If Hippolyta wants sex, Wintson is more than happy to oblige

The goblet was still in reach. Hippolyta drank from it while she watched him, wine held in her mouth, a dark bead caught at the corner of her lip before she came down and opened over him. The drink spilled across his tongue, warm and sharp. She sealed him in and used her tongue to push the rest of it deeper, stroking, curling, teasing him into following the taste back into her until swallow and kiss were the same motion.

Winston answered her. Clumsy at first, then surer, he caught the tongue that had been playing with his and gave the kiss back until the wine was gone and only heat remained.

When they parted, flush stood high on her cheeks. Her eyes had gone heavy. Her mouth stayed open, the tip of her tongue still visible, the diadem proud while the rest of her was not.

“If you want to fuck,” Winston said, voice rough from her mouth, “I am more than happy to.”

A small sound left her, startled and almost pleased. Wine still shone on her lips.

“Yes,” she stated. “I want that. Saruka. The food.”

Saruka was already moving, bronze and bread and figs leaving the table in a hurried clatter, the goblet rescued last. “Go. I have it.”

Hippolyta kissed him before he had finished sitting up. The hunger in it came straight from the wine and from watching him with Iphthime, her weight pinning the kiss to his mouth while he tried to get his feet under him. The pallet slipped. His arms closed around her back and the lift became a struggle inside that kiss: ordinary shoulders taking a warrior off the floor, her mouth still on his, her body rising with him just enough to make the carry possible. His arms burned for the rest of it. He got her to the cleared table and set her on the edge, breathing hard against her lips.

Gold clicked at her shoulders as the wood took her. Her thighs opened around his hips in the same motion, the white gown rucking with them, and she leaned back on her hands and spread wider. What she offered him was already wet, pink and parted from her own hand, slick enough that the light caught on it while she watched his face.

“Look if you mean to take it,” she stated. “I have been ready since she had you.”

Not needing any more encouragement, the last of the cloth was shoved aside and Winston seathed himself in one thrust. Breath broke against his mouth as her legs hooked his waist and hauled him deeper. What came next used the table. Each snap of his hips drove theformer queen back along the wood; a grip at her hips dragged her onto him as he thrust, chasing depth until the wet sound of it filled the tent. The roughness was answered with her body, heels tight at his back, cunt pulling on him every time he bottomed out, a delighted cry breaking on the next slam. Flush burned across her face. Her breasts moved under the rucked gown. Stronger than he was, she could have stopped him. She yanked him in instead.

“Harder,” she gasped, laughing through it, nails in his shoulders. “Do not be gentle with me, my lord husband.”

Planting a hand on the table Wintson threw what strength he had left into fucking hippolyta, the rhythm gone uneven and greedy. A cry climbed out of her as her back arched off the wood, slick running toward the table’s edge where he kept driving into that open heat. Then her arms were around his neck and his mouth was on hers.

Every shock of his hips went into the kiss, pressing up against her breasts, the pleased sound of the former queen spilling into his mouth while he sank home. The smile against his lips lasted only until her thighs clamped and the clench that followed stole the next thrust, fluttering pulls that wrung a raw moan out of her and into him as she shook and ground through it, wet and locked around him, refusing to let his mouth go.

That grip finished him. Two short, desperate thrusts and he spilled into the clench of her in thin, oversensitive pulses that wrecked what was left, her arms still locked at his neck while she took the last jerks of his hips and his own arms went with them. He collapsed onto her chest, face in the damp heat of her throat, spent and shaking as she gathered him against the soft weight of her breasts, one hand at the back of his neck, the other slow down his spine. Speech never formed. Exhaustion rose through the ache, her mouth brushed his hair with a faint pleased murmur of his name, and he slept there in her arms.