Your Highness, His Lap

Steve's hands gripped the wheel a little too tightly, knuckles pale in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. The night outside had stretched on in a blur of city lights until they had pulled in front of the home of the young man Joey. But Steve's thoughts weren't on the road, nor on their quarry. They were on her.

Elorae sat in the passenger seat, her profile limned in silver from the moonlight slanting through the window. There was something regal even in her silence, the way she gazed out into the dark as if it all belonged to her. Maybe it did. Steve had known her only two days, and yet he felt it deep in his marrow—he wasn't a man anymore, not in any sense that mattered. He was a subject. A servant. A worm, blessed to crawl in the shadow of her throne.

He cleared his throat, quiet. "Your Majesty? Are you okay?"

"I..." Her voice faltered. "I... am well. Too well, perhaps."

She laughed. Not the laughter that spilled out from accidental joy, but the laughter of a woman caught in a trap, struggling to free herself. He wanted to help. Steve would do anything for this woman, but he knew enough of women to allow them to unveil their problems in their own time.

Still, he felt concerned. Moments ago she had gone pale, and now her breathing had increased. He couldn't imagine living in a world without Elorae. The thought of losing her was worse than the thought of losing his own life.

"You don't look well. You're flushed. Do I need to get you to a hospital?"

Somehow he found the courage to reach over and touch her arm with his right hand. He watched as her eyes fixed on his hand, then slid up to his mouth. There was a moment where he thought that he should speak, that he should draw her out of whatever reverie had taken her, but the words never came. With time he would have known what to say, how to support her, how to care for his liege.

But Elorae had other plans. Indeed she wanted his support, but not with words, but with action. In an instant that seemed to last an hour, her lips pressed against his own.

A kiss.

No, it was more than a kiss. So much more. Sudden and intense, Elorae had seized his mouth, her fingers grabbing his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. It was a kiss of hunger, of desperation. Elorae didn't just want him, she needed him.

Steve froze for half a heartbeat. This wasn't his place—he had no right to question her, to want this. And yet… if she commanded it, if she willed it, then what else was there for him to do but obey?

The kiss, beyond what Steve could have believed, beyond what he had experienced in his life thus far, deepened. He could feel her breath against him, warm, intoxicating. His pulse thundered in his ears. Her hand slid down his now bare chest, slow as molten metal, searing on his skin until she reached the buckle of his seatbelt. A click, and it was gone. His own belt followed.

"Elorae…" His voice cracked, raw with awe. "Your Highness, I—"

"Shh." Just that. A single syllable, soft as silk, and his protest vanished like mist.

Then she moved. One leg swept across his lap, a whisper of fabric on denim, then the other followed, and suddenly she was on him—pressed between his chest and the steering wheel, her weight anchoring him in a prison he never wanted to escape.

The car felt too small for this. Too hot. The leather seats creaked as she shifted, hips settling over his in a way that made his breath seize in his throat.

Steve didn't know where to put his hands until she guided them—slowly, deliberately—onto her hips. His palms burned through the thin fabric of her dress, every inch of her feeling impossibly soft, impossibly real.

"This…" His throat scraped the words out. "This is an honour beyond—"

Her mouth crushed his, swallowing his pitiful attempt at speech. She kissed him hard, harder than before, until his thoughts scattered like frightened birds. And then she rolled her hips against him. Once. Just enough to make him gasp.

His head hit the headrest with a dull thud. Heat flooded his veins so fast it hurt. He was hard—aching—and she knew it. God, she knew it. Her body told him so in every insistent shift, every drag of her curves against him, slow enough to drive him insane.

The steering wheel pressed into her back, but she didn't seem to care. She moved again, a languid grind that stole the air from his lungs. He thought about speaking, about telling her he wasn't worthy—but her fingers slid down his bare chest, over the ridges of muscle, toward the button of his jeans, and the thought shattered.

"Elorae…" It was a groan, not a word. A prayer.

She pulled back just enough for her eyes to catch his—dark, commanding, alight with something wild—and whispered one single thing:

"Stay still."

And he did. God help him, he did, because whatever she took from him now wasn't his to give. It had always belonged to her.