"You shouldn't let him touch you like that in front of me," he snarls, his rough right hand grasping for her ring finger beneath the blazing haze of blankets in the perfect cloak of their darkness. He spins the gold band latched around it in idle circles in paces that match the ones he draws on her bare stomach with his other hand. His eyes finally meet hers as two glances glint together in the firelight. "You know it only makes me want to kill him... Or show him whose you really are."
Her eyebrow arches like a ray of sunlight parting the curtain of darkness, an arc of molten gold painting the face that mirrors his own. "Whose I really am?" Arms reach over for him in earnest, pulling him back on top of her with a faint force. Thighs, still sticky from their coupling just some score breaths ago, amble apart lazily for brother to find his comfort in between, and halves align together as every jagged edge that might scrape or tear at any other turns flesh and makes simple sense. Supple lips, and then sharp teeth, meet with the lobe of his ear as her words escape them, rushing directly into the center of his field of hearing. "You mean mine?"
She can't see it, only feel it, when he smiles against her cheek at the word, but it's everything, the honeyed happiness of a featherlight kiss. "No. Mine."
She breathes in deeply, spices and lavender and cinnamon and sweat and their collective musks from moments before. She lets the air out slowly, repeats the motion, savoring the feeling of his skin directly against hers as their chests stir and move in perfect time together, and the hearts underneath, too. She memorizes every small dip and valley, every scar, be it from sword or from she, every little goose bump, calming now under the security of down and silk and velvet. Not a sordid layer dares to soil the moment, only to envelop the heavenly twins.
Her ringed hand moves into the mellowed caramel of his hair. Flames flicker in the shine of their union. She strokes gingerly, gently as he always loves after they are joined at the hips, bringing puzzle pieces back together after bites and jerks and slaps and blood, and they laugh together into each other's mouths as a single strand catches along the gold adorning her finger as she adores him. The halo of his hair captures the representation of love around her hand, and once it has spun three times around the hair, she catches it, fixes them both up. She bites her lip.
She loves him. She can't help it, and he needs her to show it, and it has always been this way. It will always be this way.
"Yours," she murmurs in agreement. She savors the gasp at brother's lips even as it prickles her skin. His surprise seems to crystallize and hang in the air between them for a moment; it is oddly cold for autumn this year. She almost never says it, but she knows that, just now, this is something that he needs to hear.
He has become as the green envy of his eyes as of late, too preoccupied with how things should be to see how they are. Jaime is the one in her bed, lavished between thighs blessed with silver and gold. He is the one spinning her ring between his fingers, not anyone else, not ever, not even the man that put it there. No matter how her husband touches her, yes, even in front of anyone, even in front of him, he is the only one that makes her shiver and sigh as their blood sings in time together. He is the only one that will trace the marks that signify the beginnings of life on the expanses of her skin. Were he to venture lower, only his fingers would wander back inside of her seeking the love they made, wanting a sweet morsel to remind him of the past few moments. Only he would taste the liquor of her, their, sex on his lips, and let her taste it just the same.
It would never be the same with anyone else, and she wouldn't desire that, even if it could. He had to see that. Brother would be the one to hold and kiss their three babes come next week at their eldest's eighth nameday. He would be the one to hold him up to blow out the flickering gold of the candles upon red velvet cake adorned with a great scripted J in gold, candles fashioned of wax blue as the pool waters next to them would be. He is the one who has taken her, loved her, claimed her, in the wake of the pawing of a wretched man at her figure, in the wreckage of filthy rage.
Try as he might, no man but sweet brother will ever possess her, not for a moment.
His hands fly to meet her face as lips and teeth gamble lower at the veldt of skin beneath him, seeking another drag of their spice.
"Ours."