She needs a little more

Mordane’s thumb traced the line of Jon’s lower lip once more, slow and careful, as if she were memorising the shape of him. Her dark eyes never left his face. The wind moved through the broken stones above them, carrying the faint scent of rosewater and the colder smell of old ash.

“Tell me the truth of it,” she said softly. “Did any of it ease you? Even a little?”

Jon’s throat worked. The names of his siblings still sat heavy behind his teeth. The fear of what one careless word might do to them had not left him. Yet the warmth of her body against his, the steady press of her hands, the quiet certainty in her voice… it reached a place the power had not touched. A place that still remembered what it was to be held without demand.

“Yes,” he said at last. The word came out rough, almost reluctant. “It did. Some of it.”

A soft breath left her, half relief, half hunger. She rose onto her toes again and brushed another kiss against the corner of his mouth, lingering there.

“Then let me give you more,” she whispered. “Not only words. Not only prayer. Let me take the weight from you for a little while. You have never known a woman’s touch that was given freely and fully. Let me be the first. Let me show you how it can feel when someone belongs to you completely.”

Her hands slid from his face to the fastenings of his cloak. She worked them open with slow, deliberate care, never rushing, never forcing. The heavy wool slipped from his shoulders and pooled at his feet. Next came the belt, the jerkin, the tunic beneath. Each piece she set aside with the same reverence she had once given to the crystals on an altar. When his chest was bare to the cold air she paused, palms resting flat over his heart, feeling the hard beat of it.

“You are shaking,” she murmured. “Is it the cold… or is it this?”

Jon did not answer. His hands had found her waist of their own accord, fingers curling into the velvet of her gown. The power hummed low and eager beneath his ribs, waiting for any word that would reshape her further. He kept his mouth closed.

Mordane smiled against his throat. “You need not speak. Only let me.”

She guided him backward until the fallen block of stone pressed against the backs of his thighs. Then she sank to her knees in front of him, the crimson lace of her gown pooling around her like spilled wine. Her hands went to the laces of his breeches. She loosened them with the same unhurried patience, drawing the fabric down just far enough. When his cock sprang free, already hard, she made a soft sound of approval and leaned in.

The first touch of her mouth was careful, almost shy, as if she were still learning the shape of him, then the shyness melted. Her tongue traced a long, slow stroke along the underside as she took him deeper, lips sealing warm and wet around the head. One hand cradled the base while the other rested lightly on his thigh, steadying him, and she worked him in a steady, devoted rhythm, never hurried, never teasing for long. Every few moments she eased back just far enough to meet his eyes, dark gaze shining with that rewritten worship, before sinking down again.

Jon’s fingers tangled in her black hair, the velvet of her veil brushing his knuckles as a low sound escaped him—half groan, half something closer to surrender. The fear of his siblings still sat at the back of his mind, but the wet heat of her mouth and the soft, hungry noises she made pushed it farther away with every pass of her tongue.

When she finally released him it was with a soft, wet sound. She rose gracefully, gathered the heavy skirts of her gown, and climbed into his lap, straddling him on the stone. Cold air kissed the bare skin of her thighs as she settled; she reached between them, guided him to her entrance, and sank down in one long, deliberate motion. She was already wet, already open for him. The stretch drew a broken sound from her throat, something that was half prayer half moan, as her hands braced on his shoulders and her forehead came to rest against his.

“Like this,” she whispered. “Slow at first. Feel how I take you. Feel how I was made for this now.”

The rhythm Mordane set was unhurried and deep, the kind of pace that forced him to feel every inch of her. Inner walls clenched and released in steady pulses while her breasts pressed soft and heavy against his chest with every rise and fall; the seven-pointed star at her throat caught the weak light and flashed between them like a silent witness.

His hands settled on her hips, but he did not take control. He let her set the pace, let her use her body to soothe and claim him at the same time. The power stirred again, hot and insistent. In that moment any number of words could have left his mouth, younger still, fuller, tighter, more sensitive, or a quiet command that would ensure she carried his child from this coupling alone. The words hovered.

Instead he only held her and let her ride him.

Mordane breath grew shorter as the movements deepened. One hand slid into his hair and tightened, holding his head so their eyes stayed locked.

“You are safe with me,” she said, voice low and rough now. “You can take what you need. You can give me what you need. There is no one here to judge. Only the old stones and the wind and me.”

She leaned in and kissed him again, open-mouthed and deep, while her hips rolled in a harder, more demanding circle. The kiss broke only when a sharper cry left her. Her walls fluttered tightly around him, but she did not stop. She rode through her own climax, milking him, coaxing him toward the edge with every clench and release.

Jon’s control frayed. His hands tightened on her hips as he thrust up to meet her, once, twice, harder. The wet sound of their joining filled the ruined chamber. Mordane moaned into his mouth and pushed down to take him as deep as she could.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Like that. Give it to me. Fill me. Let the weight leave you for a little while.”

He did.

The release hit him hard, a long, shuddering pulse that emptied into her while her body continued to work him, drawing every drop. She held him through it, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, face buried against his neck, whispering soft, broken words of devotion against his skin.

When the last tremor faded she did not pull away. She stayed seated on him, full of him, her forehead resting against his temple. One hand stroked slow circles at the nape of his neck.

“There,” she murmured. “Breathe. I have you.”

Jon’s arms were still around her. The fear had not vanished, but it had been pushed back by the heat of her body and the quiet certainty of her voice. For the first time since the power had taken root, the silence that followed did not feel empty.

Mordane shifted just enough to look at him, her lips swollen, her eyes dark and soft.

“If you need more from me,” she said quietly, “I will give it. Whatever eases you. Whatever brings you even a little peace. Or leave me just as I am. I am already yours in every way that matters.”

She brushed another slow kiss across his mouth.

“Only tell me what you need, Jon. And I will give it.”