows across the carved relief of Valeria and every territory my father has bled for. Tiny painted banners mark the latest victories. Fresh ink still glistens on the northern frontier.
Queen Elowen stands at the southern edge of the table, palms braced on the wood, naked except for the heavy ruby pendant that rests between her breasts (the king's coronation gift to her twenty-three years ago). The ruby glints like a drop of fresh blood every time she breathes.
I stand behind her in nothing but skin, cock already hard and slick from her mouth in the corridor.
She does not look back.
"Read me the dispatch," she says, voice calm as winter steel.
I step close, press my length along the cleft of her arse, and reach around her to unroll the newest parchment. My chest to her back. My lips at her ear.
"General Cassian reports the siege of Dun Lira is broken. The city surrendered at dawn yesterday. Thirty thousand prisoners. The king will winter there before pressing north."
While I speak, I slide one hand down her belly and cup her cunt. She is drenched (has been since she read the same dispatch an hour ago and smiled like a wolf).
"Continue," she orders, pushing back against me.
I keep reading (casualty figures, supply estimates, the king's request for another fifty thousand crowns), all while easing two fingers into her and stroking slow, deliberate circles over the spot that makes her breath hitch.
When I reach the final line (His Majesty sends his devotion to the queen and prays for the health of our sons), she laughs, low and vicious.
"Devotion," she repeats, the word dripping scorn. "Show me yours."
I withdraw my fingers, grip her hips, and drive into her in one long thrust.
The table is exactly waist-high for her. Perfect angle. Perfect leverage.
She cries out (sharp, startled, delighted), then braces her forearms on the map and shoves back to meet me.
I fuck her over the kingdom.
Every thrust slams her hips against the carved coastline. The ruby swings wildly between her breasts. Candlelight licks over sweat-slick skin.
I lean over her, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades, pinning her down, the other sliding beneath to rub tight circles on her clit.
"Look at it," I growl against her ear. "Every inch he conquers, I conquer you."
She moans, loud enough that the guards outside must hear. Neither of us cares.
"Yes, Lucian, gods, mark me on his victories—"
I pull out only long enough to spin her around, lift her onto the table, and spread her wide. The map crumples beneath her back. Tiny banners scatter like fallen soldiers.
I slam home again.
Now I can watch her face (eyes blown black with lust, lips parted, cheeks flushed crimson). Her breasts bounce with every thrust. I bend to suck one nipple hard, then the other, leaving teeth marks around the ruby.
She claws at my shoulders, heels digging into my arse, urging me deeper.
"Harder," she snarls. "Make me feel it when I sit council tomorrow."
I give her everything (fast, punishing, relentless). The table rocks on its ancient legs. Wax spills from tilting candles and drips across the map, sealing new borders in blood-red.
She comes first, back bowing off the table, a broken cry tearing from her throat. Her cunt clamps down so hard I see stars.
I follow on the next stroke, burying myself to the hilt and spilling deep, pulse after thick pulse, until I am empty and shaking.
But I am learning her rhythms now.
I stay inside her, hard again almost instantly (nineteen has its advantages), and flip her over once more. This time I enter slow, deliberate, letting her feel every inch while she is still fluttering with aftershocks.
Round two is languid, filthy, endless.
I trace the wax trails on the map with one finger while I fuck her in long, dragging strokes.
"Here," I murmur, pressing over the ink that marks Dun Lira, "is where I filled your mouth in the stairwell last week."
I slide deep and grind.
"Here," circling the capital, "is where you rode me on the king's throne."
Another slow withdrawal, another brutal thrust.
"And here," I flatten my whole hand over the heart of Valeria, "is where I am going to keep fucking you until the sun burns out."
She sobs my name and comes again, dragging me with her.
We do not stop until the candles are guttering pools of wax and the map is ruined (ink blurred, wax-sealed, stained with sweat and come and the wet evidence of four separate climaxes).
When we finally still, she is limp across the table, hair stuck to her cheek, my spend leaking from her in slow rivulets that trace new rivers across the parchment.
I lean down and kiss the bite mark blooming on her shoulder.
"Send the king his fifty thousand crowns," I whisper against her skin. "Tell him the treasury is… very well spent."
She laughs, breathless and wrecked and utterly triumphant.
"Tomorrow," she says, voice hoarse, "we do it on the treaty table in the diplomatic wing. I want to sign the next alliance with your come still dripping down my thighs."
I pull out slowly, watch it happen, and smile.
"As my queen commands."