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Violet Fire

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Alanna heard the knock on the door that joined her bedchamber with her prince’s, a gentle sort of thing, not a command but an invitation; he never insisted, though she knew that he wanted her there, in his bed. She grinned and waited until all around her was silence, finally sliding out of bed, Faithful letting out a curious little sound at being pushed aside with the blankets, and then jumping to the floor to follow her.

“You stay here,” Alanna told him in a forceful whisper, wagging a finger at the black cat.

I’ll get cold! Faithful protested indignantly. It was a cold night, and there were bricks warmed by the fire wrapped in the blankets of Alanna’s bed to keep her warm. She wouldn’t be needing those now, she would have passion to thaw her tonight.

“You can keep yourself warm,” she snorted, casting him a backward glare as she listened at the door for a moment. “I don’t like you watching us, and trying to get on the bed when we’re… busy!” Alanna shared almost everything with her companion, but this was one thing she could do on her own!

You think you can do everything on your own, the cat commented with a sniff, as if reading her thoughts.

“And there are some things I ought to!” she countered, opening the door and slipping through. Jonathan was already abed in the darkness, and her bare feet created barely a whisper on the cold stone of the floor, though her chattering teeth might have given her away.

“Gods!” he exclaimed as she lifted the blankets and sidled beneath them beside Jon, and he turned to slip his strong arms around her. “You’re like ice!” His blue eyes danced in the low light of the hearth fire, like the sky reflecting in crystal waters, and he was smirking infuriatingly as he cupped her face in his big hands and pulled her in for a kiss, long and slow, warming her from the roots of her copper hair down to the tips of her toes.

“I hate the cold,” she murmured, pressing into the cradle created by his body, lean and strong. “I can never get warm.”

He kissed her nose, her cheek. “Never?” he asked mischievously, his hands running down along the small of her back to her bottom, cupping her there and pulling her more firmly against him, her thighs opening to wrap around his waist as his belly pressed into hers, and she could feel that his passion had begun to take hold of him. “I’ve something that may do the trick.”

That elicited a quiet laugh. “I’m certain that you do, highness.”

But there was an odd light in his eyes now, an enigmatic smile quirking at the side of his mouth. “Do you trust me?” he murmured, nuzzling aside her cropped hair and kissing the side of her neck, her throat.

Her sigh hitched in her chest, her small hands curling into his broad shoulders. “You know that I do,” she replied, her voice a heated purr. She’d trusted him with everything, with her maidenhead, and he had been as careful as he could have been, while stroking a pleasure so fine to the surface, she could hardly believe she had once thought never to join with a man in such a way, to make love. He was barely more experienced than she, but there were things that he knew, and it seemed now as if he desired above all else to put one of these wicked instances of knowledge to good use.

He urged her onto her back, and drew her nightshirt up, past her knees, the backs of which he caressed with eager fingers, and up to her waist, exposing her to him, the copper thatch of curls at the juncture of her thighs. His fingers worked into the whorls of fiery hair, an act he had performed before, to get her ready, to make her slick and sticky like honey. This time, she gave a shocked gasp and a moan when he replaced his fingers with his mouth, licking inside of her, tasting that honey, and the heat within her, with lengthy, leisurely strokes, focusing often on that little ember nestled at her crux, stoking it into a blaze, and then an inferno. Until she was burning, her legs braced over his shoulders, her feet curling in her bliss against his back.

She trembled all over, panting, as he covered her body with his and kissed her mouth, his lips and tongue steamy, slick with her, soothing her through that soaring rapture and into its fine afterglow. Her eyes fluttered open, looking up at him half-lidded, an unintentionally, sultry countenance. She frowned a little: he was gazing down at her with a mixture of awe and blind affection. “What?” she managed to murmur, her voice raw from her suppressed cries.

He shook his head, his close-cropped black hair moving like obsidian silk. “Sometimes…” he began, but stopped to catch his breath, and think of what he was saying. She prodded him onwards; in these moments, there were no secrets between them. “Sometimes, when we… I see your Gift. Faintly, just for a moment, I see… violet, flowing into blue.”

She smiled, twining her fingers with his. “Your Gift and mine.” She’d never heard of such a thing. She could perform much the same trick, if either of them had been using their Gift, when she took her ember stone in hand, but without the assistance…. and yet, somehow, she didn’t doubt him.

He was fully ready now, and tenderly he stroked his member into her, atop her, with her short legs tied around his waist. She felt bold now, after the dance of his tongue against her, and his eyes flashed with surprise for a moment as, wrapped around him, she rolled, putting him beneath her, and her perched atop him, riding. They both gasped, because he sank deeper than he had ever been into her, tight and willing, the insides of her belly, her womb. And then she began moving, thinking of the way it could tantalize if she leaned a certain way in her saddle when Moonlight was at a gallop. He ground against her, matching her movements, his hands on her hips, to hold, to embrace and to caress, not to guide.

As they lay, sweating and huffing for breath in the now sweltering room, in one another’s arms, gently floating down from the highest of heights, she pressed her lips to his mouth, his nose, with its slight hook—she loved that hook, elsewise his looks might be approaching flawlessness too wholly. He grinned at her drowsily, an arm behind his head against the pillows. He never stopped her, never shamed her; there was nothing Jonathan ever told her that she couldn’t do.

“I love you, Jon,” she murmured, thinking he was asleep.

“I love you, too, fire-top,” he replied with a chuckle, drawing the blanket up around them. Faithful settled at their feet; she’d have to talk to him about that tomorrow, the little sneak. But for now… For now, all she wanted to do was sleep in the arms of her lover, her prince, her equal.