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You were a simple woman, and there was nothing wrong with that. In fact, you were glad for it. A respected house, dutiful parents, and a childhood where you wanted for nothing. There was never scandal, drama, or trauma—better than most born into the Seven Kingdoms. Once you reached the age of majority you quietly accepted your destiny to marry into another noble house.
"Ser Gwayne Hightower," your mother had informed you giddily one misty morning.
The name itself sounded lordly, noble—Gwayne Hightower. The Queen's brother. A man from a great house of the Reach who boasted of being the center of education in the known world with endless coin at their fingertips. But you didn't care for any of that. The prestige of his name and house was but Myrish lace on a gown—was the gown itself favorable? There were lords and knights that possessed a sparkling pedigree, but they were not good husbands. They whored, gambled, and treated their wives like a walking womb—sometimes even struck them. What if Gwayne was such a man under his noble exterior? What if your marriage was a lifelong ritual of humiliation?
You could only speculate, as your first time meeting Gwayne was at the sept on the day of your wedding.
"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days." The words flowed from your lips like wine spilling from a chalice—the same words uttered by countless women before you whom had possessed the same fear as you.
"My lady, I swear upon my honor as a knight that I will never mistreat you," he murmured during your first dance.
And Gwayne had not lied. He had hammered the principles of honor, chivalry, and the Faith of the Seven into his very being, and they translated seamlessly into your marital life.
"My lady wife enjoys tea in the morning," he said to the serving girl once. "Please have a cup ready for our morning meals henceforth."
Another afternoon he had his squire bring you an arrangement of flowering moonblooms he had purchased on the Street of Flowers. When he returned for supper later that night, he told you the serene beauty of the flowers reminded him of you.
Attentive, gentle, kind—he had been that way on your wedding night as well. Whispering sweet words, he had claimed your maidenhead; cock gently thrusting while he rolling his hips so that you could feel every aroused inch of him. After the consummation he cleaned you with a warm towel and lavender oil, concerned if he had harmed you in any way.
Gwayne made marriage easy and the horrific tales of it seem like fantasy.
That was why you thought it a creation of your own imagination at first. A lingering gaze on Lord Ormund during a shared supper or a swift glance that trailed a passing tourney knight. You recalled hearing of the queer malady before. And you dismissed it, or tried to. But the thought festered with every gaze and glance he thought you didn't see until you could no longer endure it.
It was a simple outing to a tavern with his knightly companions—a custom he upheld after your marriage for social companionship. Oldtown sweltered during the summer, but its nights were bearable, cooler. The chill of the moon and stars coaxed out many of the city's dwellers onto the streets that smelled of flowery perfume.
"I estimate that I shall return late. Do not wait for me. I wish for you to rest," he had said with the sweetest kiss to your knuckles. Then he was gone, gallavanting off into the night with his friends.
But sleep evaded you. What if he had gone to a brothel to lay with a man? What if he brought back a dreadful disease from a whore and passed it to you? You had heard stories—a lady in the Stormlands who became infertile from her lord husband's nightly affairs, a lady in the Crownlands who was afflicted with popping boils between her legs with no cure… Your mind spiralled further into the abyss and every thought was a torment you never thought possible. You paced your shared chambers so intensely you were surprised you had not worn the rug down to mere threads.
Gwayne found you wide awake when he returned hours later, the moon high in the sky and the halls of the Hightower silent as the Stranger.
"My lady?" Gwayne's brows knitted in concern. "The hour is late. I had presumed you would be asleep."
"I could not find sleep."
His eyes did not leave you even while he unclasped his cloak—the rigidity of your shoulders, the tension in your voice—and he was at your side immediately. "Are you feeling ill? Shall I request for the maester to brew a sleeping draught?"
Your hand took his and he turned his own upward to lace your fingers together without question. The gesture made your heart settle, but it also made the guilt in your chest grow. What if you were wrong? Accusing him of such queerness?
"My lady, please. What ails you?"
"I do not know how to voice my concerns without seeming mad," you confessed honestly. You felt nauseous, like bile was filling your mouth instead of saliva. "I feel as if I will... Gwayne, you must tell me if I am wrong."
Gwayne squeezed your hand, "Regarding?"
You swallowed.
"I feel as if your gaze has been wandering—"
"I would never."
"—to men."
Gwayne's warm expression faltered and his lips fell shut. The blue in his eyes flickered like a dying flame before hardening into stone, and the hand holding yours twitched before withdrawing to his side. His jaw ticked and his eyes averted, though with shame or rage, you could not know.
"You would accuse me of such a sinful affliction?" he asked quietly, his voice taut.
"I do not fully believe it myself, but… I've seen it. I've seen your attention linger on men," you replied, firmer. "If I am wrong, correct me. I will wholeheartedly apologize and beg for your forgiveness."
"Must I ask your permission to look upon certain people, then?"
"No! I…" you inhaled. "I only wish to know so that I may truly know and love the man I wed."
Because you knew you could love him, felt some of it taking root already, even if he had such inclinations. There was room in your marriage for genuine love to grow. You could imagine the rest of your days with him; strolling the white beach of Battle Isle, sharing warm meals, enduring tedious feasts, tittering about banal gossip—you wanted a happy future with him.
Gwayne forced himself to meet your eyes. His gaze scanned your expression for any falsehood, but there was only earnesty, and that, for some reason, only made him feel worse.
He tore his gaze away.
"The hour is late."
"But—"
"We should rest for the night."
He spurned you after that. Mornings and nights became absent of him; he awoke earlier and returned later. There were no shared meals and no flowers. There was not a sign of Gwayne aside from the cooling warmth beside you in the early morning and his lingering smell of citrus and cedarwood.
Not until a week later.
"Husband," you murmured, eyes gone wide at the sight of him. Gwayne looked ghastly, as if the gods had been haunting him. Bags under his eyes and skin pale from lack of sleep. "I was not expecting you at this hour."
"Is it not our custom to share supper together?"
"Right. Of course."
You sat across from each other—a husband and wife who had not spoken a passing word or seen the other in a week despite sharing the same bed. Gods was it awkward. You envied the servants who were allowed the freedom to scurry out of your rooms and into lighter air.
"Have you been well?" you tried.
Gwayne looked up, startled. "Yes. And you?"
"Mostly, yes."
Gwayne moved the mutton around on his plate, "I have been spending my days praying at the Starry Sept."
"I hear they have only just finished hanging the moonblooms inside for Maiden's Day."
"Yes. They reminded me of you."
Gwayne watched you, hoping to see your cheeks flush as they did when he voiced such thoughts. He was disappointed to see you continue your supper with a lowered gaze—had he done irreparable damage to your marriage?
"I have been lost this past week, lamenting to the gods," he confessed quietly. He had exiled himself into the darkest depths of the Starry Sept. He prayed and prayed and prayed. Even when the tips of his fingers grew numb he kept his hands pressed together; as if that would beseech the gods. He begged them to answer his pleas. Why was he born wrong? Why had he been born the way he was? Would they not cure him of his lifelong affliction despite his devotion to them? "It is as you suspect," he said, voice hoarse. "Forgive me. I am afflicted with untoward thoughts towards men, but I swear to you that I am also a man who desires women."
From across the table he seemed so alone. Surrounded by finery, effigies of the Seven, and the Hightower's vast walls; you wondered how isolated he had felt his entire life unable to be true to himself.
"My lord husband."
Gwayne inhaled sharply when you stood and sat beside him.
It was relief you felt, not shame or anger like you expected. Relief not that your suspicions about him were validated, but that he had opened himself to you. Gwayne had allowed you a part of his soul that he dared not ever share with another. That was an honor.
You took his hand in yours and threaded your fingers with his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "There is nothing to forgive. I am glad to have married you as you are." You pressed a kiss to his knuckles when you saw his eyes begin to quicken with unshed tears and relief. "Thank you for bearing your heart to me."
Gwayne was an observant man of both words and action. He was never lesser than calm except for the night of his confession. Pleasant and proud; his troubles always stayed hidden.
That was how Gwayne had endured his lonely childhood and adolescence. Once stagnant sadness grew troublesome he buried it under honor and diligence and a thick layer of chivalry. A failure in the eyes of his father and even a sinner in the eyes of the Seven; he was a man doomed for failure.
But you made him lighter and he often wondered what he had done to deserve your unconditional acceptance despite being mislead into wedding a facade. The way you gazed at him with such kindness and compassion despite knowing his faults nearly rendered him to tears many times.
His soft protests were always brushed off when you lethargically pulled yourself out from bed every morning, and your sleepy hands would button his doublet or strap on his armor for his daily duties. Suppers were warm with accounts of your day, sweetmeats, wandering ramblings of the book you were reading, or the stunning rumors you had overheard from the ladies of the Hightower. During feasts you would linger by him, nudging his hand with yours when you saw him begin to grow weary of socializing. On days when his duty allowed him rest you would offer him a shoulder massage—an amusing talent that had many inquiring sheepishly for your attention—or the two of you would read together on the balcony.
He pondered on your lack of criticism. The confession of his sexuality was but a brush stroke in a painting—a mere detail of him you remembered. Since that night the topic had all but disappeared. Never once had you vilified him for it or demanded that he repent to the gods. And there were other habits you never mentioned, merely adjusted to and remembered. You didn't find it odd he buttoned his doublet from the top down or preferred only juice at night. He was simply human to you and Gwayne wished he could soak himself in your care.
On nights when the guilt of his faults grew loud under the cloak of darkness he curled into himself. He didn't know how but you sensed it; saw through the darkness the way his breath grew heavier and his shoulders tighter. You would turn in bed and wrap an arm around him, resting your brow on the line of his spine to hold him from behind.
The first time he froze. If he addressed it he feared the shadow of his fault would manifest. It could drive you away; so, he did nothing.
The second time he shed a tear you would not ever see. It was cold that night, freezing with the guilt that originated from within. Your embrace warmed him in ways he never thought possible, and he hesitantly allowed himself to melt into the quiet love you were wrapping him in.
The third time he turned to face you and embraced you in return. Chin resting on your head and nose nuzzling into your bed messed hair. That night the specter of his romantic tastes was dulled by your warmth.
He felt it lessen once again when your arm slid around him from behind.
The feast had been lively, jolly; and more than once you had caught his gaze scanning the hall. And you joined him.
"Lord Ormund looks handsome tonight. And Ser Ashton has fixed his hair splendidly."
"My lady, I fear your gaze wanders more than mine," he mourned. "How cruel of you to boldly state such an observation to your lord husband."
You had smiled at his jesting sigh. "It is because you are my lord husband that I feel free to do so."
Gwayne's lips quirked at that and laced his arm with yours. "They do look very handsome tonight."
"Oh! Look! Ser Carden has just arrived as well. Why don't we greet him and his new lady wife? Do you recall her name?"
But when the feast's torches had dimmed and your shared chambers fell quiet it had crept up on him again, and you knew.
His hand easily slipped over yours. Your head resting along the slender curve of his spine was anchoring and the warmth of your light breath on his back sobering. Gwayne turned to face you as he had done the time before. He buried his unsaid sorrows into the crown of your hair and held to you tightly. Breathing you in repelled the prickly stings of self-disdain that settled under his skin.
"I am glad to have married you," you mumbled sleepily into his chest.
"You did not have a choice," he reminded gently.
"And I am still glad that you were my chosen."
Gwayne swallowed down the hitch in his breath. His eyes grew warm and his vision blurred. "Truly?"
"Truly."
Gwayne pressed a light kiss to your hair, lips traveling down to your brow, closed eyes, cheeks, and nose before lingering at your lips. "I cherish you."
Heavy eyes opened when a tear dropped on your cheek. "Why do you weep?"
"'Tis the night's cold air."
You smiled sadly, "You are an awful liar, ser."
Gwayne watched you roll out of his arms and climb out of bed. He sat up when you returned, allowing you to dab away the cooling tears on his lashes with your handkerchief.
"It would not do to stain the pillow cover you are so fond of," you teased, voice laced with comforting warmth.
Gwayne laughed lightly at that, and his hand took yours.
"Come back to bed, my lady. The hour is late and I grow colder without your warmth."
"Her reputation says that she is a fine lady. Lovely, but not the most beautiful. You could do worse," Ormund had said before the ceremony at the sept.
Ormund's words proved false, for Gwayne had thought you the loveliest maiden he had set his gaze upon when you walked through the doors of the Starry Sept. He still replayed the night of your wedding—undressing you with awe and guiding you down into his bed to make you his wife not only in vow but in body.
It was the only time you had coupled—the night that your marriage was consummated. It wasn't by malicious intention on either part. A thick wall of consideration and consent had been built by both hands in the marriage. You mulled over Gwayne's stability—discomfort was the last thing you wanted him to feel after he had bared his heart to you. And Gwayne… Honorable as ever, he suppressed his desire for you. He did not wish to degrade you into a sheathe for his cock when he pleased without knowing your desires. What if you conceded to him as so many ladies did for their duty and husband's pleasure? Gwayne didn't want that. And he was painfully aware of the unconventional start to your marriage. It was in silence that the two of you had decided the stability of your marriage far exceeded bodily desires in importance.
But some days it was difficult, and his desires reared its ugly head. The first time Gwayne caught himself he cringed so intensely he thought his spine might shatter. Absently succumbing to his baser desires like the men he criticized; yet, he only continued to catch himself doing the unthinkable again.
"The sun was unbearable today," you exhaled, fanning yourself. "I thought I was going to melt for all to see."
Gwayne's eyes tore from your bosom when you turned to face him.
"'Tis the reason why I advised you to observe from the shade."
"And scarcely glimpse you at all from across the training yard? I think not."
The moonlight dappled on your skin like flowering lotuses on a pond and the light sheen of sweat on your skin did not aid Gwayne in fighting the impure thoughts his mind was bearing.
He watched you walk to the partition. Blood rushed down to his cock and shame bundled when his attention traveled down to your rear.
"You did very well today. I'm glad Prince Daeron convinced you to train him today."
"Yes, he was quite adamant. I have been busy in the past days when he asked."
Gwayne shut his eyes and leaned his head back when he heard your dress slipping off your skin behind the partition. A quick utter to the gods praying for strength was lost under his breath.
"I observed him practicing with the other squires when you were done with your instruction. He's fast improving."
"He is. He enjoys battle."
"It seems he takes after you in that regard."
Gwayne chuckled. "Does he?"
"His love for sparring, at least."
You stepped out from behind the partition in your nightshift while combing your fingers through your hair.
Gwayne had to turn away, subtly adjusting his trousers while his head grew hot. He had the sights for man and woman both, but he swore you were in another classification of your own. The Maiden herself, perhaps, or a goddess of love and beauty.
"As we speak of sparring, I must mention that you do not need to attend every sparring session I have." Gwayne settled on his side of the bed. "The days grow warmer and I do not wish for you to needlessly endure the sun."
"Mayhaps you can choose a place in the yard that is closer to shade? I enjoy watching you spar." You joined your husband in bed, slipping under the covers beside him.
"I thought you distasted violence," Gwayne said. His arm slid under your head and pulled you to him, allowing you to rest your head on his shoulder.
"I do," you confirmed, "but I enjoy seeing you in armor more."
Gwayne stared at the canopy, neck and cheeks flushed like a green squire. He had always known he was handsome—many women made it known—but hearing it from the lips of the wife he so desperately desired made his mind stutter.
"Perhaps I shall wear my armor more often," he murmured, turning on his side to face you.
That was a mistake.
Gwayne tried to keep his eyes away from them but everywhere he looked they lingered in his peripheral vision. They were right in front of him, gods help him. Your breasts. Those soft mounds that fit in his hands and the prominent peaks of them. He still remembered how they stiffened with his attention the first time he saw them. When his grasp on propriety waned he fantasized about them—kissing and sucking them, grabbing and kneading them. The lustful thoughts, he felt, degraded him into a lesser man, and he would often give a swift plea for forgiveness to the gods in return.
You watched, puzzled, as his gaze wandered to everywhere but you. "Does something trouble you?"
"No," he said quickly. Perhaps just this once he… Would you encourage him? Reject him? Bend to him? "May I kiss you?"
"You need not always ask."
"I do not wish to force affection upon you," Gwayne began quietly. "Always, I wish our marriage to be respectful and considerate. You have endeavored to be as such, and in return I—"
Gwayne's next words muffled with the aid of your lips. His lips froze against yours before he melted, pliant against you, and reciprocated your kiss in relief.
He tasted like sweet juice and soft comfort, and you had to eventually pull away to inhale air your lungs screamed for.
"We are husband and wife, are we not? Affection is expected."
"I—Yes, that is true. But I confess that other unseemly desires linger under the chaste affection that I wish to offer so often."
You gazed at him—the reddening skin of his cheeks, his honest expression, and the brewing storm behind his eyes.
Gwayne hesitantly allowed his hand to wander your back, giving you ample time to reject his touch. His fingers grazed the ties of your shift and lingered there.
"May I?"
"Yes," you whispered, heart jumping.
"Thank the gods," Gwayne murmured, flush growing brighter.
One tug of the tied ribbon and the garment on you went loose.
You sat up and shimmied off your shift, watching as he propped himself up on an elbow to watch.
"Gods," Gwayne breathed. He no longer had to dream; it was right before him.
His hand slid up your thigh, thumb smoothing over the hem of your smallclothes when he leaned forward to press a kiss to your navel. Heat curled in Gwayne's abdomen as he felt your stomach jolt.
"I feared that," you started shakily, "I was not fitting your expectations as a woman."
"No. Gods, no," Gwayne sat up fully to mirror you, "my lady you are…" His fingers curled on your skin and he pursed his lips. "I am aware that our marriage began unconventionally with the confession of my… peculiar tastes. And, I have not been fulfilling my role as a husband should."
"Gwayne—"
"It is not for lack of desire, I assure you," he exhaled. "If you knew how often I thought of you in this manner you would think me a deviant."
"Tell me?" you whispered, hopeful. "I wish to know only for my own pride."
Gwayne's thumb slid under the hem of your smallclothes. "The night of our wedding I knew the gods had blessed me when I looked upon you," he said. "And the following morning I wished to stir you awake by sheathing myself in you," Gwayne pulled you onto his lap, "and taking you until all in the Hightower could hear you screaming my name."
Your heart stuttered when his lips kissed the curve of your shoulder slowly.
"At the tourney in Highgarden when lords and knights stole you away from me."
"They were only making acquaintance."
"And still it was a theft of my lady wife's attention," Gwayne replied with mirth. "I had the thought to take you in my pavilion for the remaining duration of the jousts."
Your fingers tangled in Gwayne's auburn locks lightly messed from lying in bed.
"The Harvest Feast," Gwayne guided you down on your back before him, "when your lips were darkened with Arbor red. A poorer vintage, but I thought the taste of your lips would make it bearable."
Your legs parted for Gwayne to rest between.
Gwayne dragged his lips over your skin—neck, collarbone. He pressed a kiss to the valley between your breasts. "When we leisurely sailed in the Whispering Sound," Gwayne nuzzled and kissed the hardened peak of one of your breasts, "with the wind in your hair and the sea sticking to your skin."
A soft gasp escaped you when his lips wrapped around one of your stiff nipples. Heat fanned through your body and you quivered under him, body trying to mold to his own with an arch.
Gwayne's tongue smoothed over your nipple and sucked. His hand cupped and squeezed the other, rolling and tugging your nipple between his fingers.
"Gwayne," you managed out, head falling back to the pillow.
His lips pulled off with a heavy breath. "When we stroll in the gardens together and rest near the water," he hooked his fingers under your smallclothes and pulled them down your legs, "I've the urge to take you among the flowers."
What a hedonistic image that painted: Gwayne pressing you up against one of the stone statues with your skirts bunched up at your hips; kissing you dazed in the throes of lust, taking you while stifling his sounds into your skin. Oh, the fantasy that took root! Gwayne's cock going in and out of you eager to spill his—
Your thighs clamped around Gwayne's head with a cry, eliciting a hum of delight from him.
Gwayne's head lifted, chin resting on the apex of your thighs. He panted, his lips and chin glistening with you.
"This morning," he rasped, dragging his teeth over your skin to leave streaks of burning skin, "when you watched me spar. I wanted to throw down my sword and carry you back into our chambers."
Your hand flew down to tangle in Gwayne's auburn locks, "Gwayne!"
He groaned and pressed his lips to your wet cunt; kissing, tasting, and lapping to his heart's content.
Your legs quivered from the unfamiliar pleasure that throbbed between your legs—did all husbands do this for their wives? What was this feeling curling in your loins?
Gwayne licked a slow stripe through your cunt, watching as you arched with the direction of his tongue. His lips wrapped around your swelling clit and sucked, pinning your hips down with his hands. Tongue flicking back and forth, he slid it into you and moaned as your soaked walls clenched around it.
Your face was hot. The sight of Gwayne between your legs lost in the haze of pleasuring you was equal parts flustering and maddening. Gone was the cool, collected knight; only a man who yearned for his wife remained.
"O-Oh seven hells..." Your toes curled and your body spasmed, corners of your vision sparking and dotting. "G-Gwayne!"
Gwayne panted, gently pushing in two fingers. They sheathed with ease and slid through until they notched at your deepest point. Then he started to move them; back and forth, back and forth, the tips of his fingers rubbed and moved as if trying to drag you impossibly closer. His tongue smoothed over and through your spit-soaked folds. Gwayne's blue eyes fluttered shut to the melody of your quickening moans, his own erect cock in his trousers pulsing with need.
The scorching knot grew hotter, inevitable. Your legs quivered around his head and your fingers trembled in his hair. "Gwayne!"
He kept his mouth to your cunt with a satisfied groan as you came, fingers thrusting and coaxing to carry you through the waves of your orgasm. He lapped up every drop that you released with a near whine—it tasted like the sweetest honey he had ever had.
Swirls danced in your vision and your skin glowed with sweat. Sparks tingled through your legs twitching with the lingering ebbs of pleasure. It took you a moment to realize Gwayne had moved back up your body and left a light trail of kisses over your damp skin.
"That is what I wished, and wish, to do to you."
"Can you do that more often?" The words tumbled from your mouth without thought, and your cheeks pinked in realization a moment later.
Gwayne tried not to smile, proud, "If you will permit me."
You cupped his face and swiped your thumb over remnants of your pleasure on his chin and lips. Careful fingers traced his sharp jaw, trailed down his throat and collarbone. You watched as Gwayne's eyes shut with a low exhale, leaning into your touch like a parched man yearning for water. The tips of your fingers grazed over his warm skin—pectorals, abdomen, biceps. Your eyes followed the path of your hand as it went lower and cupped the prominent bulge that had formed in his trousers.
Gwayne murmured your name. "I want you," he buried his face into the crook of your neck to inhale you—sweat and sweetness mingled with sex. "And it pains me every minute I am awake," he said hoarsely. "I have feared you would only do your duty as a wife to sate my needs and so I have remained silent."
"Your worries are unfounded," you said. "Would you not have faith in me to deny you if I wish?"
That cornered Gwayne into silence; perhaps he had been treating you too carefully despite being a woman with your own mind.
"I have been wanting you as well, but I feared that your heart and mind were restless. And for a lady to have such desires…"
"You are my lady wife. It is only reasonable that you desire me," he reassured. "Rather, I should hope you do so."
"So… We are both fools then."
"So it seems," he laughed.
His blue eyes flickered to your soft gaze. They warmly took in your expression before darting down to your lips. And, after allowing you a moment to deny him, Gwayne closed the little distance between your lips—slow, sensual. His hands traveled a long path up your legs until they rested on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles on the bones. Gwayne's lips parted yours and his tongue nudged yours—you could still taste yourself on him, your nectar coating the walls of his mouth, his tongue, and his lips.
You sighed—relief, affection, and need. Tongues dancing, your hands smoothed over his chest and coaxed out a shudder from him when they massaged circles into his toned muscles.
"My dear, lovely, radiant lady wife," he parted from your lips with a breath and a smile ghosting his lips, "may I make love to you tonight?"
"You may, my handsome, kind, knightly lord husband."
His heart twirled to the match of his banter and his hands went to the laces of his trousers.
"Gods spare me, why have these knotted?"
You laughed when Gwayne finally managed to kick them off impatiently, flinging them into the shadows of your chambers alongside his smallclothes.
"My frustration amuses you, does it?"
"It does not."
You hugged him, sighing, when Gwayne kissed and sucked on your neck in light chastisement.
"Perhaps a little."
Gwayne hummed in satisfaction at your concession, the sound soon morphing into a moan when your hand found his cock between your bodies.
Erect and leaking, he throbbed eagerly in your hand. Your thumb smoothed over the head of his cock, smearing away the singular drop of pearl white seed that had leaked from his slit. Your fingers traced the ridges and veins of him, drawing back the skin completely, and you watched his expression descend into one of pleasure. Leaning up, you stole a kiss from his lips that he chased while his hand over took yours on his cock.
Your toes curled in excitement when he traced the shape of your core with his cock's head, soft groans leaving the backs of your throats. "Gwayne," you murmured, a plea veiled under your tone.
Gwayne couldn't wait anymore, not with you begging for him the way that you were. He leaned over you and pushed into you, swallowing your cry with his lips. His own moan muffled against your lips, muscles and fingers going tense from the way you took every stiff inch of him. "Oh, by the Seven." His hand slammed above you and onto the headboard, and his fingers curled on the wood.
Your hands slid over his biceps to his shoulders and clutched them to anchor yourself. He filled you perfectly, completely; the head of his cock pressed deep and nestled into your deepest point to push against your cervix. Gwayne's name tumbled from your lips like a waterfall and your eyes fluttered shut to revel in the feel of him.
Gwayne dragged his lips over yours, stamping them to your jaw to turn your head. He left kisses on your neck while his coarse thatch of auburn hair ground against your cunt. The press of his skin against yours merged you into one, his cock making itself at home in you while your body adjusted to him.
The bed creaked to life and Gwayne's hand slid down the headboard to lace with one of yours, pressing your hand down beside your head.
Your cunt clenched around his ridges and veins with every push and drag while his sculpted body molded to yours. Every steady thrust of his hips splayed your legs further apart for him—as if you weren't already unconsciously doing so to take more of him.
Gwayne cursed. He already wanted to spend. Slick walls gripping his cock like a heavenly vice and trying to suck him back in made him feel as if he were floating on air and on fire simultaneously.
"Gwayne—Oh!"
Your blurry vision came into focus and centered on his panting, half-lidded expression after he turned you onto your side with him.
His hand hooked under your knee and pulled it over his hip, drawing your heated bodies closer. "I want to spend in you," he panted, "like this." Your arm slipped under his own, hand splaying on his back—sideways missionary.
Gwayne pressed his brow to yours, breath hitting your lips with every thrust up of his hips. His cock dipped in and out of you as he admired your expression of overwhelmed bliss. He thrusted shallow, head teasing and just barely sating your need.
You groaned his name, the last syllable of it going an octave higher when Gwayne thrusted back in.
He traced the line of your spine. Down, down, and down. Gwayne's fingers rested on your lower back before cupping down to your rear and squeezing. Then he was pulling you down on his cock, your groins kissing and legs tangled in an ouroboros of sheets and skin.
"Gwayne, I'm going to—"
He let out a strangled groan, head leaning back when your hot, wet walls clamped tight around him in an orgasm. "Seven—"
You pressed sloppy kisses to his throat and jaw. Nails dug into his sheened skin as he spent, thrusting messily and carelessly spurting his seed onto your folds and inside you.
The scent of his pleasure was heady in the crisp night air stifled with puffs of occasional heat and your heavy breaths. Once the bed finally stilled, the sheets rustled with the movement of your entangled legs curling with the gentleness of slow, long kisses.
Gwayne's nose nudged against yours and his lips soon followed to stamp a breathless kiss to your bottom lip. His lashes brushed against your cheek, lips dragging over your overheated skin. One of his hands turned your head back to him so that he could steal another kiss from your lips. The corners of his lips twitched into a small smile, eyes half-lidded in sated pleasure.
He pulled away, only to be urged back by your leg still around his hip.
Gwayne's eyes widened in suprise, brows drawing together, "My lady?"
"I intend to have you again." You couldn't help but feel pride bloom at Gwayne's stunned expression. "Sooner rather than later, I hope," you said, the inquiry laced into your words.
Gwayne's cock gave a valiant twitch back to life.
"Lie on your back."