The diplomatic wing smells of parchment, sealing wax, and old ambition.
The treaty table is twelve feet of polished yew, inlaid with mother-of-pearl borders of every kingdom that has ever bent the knee to Valeria. Tomorrow the ambassadors from Elyria will sit here to sign the new trade accord. Tonight it belongs to us.
The room is lit only by the moon pouring through the tall arched windows and a single silver candelabrum she carried in herself. The flame trembles every time she breathes.
She is already on the table.
Flat on her back, legs spread wide, wrists crossed above her head (held there by nothing but her own command). She wears only the Elyrian ambassador's gift: a rope of black pearls that coils around her throat and spills down between her breasts like liquid midnight. The pearls shimmer against her skin every time her chest rises.
I stand at the foot of the table, naked, cock jutting up flushed and aching. She has kept me waiting for an hour (first making me watch while she touched herself slowly, then making me read the treaty aloud while she decided which clauses she would break with her body).
"Begin," she says now, voice velvet and venom.
I grip her ankles and drag her down the polished wood until her arse rests at the very edge. The pearls shift, pooling in the hollow of her throat.
I enter her in one slow, merciless glide.
She arches, pearls clattering softly against the inlay, and moans my name like a prayer no god will ever answer.
The first fuck is for ceremony.
I keep it measured (long, deep strokes that end with a slow grind so she feels every inch claiming her). The table is cool beneath her back; the contrast makes her hiss when her overheated skin meets the wood. I watch her breasts bounce gently with each thrust, watch the pearls slide and catch the moonlight, watch her eyes flutter shut in surrender.
When she comes the first time, it is quiet and devastating (her back bowing, thighs trembling around my hips, inner muscles fluttering in soft waves).
I do not stop.
I pull out only long enough to flip her over.
Now she is on her stomach, cheek pressed to the mother-of-pearl map of Elyria, arms stretched out in front of her as if she is embracing the kingdom she will betray tomorrow. The black pearls pool beneath her throat like spilled sin.
I enter her again from behind, one hand fisted in her hair, the other braced beside her head.
The second fuck is for punishment.
I set a brutal pace (hips snapping hard, the slap of skin on skin loud in the hushed room). The table rocks; the candelabrum tilts dangerously. Wax drips onto the treaty parchment, sealing clauses in crimson.
She begs (actually begs), voice cracking on every thrust.
"Lucian… please… harder… ruin me…"
I oblige.
I reach beneath her to rub her clit in tight, ruthless circles until she comes again, screaming into the wood, body shaking so violently the pearls scatter across the table like dark stars.
Only then do I slow.
I pull her up by the hair until she is on her knees in the centre of the table, facing me. The treaty is ruined beneath us (ink blurred by sweat and wax and the slick evidence of her pleasure).
I sit back on my heels and pull her into my lap.
The final fuck is for worship.
She sinks down onto me slowly, arms around my neck, forehead pressed to mine. We move together like one creature (lazy, rolling, endless). The pearls are trapped between our chests now, warmed by skin, clicking softly with every breath.
She rides me until the moon begins its descent, until her thighs tremble from effort, until I have filled her so many times I have lost count.
When we finally still, she is limp in my arms, head on my shoulder, my cock still buried deep inside her. The candelabrum has burned itself out; only moonlight remains.
I stroke her back, tracing the line of her spine.
"Tomorrow," I whisper against her damp temple, "when you sign this treaty, you will feel me with every stroke of the quill."
She laughs, soft and wrecked.
"Tomorrow," she answers, clenching deliberately around me, "I will sit in that chair and leak you onto the velvet cushion while they all bow and call me Your Majesty."
She lifts her head, kisses me slow and filthy, tasting herself on my tongue.
"And when they ask why I smile," she murmurs against my lips, "I will tell them the accord is… exceptionally satisfying."
I carry her back to her chambers just before the sky pales.
Behind us, the treaty table gleams (mother-of-pearl streaked with wax and come, black pearls scattered like conquered cities).
Tomorrow the ambassadors will sign it anyway.
They always do.
And none of them will ever know that the real treaty (the only one that matters) was sealed tonight, in sweat and moonlight and the slow, relentless ruin of a queen by her shadow.