The longest night of the year.
The palace is drunk on mulled wine and torchlight. Below us, the great courtyard swarms with masked courtiers, musicians, and braziers that throw sparks into a sky thick with snow. Every window blazes. Every throat sings praise to the queen who keeps the kingdom golden while the king is gone.
Up here, on the private balcony that juts from her bedchamber like a ship's prow, the air is sharp enough to cut.
We left the feast an hour ago.
She told them she had a headache.
I told them I would fetch her physic.
No one will look for us until dawn.
She is pressed to the stone balustrade, palms flat on the snow-dusted marble, gown rucked up around her waist. The gown is silver velvet and cloth-of-gold (the one the court swooned over when she descended the grand stair). Now it is a crumpled ring around her hips, baring her arse and cunt to the freezing night.
I stand behind her, cloak thrown open, breeches unlaced just enough. My hands grip her hips hard enough to leave prints that will bloom purple by morning.
The first thrust is brutal (heat meeting ice). She cries out, the sound whipped away by the wind.
Below, a thousand masked faces dance, unaware that their queen is being fucked senseless thirty feet above them.
I set a savage rhythm. Every slam of my hips drives her forward against the balustrade. Snowflakes melt on her back, her shoulders, the exposed curve of her throat. Her breath fogs the air in sharp, desperate puffs.
"Look at them," I growl against her ear, one hand sliding up to wrap around her throat (not squeezing, just owning). "All of them singing your name while I fill you."
She moans, loud and broken, and pushes back to meet me.
"Yes—Lucian—let them hear—"
Another thrust, deeper. The balcony railing creaks.
I reach around with my free hand and find her clit (swollen, slippery, burning despite the cold). Three rough circles and she comes hard, body seizing, cunt clamping down so tight I have to fight to keep moving through it.
I do not stop.
I spin her around, lift her onto the wide balustrade itself (her back to the void, legs wrapped around my waist, silver gown spilling like moonlight over stone). Snowflakes catch in her lashes.
If she fell, the fall would kill her.
She trusts me to hold her.
I drive back in.
Now we are face to face. Her arms loop around my neck, nails digging into my scalp. The wind lashes her hair across my cheek.
"Again," she pants against my mouth. "Make me scream so loud the whole courtyard knows who truly rules tonight."
I fuck her like the world is ending (because tonight it feels like it is).
The music swells below (drums and lutes and a soaring hymn to the winter queen). Her second climax rips through her on the final crescendo; she buries her face in my shoulder to muffle the scream, teeth sinking deep into muscle.
I follow her over, coming with a snarl, pumping her full while fireworks (someone's extravagant gift) burst gold and violet over the palace roof.
We stay locked together, trembling, while the colored sparks rain down around us like falling stars.
Eventually the cold seeps in. I carry her back through the open doors, kick them shut, and lower her to the thick bearskin rug before the hearth.
She is still impaled on me.
The firelight turns her skin rose and gold. Snow melts in her hair.
I lay her down gently, stay inside her, and begin to move again (slow now, reverent).
Third round is for warmth.
We rock together in front of the flames, mouths fused, hands gentle. Her gown is ruined; my shirt is somewhere on the balcony. Neither of us cares.
She comes twice more (soft, shuddering waves that leave tears on her lashes). I follow the second time, spilling lazily, endlessly, until we are both empty and overflowing at once.
When it is over, she cups my face and kisses me slow and sweet.
"Happy solstice, my shadow," she whispers. "The longest night… and still not long enough."
I pull the heavy fur over us, staying buried inside her, and watch the fire die to embers.
Below, the feast continues without its queen.
Above, in the locked royal bedchamber, the longest night becomes the first of many we will steal from the turning year.
Winter has only just begun.
We have months of snow-locked nights ahead.
And I intend to ruin her in every single one of them.