Oh, she does

Colour climbed Tektonia’s throat before she found an answer. The tools at her belt suddenly seemed to interest her more than the table. When she spoke, the words went to Hippolyta, not to him.

“Lady Regent,” she stated, and the title came out smaller than it had at the flap. “You are his consort. You keep his household. I would not take a liberty that was not mine to take.” A breath caught, then she pushed the rest out in a rush. “If I am to build him a house that will last, I will need to know the man who is to live in it. I hoped I might have some inspiration from our king. If you would permit it.”

Winston understood her in the next heartbeat. Inspiration. The mason’s word for a bed, dressed up in timber and stone so she would not have to say what she wanted in front of the woman who had been her queen.

A slow spleased curve graced Hippolyta's lips.

“That,” she stated, “is not a request you make of me.” The tease stayed warm enough to keep the sting out of it. “He is your king. If you want inspiration from him, Tektonia, you will have to ask him for it yourself.”

Nothing in the law he had spoken tonight had put love into this woman. The others had received that command. Tektonia had walked in with tools on her belt and a hunger for work, and now she wanted his seed without ever having been told to want him. The oath still bound her. That much he understood. What he could not find was the moment desire had been asked of her.

Colour held high on her cheek when she left Hippolyta and made herself face the chair. The pale band left her mouth and her eyes with nowhere to hide.

“My king,” she stated. “Would you grace this subject with inspiration, and with your seed?”

Several Amazons had already been in his bed, the former queen among them, and every one of them beautiful enough that refusal would have been an affectation. This asking had not come from a sentence he remembered giving. That was the part that should have made him hesitate. Winston had never been a man who hesitated long when a woman that striking asked him plainly.

“Yes.”

Tektonia did not wait. She came around the table, fur sliding on her shoulders, and took Winston’s lap in one hungry motion. The cream tunic rode up her thighs as she settled, heat first, then the solid lock of muscle pinning his hips to the chair.

Her hands were already at his trousers. The fastening opened under her fingers and she drew him out into the space between them, wrapping him in a warm, tight grip that made his breath catch against her mouth. Arms hooked around his neck. The knotted cloth at her chest crushed soft and heavy into him. The belt bit his stomach. She kissed him like she had been thinking of it since she first looked down at the plates, painted lips parting, tongue sliding in deep, gold hoops tapping his cheek with every small turn of her head.

She held there with the head of him caught against her and ground that swollen point along the ridge of Winston’s crown until his hands found her hips. A tremor went through Tektonia’s thighs. Nails dug into the cloth at his shoulders. She lifted, fitted him to her, and sank. Tight heat took him an inch at a time, her breath shuddering against his mouth. When the last resistance gave, she dropped the rest of the way and seated him to the hilt in one heavy motion that drove a sound out of both of them at once.

The chair complained under it. Hips rose and fell with the same force she brought to stone, each downstroke slapping wet against Winston’s lap and shoving him deeper into the seat. Fur rasped his cheek. The belt at her waist knocked his stomach. Cream cloth bunched higher until her breasts came free of the knot and dragged bare against his chest with every descent.

Tektonia’s mouth never left his for long. Teeth clicked. Her tongue pushed in as hard as her body did, a raw moan breaking into the kiss, fingers twisting in his hair to tip his head back and take more of him. When air finally forced her off his lips it was only long enough for the title.

“My king.”

Then she was on his mouth again, walls gripping and sliding, lifting until he nearly slipped free and slamming back down so the whole length of him disappeared into that wet clutch. Sweat shone at her throat. The pale band held her hair from a face gone flushed and open. The rhythm broke on a cry she could not keep in the kiss. Tektonia locked down around him, hips jerking, nails scoring Winston’s shoulders, inner muscles fluttering in hard, helpless pulls as she came in his lap and shook through it with her forehead dropped against his.

The shaking did not take the want out of her. A groan followed the cry, low against his chest, and she rolled her hips as soon as she could move, seating him again, grinding him deep while she was still clenched and wet from it. Sweat ran the valley between her breasts. The fur at her back had gone damp. Thighs and ass worked in a rawer rhythm now, less measured, every stroke meant to keep him buried.

Winston’s hands tightened on her hips hard enough to hold. Heat swallowed him to the root. Each grind dragged him closer and gave him nowhere to go but up into her. Tektonia tore her mouth from his at last and arched, head tipped back on another sound, and the chair groaned with them as she rode him through the last of that first breaking and straight into the next demand of her body.

The next demand of her body left Winston no room to hold back. Tektonia kept him seated to the root, thighs working, wet heat dragging and gripping in the same raw rhythm, and the finish gathered low in him with nowhere to go but up into her. His hands locked on her hips. A sound tore out of him against her throat. He spent himself in hard pulses while she rode him through it, taking every bit of what she had asked for and keeping him buried until the last of it left him.

Heat gathered with no way out of the chair. Tektonia kept Winston seated to the root, thighs working, that wet clutch dragging and tightening until his hands locked on her hips and a sound tore out of him against her throat. He spent himself in hard pulses while she rode him through it, taking the seed she had asked for and holding him buried until the last of it left him.

Tektonia stayed in his lap after, breath rough against Winston’s shoulder, cream tunic fallen open where the knot had given, fur damp along her back, the belt still cinched because she had never stopped long enough to take it off. The painted mouth rested near his jaw.

“My king,” she stated, quieter now, the title worn thin by use.

Lamp light and the leftover smell of the meal came back with that. Hippolyta had not left her place. The diadem caught the flame. One hand still rested near her cup. She had watched the whole of it from her seat, and Winston felt that attention now the way he felt the cooling heat Tektonia had left on him.

Colour climbed Tektonia’s throat when she followed his glance and found Hippolyta waiting. She gathered the tunic closed with one hand and kept her seat a moment longer before she trusted her voice.

“I have what I came for,” Tektonia stated. “The house will be better for it. If I have leave, I will begin at first light on the bank.”

Looking at Wintson who nodded at her caused hippolyta's smirk to grow int oa ful lblown grin.

“You have our king's leave and more,” she stated with a waggle of her eyebrows. “Take your tools and go before you ask for a second lesson at this table. Build him the residence he named. The river is waiting.”

Tektonia rose from Winston’s lap with care, straightened the fur on her shoulders, and bowed her head. The wooden rule and punch still hung at her belt. She left by the flap without another look at the plates.

Winston sat in the chair she had used him in, the smell of Tektonia’s skin still on his clothes. He turned over every command he had given since the tablet, looking for the one that had put that wanting in her, and did not find it.