The knight arrives

The chamber pulsed in anticipation, velvet shadows curling at the edges like breath held too long. Maeva took her time moving through the space, every step deliberate, every sway of her hips calculated to tease whatever sensors the prince’s entrance might trigger. She’d slipped back into the emerald corset, now unlaced just enough to cradle her breasts in a scandalous frame, nipples peeking like twin secrets through delicate mesh.

The scenario had shifted—she felt it in her marrow. No longer a damsel. No longer bound.

She was the storm behind the silk.

The heavy oaken door creaked.

Maeva turned just as the prince stepped inside.

His armor was scorched, silver plate kissed by dragonfire, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion. A cut trailed crimson across his jaw, and his eyes, wide and dark beneath soot-streaked brows, met hers—then widened.

He froze.

Not in fear. Not in pain.

In awe.

Maeva stood at the foot of the bed, one leg bent, her hand toying with the edge of her slit corset as if it were a weapon. She didn’t speak. She let the silence stretch, thick with heat. Her gaze dragged over him like silk over skin—slow, commanding, assessing.

The knight swallowed hard, tongue darting out across cracked lips.

“Princess,” he managed hoarsely.

Maeva tilted her head. “Is that what I am to you?”

“I—I’ve come to save you,” he offered, sword dipping slightly.

Her smile was molten. “No, brave knight. You’ve come to surrender.”

The door slammed shut behind him with a gust of unseen wind.

His blade clattered to the floor.

Maeva approached, barefoot against the cool stone, until she stood before him, her hand sliding up the front of his breastplate. “You bled for me,” she murmured, fingers dragging through soot. “How noble. How stupid.”

Her nails found the buckles at his shoulders, unfastening his armor piece by piece with expert ease. “But I think you’ll find I’m not the prize you expected.”

As his cuirass dropped with a dull thud, she reached up and gripped his hair, yanking his face down to hers, lips brushing but not kissing. “You are,” she breathed, “mine.”

He groaned, already hard beneath the remaining layers. She could feel it—eager, pulsing, betraying him. Maeva’s laugh was low and full of promise as she pushed him backward, and he stumbled, armor clanking, until he hit the chaise.

“On your knees.”

There was a moment—a flicker of resistance in his eyes. That knightly pride. That need to be in control.

Maeva lifted a single brow.

The resistance melted.

He knelt.

She stepped forward, lifting one leg to his shoulder, resting her heel on the curve of his neck, teasing her slick folds just inches from his mouth.

“I was supposed to be the one rescued,” she purred, rocking her hips just enough to spread her scent across his lips, “but now, brave knight… you get to serve me.”

And when his tongue finally met her, **** and reverent, she let her head fall back with a soft, savage moan.

He had no idea what kind of game he’d stepped into.

But she did.

And he’d never want to leave.