Author Note: Welcome to the tenth chapter of In the Land Between Rivers, I Have Loved You. Thank you for reading.
Also, this chapter is very NSFW. If sex during periods makes you uncomfortable, then this is not the chapter for you. Please do not read it. Thank you.
Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.
Chapter Ten: He Who Is Kept
In the morning, he wakes to an empty bed, and fights a mild sense of disappointment. He likes it best when she's still asleep beside him, and he can have his fill of looking at her without worrying about having to hide the adoration in his eyes.
But she's a queen, of course, and she doesn't have the time to indulge the childish whims of a love-struck boy, and he knows he shouldn't want her to.
So he shrugs on his clothes—deep blue robes that match his eyes, another gift from Éponine—wincing a bit as he does so, and blushing as he becomes torridly aware of all the bruises and aches she's left with him, and makes his way through his rooms, ready to meet the day and fulfill his duties.
He stops in surprise when he reaches his sitting room.
There's a plate of breakfast waiting for him, full of his favorite combination of sweet fruits and fresh milk and flaky bread. There are small, lovely jasmine blossoms resting beside it, their fragrance the same as the woman who left them there for him to find.
He lifts one to his nose and inhales, feeling a sweet ache rise up in him at the thoughtful gesture.
He tucks it discreetly behind his ear, sure that his riot of curls will hide it, and tries not to feel like the love-struck boy he is when he sits down and eats the food she chose for him.
He doesn't entirely succeed, and his thoughts are still soft, slow, and dreamy when he gets to the chambers where the Lesser Councils hold their meetings, and his attention wanders more than it should.
His friends take notice and grin at him indulgently.
"So who is it that's finally managed to seduce you, Nergal?" Ninkurra asks, her smile wide and knowing as she looks at him.
"What?" he asks, sitting up straight. Gilgamesh gives him a warning glance, and he feels a hollow sort of dread settle in his stomach. Those closest to Éponine know that he's her lover, of course, but neither they nor her loyal servants have appeared to breathe a word to anyone else, and she seems in no hurry to announce their…well, their relationship, for lack of a better word, to anyone else.
She just admitted that she cared for him last night; he doesn't want to jeopardize such a confession by boasting of it, as if her regard is a prize to be won, as if her feelings were anything other than a gift.
He is wondering how he let their relationship slip when Ninkurra discreetly taps the base of her throat, and Enjolras flushes as he realizes that the robes he chose this morning do nothing to hide the bites Éponine has left on him.
His hand comes up to hide one, and Siyamek teasingly says, "You're going to need about three more hands if you want to cover all of them. Whoever your new lover is, they're very thorough."
"Don't tell us if you don't want to," Damkinna, a goddess of old age, says kindly. "We're simply happy you're adjusting so well."
"I bet our Lady won't be half so happy," Geshta says. He's a minor demon, one of those who held onto his grudge against Enjolras for disrespecting his queen longer than most. "It's well enough that he doesn't reveal his lover; you know she wanted to be the one to bed him." He glances at Enjolras, his expression frosty and distant. "Though only chaos knows what she sees in him," he mutters.
Enjolras narrows his eyes, but Gilgamesh intervenes before he gets a chance to reply.
"You're jealousy's showing again, Geshta," Gilgamesh says, and Geshta bares his teeth in a snarl.
"Enough," Enjolras says, slamming his hand down upon the table. "Who I am or am not laying with is not a matter up for discussion—we have accommodations for the newly dead, concerns about flooding in the western banks, and all the preparations for the end-of-the-year festivals to worry about."
The others sheepishly nod and murmur in agreement, and soon they're back to work, making steady progress before being interrupted again a half hour later.
"I see you're all doing well," a husky, infinitely beloved voice proclaims, and Enjolras resist the urge to whip his head around and grin at her like an idiot. "How do the preparations go? Any issues you need the Greater Council to resolve?" Éponine asks as she enters the room.
The others immediately stand and bow as she sweeps past them and takes her seat opposite Enjolras. As always, he gives a nod of respect, dutifully keeping his face impassive.
Éponine apparently feels no urge to do the same, and she gives him an impish grin as she settles back on her seat before glancing around at the others. "So?"
"Things are moving along splendidly, my Lady," Ninkurra says. "No problems you need to—" She cuts off, eyes widening as Éponine tosses her hair over her shoulder, revealing a set of bruises on her skin that matches Enjolras's own.
Everyone else goes still, and he can see speculative glances dart from him to her as the entire Lesser Councils strive for nonchalance.
They fail miserably, he thinks, disgruntled.
"We're fine," he says, drawing the attention to him. "Though it would be helpful if we could get a final word on the budget for the festivals this year."
She waves a hand. "No need to worry about expenses; we're richer than any other realm five times over."
He frowns at her, she grins at him, and the others relax as they fall into their usual banter, though he can still feel the weight of their curiosity hanging in the room.
He thinks nothing will come of it, the crisis mostly averted—at least until the meeting is adjourned and the others stand to rise, Éponine rising with them.
Instead of waiting by her seat for him to come to her, however, she walks to him and calmly, deliberately traces the line of his shoulders, her lips quirking and her eyes sparkling as startled gasps and whispers fill the room.
It is the first time she's ever touched him while they're in public, he realizes, and shivers beneath the light brush of her fingers, knowing that under the Underworld's laws of hospitality, this innocent touch means so much more than it would in the realms above.
It means he's given her permission to touch him; it means he's placed himself under her care—and it means she's accepted it, welcomed it, and wants to make her claim clear.
She's announced that they're lovers as obviously as if she'd stripped him and taken him there on the table for everyone to see.
"Shall we go to dinner, little one?" she says, pointedly ignoring everyone's dawning smiles and pleased murmurs, eyes only on him. "I've missed you today."
He reaches up a hand and places it over hers and wordlessly nods.
She loops an arm through his when he stands, and they exit the room that way, Enjolras catching Gilgamesh's broad grin and roguish wink as they pass.
"They'll find something else to gossip about in a few weeks," Éponine says, laying her head against his shoulder. "But do forgive me—I couldn't help showing off a little. And, well, I've never been one to hide my favor." She traces her fingers over his still-bruised wrists, and one hand comes to rest against the small of his back, palm spread flush against the scratches beneath his clothes. "I hope you don't mind too much."
Being mine, and others knowing, she doesn't say, but he hears it anyway.
"Not at all," he replies as he shudders. "Not at all."
(He feels her fingers curl in the same way her mouth does as she smiles at him, exultant, possessive, wickedly glorious.)
…
It turns out to be a lie, or at the very least a mistaken assumption on his part.
Idealistically, Enjolras had not expected the way others treated him to change—though everything has changed between him and Éponine, it seems to him a private thing, and he himself is not much different a person than he was all those months ago when he first arrived, though admittedly a tad more yielding and a bit more humble and certainly more carnally experienced.
Therefore, when he first visits one of the towns—a large, prosperous one in the eastern region, one he's been to half a dozen times—he doesn't expect all the inhabitants to fall to their knees before him.
"My lord," they murmur respectfully, touching their foreheads to the ground.
"Get up," he commands, voice harsher than he intends, and they automatically flinch. He bites down on his lip and gets his anger under control before speaking again. "There is no need to kneel to me," he says eventually.
They get to their feet and take his words in, but every city and village he goes to reacts in the exact same way, each and every time he visits, no matter how he begs of them to stop.
The other gods do the same, albeit some grudgingly. Even the members of the Lesser Councils bow to him now, including Gilgamesh of all people, and though he has become used to their respect and deference, this level of quiet reverence disturbs him.
He finds every denizen of the Underworld treating him with slightly more distance and infinitely more worship now—demons court his favor, spirits seek his approval, and people he knows dislike him suddenly reverse their behavior and ply him with compliments and offer him favors.
He nearly chokes in shock when even the elder gods—those who sit on the Great Council, those who have lived centuries longer than he has, those who bend knee to none save Éponine—when even they bow low when he passes.
He knows, objectively, that he probably rivals or even surpasses some of them in power, but few of them have barely done more than acknowledge him with a nod, the same he offers them.
So to have Gugulanna, the feared Terror of the Deeps, bowing down before him is more than baffling.
It's frightening.
…
"I don't understand," Enjolras says, tapping his fingers restlessly against the table as he and Combeferre play the Royal Game. "Why are they doing this?"
Combeferre raises a brow at him as he calmly moves a piece. "Do you not?"
"Obviously I don't, or I wouldn't be asking you," Enjolras spits out, before running a hand over his face and letting out a harsh breath. "I'm sorry. That was out of line."
Combeferre merely steeples his fingers and observes him. "This…truly bothers you," he says, a faint note of surprise in his voice.
"Why wouldn't it?" Enjolras asks, furrowing his brows.
"Well…" Combeferre searches for the right words. "…you came here because you refused to bow to our queen. One would suppose that kind of man is the type to revel in others bowing to him instead, or at the very least accept it as his due."
"I don't believe in bowing or scraping or any of this nonsense at all!" Enjolras says, fist slamming down on the table in his passion. "I believe we should be judged on our merits and our skills, in how well we perform our duties and how we contribute to the good of all—wasting time on petty power struggles and keeping up a rigid and often useless hierarchy is something I refuse to accept."
He sighs and tugs angrily on his hair. "I thought things were different here," he admits. "I was wrong about Éponine, I see that now—or, well, wrong about some things, she could still use some improvement in the way she—"
"I've heard those arguments before, yes," Combeferre says dryly.
Enjolras grins sheepishly before continuing. "Anyway—things are so different here. The people have a voice; their ruler actively learns about their needs and does her best to fill them; human spirits sit side by side with deities and demons on the governing councils—I thought I left all this old nonsense behind!"
"Ah," Combeferre says, leaning back. "So you think it's nonsense, do you?"
Enjolras frowns. "Don't you?"
His friend looks at him impassively. "We live by the old ways," Combeferre says. "We live by death and darkness and cold, cruel necessity. There is power in the way we do things, power that rests in following the ancient laws that govern the Underworld.
"Éponine is ruled by Erkalla as much as she rules it.
"Though you look at us and see new methods of doing things, see freedom where in the world above you saw shackles, the truth is that if Éponine tried to rule the Erkalla in the same way her father rules the heavens—with rigid hierarchies, with strict adherence to every letter of the law—the system would collapse.
"The gods of death are the gods of life at its most powerful; they are the gods of chaos. The freedom you perceive is anarchy, barely leashed; lawlessness, yoked by law. And the one who enforces order, who uses the spirit of the law to chain the denizens of death, is Éponine.
"She knows the balance—she knows how much freedom to give and how much to take, when to bend and when to break, where to yield and where to stand firm.
"And you see, all this 'nonsense,' as you put it, all this bowing and scraping, all of it is a constant reminder to everyone of who holds the leash, who places the yoke upon us, who chains us and holds us together. Who keeps us whole. It's a sign of our respect for her power, an acknowledgement of the pact we made—if we do not rebel, she will not crush us.
"Do you think Dumuzi is the only god she's punished? Only seven beings in the entire history of the world have killed a god, and she is one of them. Only three of those have slain more than one, and she is one of them. Only one has the power to do so and ensure they stay that way, and she is that one."
Enjolras swallows hard.
"Do you see why it was such an insult when you refused to bow to her?" Combeferre asks. "Do you understand now, seeing all she is responsible for, all she holds sway over, why it is she could not let stand such an obvious challenge to her power?"
Enjolras nods.
"Good. Then please, my friend, accept the respect our citizens show you as her lover—they are not showing it only to you, but to her. They are accepting her choice of near-equal and recognizing whom she has graced with her favor. And if it seems a little lonelier, a little colder to have this distance between you and your friends, remember that our Lady has lived with it nearly all her life, and that distance from others is the price you pay for closeness to her."
"I understand," Enjolras says.
And now, he truly does.
…
"Gavroche tells me you do not like it when the others bow to you," Éponine says that night in bed as she holds him to her.
He is facing away from her, like always, so he cannot gauge her mood from anything other than the tone of her voice, which is suspiciously neutral. "It's a mild inconvenience, yes," he says carefully.
"I see."
They rest for a few moments in silence.
"Would you like us to hide this, then?" she says eventually, smoothing a hand over his hip. "We can keep this a secret—they will stop bowing to you if they think you are no longer my lover."
Though there is nothing in her words to suggest it, he thinks he senses a plaintiveness, a vulnerability about her.
He purposefully sighs, making his words as cantankerous as possible. "No. I just have to get used to it, since I plan on staying your lover for a very long time, and it's frankly damned impossible to keep secrets here for long, with your gossipy subjects."
He holds his breath, still a little afraid of her rejection, but her arms only tighten around his waist as she presses kisses to his neck and shoulders, her delighted laughter ringing in his ears.
…
Enjolras is not the only one who learns to adjust; Éponine finds a few surprises waiting for her, as well.
The first is how discomfited he gets over the gifts she leaves him.
To be fair, it is a little more than she's given her lovers in the past—perhaps she has never had as many fine robes made, or gold armbands and silver bracelets commissioned, or ordered quite the best carving tools and weapons for any but him.
And she's certainly never picked so many flowers or cooked so many meals by hand for anyone since Azelma (not that she tells him he shares this honor; let him give his praises to her gardeners and cooks—she has her pride after all, though her heart does warm terribly at his compliments).
Every time she leaves his chambers, they are a little more lavish, just a tad more opulent, until he finally looks around, disgruntled, and asks her to stop.
"All of this is unnecessary, you know," he says, gesturing to the beautiful tapestry that now covers one of his walls. "For order's sake, my rooms are starting to rival yours in luxury."
She refrains from pointing out that this is the point. She is used to luxury and fine things and many comforts, and since she spends so much time in his rooms, she will bring those things with her.
Instead, she says, "Why is it unnecessary?"
He shoots her an exasperated look. "I'm already sharing your bed; courting me with your wealth is pointless when you've successfully seduced me."
"Mmm," she says, walking towards him and wrapping her arms around his waist, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. "But this isn't courting you, little one, this is keeping you in the style that befits you."
He stiffens against her. "Are you telling me," he says icily, "that you consider me your kept paramour?"
No, she thinks, I consider you my own, my sweet little one, mine always and forever.
"If you prefer to see it that way, then yes," she says aloud.
He sucks in an affronted breath—which he lets out in a shaky gasp as she moves one of her hands to rub over his cock. "I—you—stop that." Yet his hips arch into her fingers, greedy for more.
"But little one," she says, laughter in her voice, "you've already accepted the tapestry I gave you today. Won't you let me have you, since our relationship is obviously dependent on exchanges of commodities, and not, say, mutual lust and respect?" She moves her hand away and bites back a smile when he reaches for it and places it back on his erection.
"Fine," he says petulantly. "You've made your point."
She squeezes him and relishes his groan of pleasure. "Good," she says, nipping his ear. "Now let's try out the new couch I had made for you."
…
The second surprise is how he courts her in turn.
For every simple bouquet of flowers she leaves him, there is a line of poetry or a verse from hymns written on scraps of paper and hidden in her clothing. And if she hasn't found it by the end of the day, it will drop to their feet as he undresses her, and he recites it against her skin, tongue tracing the words on her body.
For every piece of furniture or clothing she gives him, there is a hand-carved bangle in her jewelry box, his father's tutelage showing in the fine, graceful lines of each of the works, and she starts wearing wood as often as precious metal, savoring the pleased smile that graces his face when he sees his adornments on her.
For every tool or weapon she has made for him, she goes about to find that the argument she was summoned to quell is nearly resolved, or every demon she goes to discipline has already seen the errors of his ways and is eager to apologize, or even that a day of discussion with her Great Council is suddenly much smoother than anticipated, old grudges and slights mysteriously ignored or forgotten.
She has so much more time on her hands, to just enjoy herself, as she hasn't had in years, not since Azelma betrayed her and half her friends abandoned her, back when she had words that weren't sharp and looks that weren't cold and a heart that could feel mercy.
Enjolras doesn't even seem to expect her to spend her newfound time with him, being rather more concerned with keeping the Lesser Councils in line and getting the festivals under way without any troubles.
Still, he comes with her readily enough for walks through the Summer Forests, for picnics in the Spring Meadows, for hushed love-making in the soft grass of the Ever-Dawning Fields, though he flat-out refuses to do so if Aurore and her herd are in the vicinity.
"I'm not coupling with you while the cows are watching—they'll tell Gavroche, I know it," he mutters, resolutely keeping his robes closed.
"Not even to make me happy?" she cajoles.
"Not even to make you happy," he replies.
That's fine with her, because if he makes her any happier, she's certain she'll burst.
(And this is the third and last surprise: that he can make her so happy, simply by being himself.)
…
She hates it when her monthly flow starts, more for the inconvenience than anything else, being lucky enough not to be cursed with the cramps that nearly cripple Azelma. She hates it even more when she has a lover, but she sighs and bears it, and informs Enjolras to keep to his rooms tonight.
He gives her a quizzical look. "Are you coming later?"
She shakes her head ruefully. "No."
He tilts his head. "Have I done something to displease you?"
Éponine pulls him down for a sweet, chaste kiss. "No, little one. It is simply…that time of month."
"Ah," he says, understanding dawning in his eyes. "So you would prefer to be alone?"
She blinks, mildly surprised. Most of her lovers have simply politely withdrawn, no wish to be around her when there's nothing in it for them. "Well, it's more that I won't be able to do anything with you, so I don't want you to have to stay with me," she explains.
He raises a brow at her. "Can't I still sleep with you?" he asks, placing a hand on her hip and drawing her close, nuzzling the side of her neck. "We don't have to make love."
She hugs him tight, inordinately pleased. "If you want to."
"I want to," he replies.
…
They are in their usual position, her front pressed to his back, her leg thrown over her hips, when she remembers another reason why she hates her monthly flow so much:
The incessant, insistent urge to fuck.
She buries her face against her sleeping lover's neck and stifles a groan. The ache between her thighs is nearly unbearable, and she rubs against Enjolras in an attempt to relieve it. He's been her lover for a few weeks—she's not sure she wants to wake him and ask him to take care of her, not when so many of her other lovers have been repulsed by it. So instead she reluctantly pulls away and steals a hand down, rubbing her clit through her nightgown and the bloody cloths, moaning at how sensitive she feels.
"Would you like me to help with that?"
She freezes, and Enjolras turns over and faces her, curious and very much wide awake.
"I thought you were asleep," she says lamely.
He grins. "I was. You woke me up."
Despite herself, she blushes. She hadn't meant to be quite so…loud.
He grins wider and rolls on top of her, kissing her languidly as he settles his hips against hers. She can feel his erection through the thin layers of cloth that separate them, and arches up when he starts rubbing against her swollen clit. He grabs hold of her leg and lifts her up to meet him, and she whimpers. The friction feels so good, so right, and soon she's moaning his name, voice low and needy and ragged, but she's too far gone to care, spreading her legs wider and shamelessly rubbing back.
She moans louder when he drops his mouth to her breasts and sucks on her nipples, which are always sensitive and tender during this time of month. He seems to know it, too, because he's oh-so-very-gentle about it, even as he thrusts harder against her.
Every part of her aches and tingles, and it isn't long before she comes, gasping and shuddering and writhing underneath him, bare legs locked tight around his still-clothed hips, the fabric making yet another delicious sensation against her skin. He follows after, groaning, and the two of them are a sticky, sweaty mess, grinning sloppily at each other.
"So…bathing chamber sex in the morning?" he asks.
She kisses him in reply, her mouth curving in a contented smile.
…
It is a few days after that, right before the week-long festival at last begins, that she pulls him away from his work and sequesters him in her rooms.
"But the preparations—"
"—are all but done," she says, rolling her eyes. "You are the only one still fussing."
"Then the new villages—"
"—are mostly planned, and we'll build them after the celebrations." She gives him a sideways glance. "This is my realm, and yet I swear you're more worried about the way it's run than I am."
He shrugs. "I want to do right by the people," he says simply.
She kisses him. "You do," she promises, before smiling mischievously. "But right now I want you to do right by me. I haven't had you to myself for a whole day since the my week of rest ended, and chaos knows I'll probably barely see you during the festivities, with the way you run around, convinced you have to oversee everything yourself—"
"I resent that implication," he grumbles.
"—so give me today," she finishes, ignoring his comment. She raises his hands to her lips. "Just one more day?" she pleads.
He finally gives in, leaning his forehead against hers. "Just one more day?" he asks, teasing her.
"Of course not," she tells him, only half-teasing in return. "You know how greedy I get."
I want forever with you, she thinks.
(And she does, oh, she does, but she'll settle for today, and tomorrow, and however long he gives her.)
"I do know," he says solemnly, though his eyes gleam with laughter. "So what do you want from me, now that you have me all to yourself, my lady?"
"Well," she says, toying with his curls, "I was thinking that we haven't played the Royal Game in a while…"
…
She narrows her eyes at him over the board. "You are losing on purpose, aren't you?"
He raises a brow at her, expression the perfect mix of affronted and incredulous. "I hate losing," he says, completely honest. He truly does hate it, which is why she doesn't understand why he would play so badly—
She shakes her head. Enough. She doesn't like losing either, so she'll keep her head in the game and ignore his odd behavior. Perhaps it's just a strategy to throw her off so he can swoop in for the kill.
It isn't.
At the end, he loses by a full fifteen stones, the worst he's ever done against her, and she smirks at him. "Fifteen orgasms in twenty-four hours. Think you can pull that off, little one?"
He gracefully gets to his knees before her, eagerly spreading her legs. "Mmhm," he murmurs before burying his face between her thighs.
She grips the arms of her chair hard and bites down on her lip, trying not to cry out as he manipulates her clit with his tongue. "You sound confident about that," she says, doing her best to keep her voice steady. "For someone who's still new at—sweet chaos!"
She shudders against his mouth, fingers threading through his curls and pulling him close as he tugs on her lightly with his damned teeth, all sharp nips and soothing tongue, and, oh, she knew he lost on purpose.
She comes with a strangled cry, left boneless and dazed in her chair as he sits back on his heels and grins at her, eyes bright with a predatory hunger.
"One down," he says. "Fourteen to go. Are you sure you can take it, my lady?"
She reaches out a hand and cups his face. "Little one, I never lose," she says seriously. "Do your worst."
His worst turns out to be achingly, mind-blowingly good, and she comes three more times in rapid succession, cursing herself for teaching him quite this well, even as she rides his fingers, his face, his cock, because even though she never loses, she thinks she's on the verge of it now.
They're in bed together, her back pressed to his front, his hand teasing her slick folds open for him, and she's so sensitive she whimpers, screwing her eyes tight and trying to close her legs. It's too much, too good, and the sensation of his fingers stroking her gives her so much pleasure that it falls under the knife-edge of pain instead.
She fists her hands in the sheets and bites down on her lip to stop herself from begging him to stop—she won't lose, she won't give in, she can take this, damn it, she can.
But sweet chaos, it's just too much, and when he circles her clit, still swollen and throbbing from her earlier orgasms, she cries out, the sound of it more agonized than blissful.
He immediately pulls his hand away from her, rubbing soothing circles onto her belly instead, and she almost weeps in relief—but she's stubborn, so she reaches behind her to tug on his hair.
"Why'd you stop?" she asks, her voice coming out in a rasp.
He kisses her shoulder. "It looked like it was too much for you."
"It wasn't," she lies. "I'm fine."
"Mmhm," he says doubtfully.
"This doesn't count as a loss if you're the one who stops," she insists.
"I know," he says confidently, moving to cup her breast. "And I'm not conceding this game, either, just…tactically retreating, for now." He nuzzles her neck. "I want to make you feel good," he whispers, caressing her from the base of her throat to her bellybutton, and she shivers, skin prickling in tantalizing ways. "And I have all day to do it, so let's take our time."
And they do, going soft and slow and sweet, until she's ready again, until she's whimpering for him to touch her, spreading her legs wide and trying to pull his hand down to her.
She keens when he refuses to let her touch herself, when he instead caresses her knees, her thighs, the soft curve of her hips, anywhere but where she needs him most.
"Say it," he tells her, breath hot against the shell of her ear. "Say what you want. Politely."
"Please," she begs, as she's never begged for anything in her entire life. "Please, oh, please, please touch me, please."
And he does, gently and tenderly, and she needs more friction, more heat, but all he's giving her is light caresses—she wants him to hurt her, damn him, but he won't, he doesn't, he hurts her with pleasure like always.
"Do you want more?" he asks, so very courteously, the tone of his voice at odds with the way his fingers are toying with her.
"Yes," she mewls as he circles her clit, her voice needy and desperate.
"Then ask for it," he tells her.
"Please, oh, please," she asks, squirming against him, but he pulls back. "Please, what more do you want from me?"
"You know what I want," he says.
She does.
"Damn you." She bites down on her lip. "Damn you, damn you, damn you—oh, sweet chaos, please, damn you, you win, please, please—just touch me already."
"Good," he says, his mouth curving into a self-satisfied smirk right before he removes his fingers and thrusts into her, his kiss swallowing her scream.
And they spend the rest of the day like that, switching from sweet and slow and soft back to rough and fast and hard, and back again until she loses count of how many times he's made her come, game forgotten entirely in favor of losing herself in him, in them together, in the long, lovely hours where they pretend that the rest of the world doesn't exist.
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