You admit you regret the situation

The firelight glimmers off Dobra’s skin as you finish undressing her, the golden glow highlighting the fullness of her breasts and the tight, magnificent curve of her womb. She watches you with a gaze that is both heavy with desire and wise with the knowledge of what she is to you.

As you settle over her, careful to keep your weight from pressing too hard against the life growing inside, you catch her chin with your thumb. "You know," you say, your voice thick with a sudden, sharp honesty, "if you were younger, Dobra... I would have put a crown on your head. I would have made you my Queen."

A bittersweet smile touches her lips. She is a woman of the earth, and she knows the seasons of her life. "And the court would have burned with scandal, Your Majesty. A barbarian widow on the high throne?" She laughs softly, the sound vibrating against your chest. "No. I am better here. I am the secret strength of your borderlands. A Queen is a symbol for your people; I am the woman who keeps the man behind the King whole while he's here. A sheathe of his sword, for tg moment."

You growl low in your throat, silenced by her pragmatism, and kiss her deeply. The kiss tastes of wine and salt. You move between her thighs, and she opens for you with an ease born of the months of familiarity.

As you enter her, the sensation is an overwhelming rush of warmth. She is slick and welcoming, her body reacting to you with a primal hunger that belies her talk of age. You move with a slow, deliberate power, feeling every inch of her clenching around you. Your hands roam upward, cupping her breasts, then sliding down to the sides of her belly where you feel the skin stretch with every thrust.

Dobra’s head tosses back, her throat bared to the firelight as she lets out a long, shuddering moan. She isn't the warrior Elka is, but there is a profound, grounding depth to the way she takes you, as if she is absorbing your stress, your ****, and your ambition, turning it into something soft and enduring.

The pace quickens as your climax nears. You watch her face, seeing the mask of the stoic widow crumble into one of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. When you finally spill into her, it is with a fierce intensity, a silent vow that despite her age or her origin, she holds a part of you no formal Queen ever will.

You collapse beside her, pulling her sweat-slicked body into your side. She rests her head on your shoulder, her breathing slowing in sync with yours.

"Queen or not," she whispers into the dark, her hand finding yours over the swell of her stomach, "right now, you are home."