Selfish
Warning: mature content below
Miklagard, Rule of Empress Zoe Porphyrogenita
He was terrified. Unnerved and tense.
He only drank enough to be into the kissing. Kissing, she had shown him. Kissing, he could share control in. He kissed her against buildings, against the walls of the palace and frames of doors. He kissed her and kissed her in an effort to drown out his own awareness—a failing endeavor as she nudged him towards their destination.
By the time she got him to his room some of the lust in his eyes cleared. They darted to the bed with growing apprehension, his movements becoming stiffer, some of the warmth leaving his hands. He knew this was coming, he knew the moment he took her offer and allowed her to pull him from his seat.
He didn't know if he was ready.
She kept his mouth occupied as she loosened his belt, kept positioning his hands on her body anytime they tried to impede the tugs on his tunic. She wouldn't let him turn her away—not when she had gotten this far.
A part of her felt bad—his hands trembled against her hips and his shoulders hunched inwards when she exposed his torso to the window's moonlight. Shame, insecurities...she preyed on them. Many would argue that she took advantage of him, of his youth and innocence and inexperience, and they would be right. This may have been the worst thing she had ever done, this purely selfish perusal of him that had nothing to do with his fame or his dragon. He was refreshing. Everything he did stunned her, from his bashful, questioning glances to his bared need for human touch.
Maybe she simply convinced herself that he needed this because she needed this, because it had been so long since she felt like a woman and not like an object.
She nudged him onto bed when just his loose trousers remained. Only then did she step back; only then did she allow him to regain some sense from her distractions. He wouldn't run or turn away, not as she removed her clothes in front of him, polished fingers making quick work of her robe. The garment fell around her feet in a dramatic sweep.
She'd never forget the way his gaze felt on her body, like a hot bath on stiff muscles. No expectation colored those eyes—they didn't look at her figure as though she were born to be a source of pleasure. Curiosity alighted his features, corrosive only to that crippling apprehension. Pure, sincere admiration gleamed in the parting of his lips and the fall of his brow as if she were a piece of art.
He likely only saw her as such because, as far as he knew, seeing a woman's body was the best part—a piece of that innocent charm that attracted her to him. And, like a Northman faced with a church of timeless architecture, she was about to destroy it.
She joined him on the bed and guided his hands—rough and long, but so young. His hesitation went unchecked, completely open with his fear. He may have been frightened of hurting her or afraid of being judged; she found no false bravado in the constant wetting of his lips or faltering caresses. He wanted her guidance. He needed it. The lost looks he sent her ignited compulsions that could only be described as nurturing.
She was patient in teaching him how to explore her body, and coaxing as she convinced him to allow her the same privilege. The heat of his skin heightened when she fully exposed him, finally tossing his trousers from the bed, and she had to spend another moment reassuring him with kisses and foreign whispers. Her hands wrapped around him, gently working him out of his skin. He shuddered, and she knew no other woman had touched him like this.
She would never forget the way he bit his lip as he entered her, continually glancing up to make sure he hadn't done anything wrong. He settled himself fully into her and in all her partners never had she seen such naked rapture, like he could not believe this was actually happening. He mimicked first before ever taking initiative—she noted that with the kissing—so she gripped his backside and guided him into a rhythm.
He didn't last long; she knew he wouldn't despite her limited experience with first-timers. Several thrusts in and he started to shudder. She shushed his soft bleats and apologies. He leaned his head on her collarbone, hips still working, desperately trying to obey the grip of her hands.
Ég...
It's okay.
Ég held ekki...
It's fine.
She whispered for him to let go, tasting the skin of his brow, the salt of his restraint. He did—because in that moment no language barrier existed.
He sagged against her, still shaking, breath ghosting along her breast. She held him to her, her hands trailing his back. She kissed his hair.
It would have gone more smoothly had she been on top—had she taken just a smidgen more control—but it wasn't appropriate. That was for another time. Nothing about this night was worth changing. Not for him, not for herself.
Awareness returned to him; he pulled himself out of her and rolled to her side with a sigh. He muttered something in Norse, hardly understandable given the hand over his face and the exhaustion evident in his lax body.
She lifted away from the pillow and patted his cheek.
Not yet, Hikstaki mou.
She wouldn't let him sleep. There was still much to be done in the night. He had to know how much more there was. She wanted to teach him, because she knew he'd remember. She knew he'd listen—listen to her actions and breath and carnal noises that no language could recreate.
She worked him back up with experience hands, batting off the appeal of sleep. She would make this work—whatever this was.
Tonight she wasn't a courtesan. She wasn't a wasted, used, disgraced wife. She was a woman...and she would make him a man.
Her man.
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A/N: And like the ol' one-two, here's another chapter within a week. I know it's more detail than I usually put on ffnet for sexy-times, but I thought I kept it low key enough. Plus it's super short.
Man, this almost makes me miss those Miklagard days.
Please tell me you all know who the female speaker is. I will slap whoever does not with a cold fish.
Thanks again you guys for reading and enjoying these! Please let me know what you think! :3