Dressing with Royalty

The coarse cloak slipped from Jon’s shoulders and pooled at his feet like shed skin.

He stood in the smallclothes he’d worn beneath it, nothing more, the lantern’s low flame painting gold across the ridges of old scars and new bruises. The air felt suddenly too warm; the wheelhouse too small. Two pairs of Lannister-green eyes fixed on him, bright and unblinking, the way wolves watch a stag that has already lost the chase.

Cersei’s lips curved (slow, deliberate, the smile of a woman who had decided exactly how this evening would end). “Begin,” she said, the single word soft as silk and twice as binding.

The charcoal doublet came first.

Jaime moved behind him, the heat of her body brushing his back before her hands ever touched skin.

She lifted the heavy velvet slowly, letting the fabric drag across his shoulders like a caress.

Her palms followed, gliding down the length of his arms, pressing the cloth smooth over muscle that jumped beneath her touch.

A low laugh stirred the curls at his nape.

“Arms through, love,” she whispered, lips grazing the shell of his ear, teeth catching for the barest instant.

Cersei stepped in to meet him.

Her fingers found the silver clasps at his throat and began their descent (one deliberate click after another).

With every clasp she leaned closer, until the soft weight of her breasts pressed against his chest and the scent of summerwine and roses filled the small space between breaths.

When the last clasp closed, her hand did not stop; it drifted downward, slow and possessive, palm spreading over the hard plane of his stomach as though measuring the beat of his heart beneath wool and velvet.

Her nails scraped lightly, just enough to remind him who owned the ground he stood on.

“Perfect,” Cersei sighed, the word warm against his throat.

“Turn for us.”

He turned.

Jaime’s hands found his hips at once, fingers curling into the velvet as if testing how easily it might tear.

Her thumbs traced the sharp jut of bone beneath the cloth, slow circles that sent heat pooling low in his belly.

She leaned in, lips brushing the nape of his neck, open-mouthed and deliberate.

“Off,” she murmured against his skin, voice rough with want. “Slowly.”

The doublet slid from his shoulders like water.

As the velvet slid from his shoulders and whispered down his arms, Jaime’s mouth followed the same path.

Her teeth grazed the sharp ridge of his shoulder blade, then softened; her tongue traced the pale, raised scar that crossed it, tasting salt and the last cold breath of winter still clinging to his skin.

Each inch she uncovered earned another slow, deliberate kiss, another gentle bite that made the muscle beneath jump and the breath catch in his throat.

Next came the midnight wool, black as the sky beyond the Wall, with only the faintest shimmer of silver along the collar when the lantern caught it.

Cersei dropped to her knees without a word.

The sight of her there (golden, proud, queen of the Seven Kingdoms) sent a jolt straight through Jon’s gut.

She held the trousers open like an offering.

He stepped in.

Her hands started low, palms gliding up the tense muscle of his calves, thumbs pressing into the hollows behind his knees until his legs threatened to buckle.

Higher.

She took her time, tracing the sensitive skin of his inner thighs until his breath came ragged and the ache between his legs throbbed in time with his pulse.

When she finally drew the wool up, her knuckles dragged slow and deliberate along the hard line of him, a teasing pressure that tore a low sound from his throat before he could stop it.

Jaime was already behind him.

She lifted the tunic over his head in one smooth pull, letting her nails scrape lightly across his scalp, then down the nape of his neck, over the ridges of his spine.

Her fingers found his chest, circled one nipple lazily, watching it tighten under her touch, then flicked it once (hard enough that his hips jerked forward into Cersei’s waiting hands).

Cersei rose with the belt.

She threaded the belt through the loops with deliberate care, the leather hissing softly against wool. When she yanked it snug, the buckle clicked sharp and final, pulling the fabric tight across his hips. The sudden pressure **** a rough exhale from him; she answered it by stepping in until nothing separated them (her breasts crushed against his chest, the soft swell of her belly flush to the hard line of his, heat bleeding through layers of silk and midnight wool until he felt it in his bones).

The queen leaned forward, caught his lower lip between her teeth, and bit down (hard). A bright sting flared, copper blooming on his tongue. Before he could flinch she soothed the hurt with a slow, wet swipe of her tongue, then sucked gently at the wound she’d made, drawing a low, involuntary sound from deep in his chest.

She eased back just enough for him to see her.

The lantern painted gold across her cheekbones; the green of her eyes had vanished, swallowed by black. Her lips were swollen, slick, parted on a breath that trembled.

“Again,” she said, the word rough as torn silk.

The black leather and wolf-fur was last.

Jaime stepped in behind him. She drew the jerkin’s laces slow and tight, each tug dragging the hide closer until it gripped his shoulders like a fist. Her breasts pressed warm between his shoulder blades; her exhale stirred the hair at his nape.

Cersei dropped to her knees.

She took his foot, slid the first tall boot on, then the second. Her palms started at his ankle and climbed (slow, deliberate) over calf and thigh, fingertips tracing every ridge of muscle until they closed around the rigid length straining against the lacings. She looked up. Dark lashes framed eyes that had forgotten how to blink; her lips parted on a soft, hungry sound she didn’t bother to hide.

Jaime’s arms came around him from behind. One hand flattened over his heart (feeling it slam against her palm like a war drum). The other slid lower, fingers threading with Cersei’s until both women held him through the leather, stroking in perfect, unhurried unison.

Long.

Slow.

Relentless.

“Which one, love?” Cersei asked, voice husky. “Or shall we simply keep undressing you until the feast begins without us?”

Jaime’s laugh was low against his ear. “Decide quickly, Snow,” she murmured, teeth grazing his lobe. “Or we’ll ruin every single one of these before you ever reach the hall.”