My darlings, I could really use your support on my Wattpad page (if it's your cup of tea of course). I have a couple webserials there, with modern Wren and Thorin, which are very dear to my heart; and I'm hoping people would read and leave votes and reviews. It really helps to hear people's opinions when I write. Have a look, please, if you please. The link is (mind the spaces) wattpad dot com slash kkolmakov (the name is Katya Kolmakov).

Love you all xx

K.

P.S. Sorry for the delay in the updates. My arthritis was back for a bit, and no typing was happening.

P.P.S. UnaLouise, that was a very cute review! Thank you! Sorry I couldn't update earlier :(

P.P.P.S. Let me know if you'd like to see more smut or more fluff/feels in the next chapter. I feel like it's been a a smutfest in this story recently, so we can switch gears and have some domestic life or more of the kiddies or even some politics and court life. Let me know what tickles your pickle.

"Thorin?" she asked again, and he swallowed a knot in his throat.

He needed to snap out of it, he told himself. That was the most preposterous moment for these childish insecurities. He was literally between the legs of a willing, half bare woman!

Nothing helped. His body was rigid - and worst of all, his arousal was ebbing. Outwardly. In the most obvious manner. He leaned in and kissed her, hoping to distract himself and focus on what they were doing at the same time. Neither endeavour was a success. She moved back and cupped his face.

"What is it?" She frowned and sounded concerned. That made matters significantly worse.

"Nothing."

If only she kissed him and they went back to the pleasant pursuits of the seconds ago.

"Thorin?"

"It's nothing," he repeated.

What was he supposed to do now? Rise, button up his trousers, and leave as if nothing happened? He surely wasn't intending to have a discussion with her. Even if he wished to talk of such matters - which he didn't - he would never confess what the reason for his sudden aggravation was.

She cocked her head on one side, and studied his face. The only possible escape route he could think was an actual escape. Decisive and confident retreat was his only salvation.

"We should move to our bedchamber," he said.

By the time they arrived at the bed chamber, he would either salvage some of the mood, or she'd change her mind.

"I thought this position had served you just fine a few seconds ago," she said - and looked down.

He gritted his teeth.

"We should go to our halls, have supper and… and then return to… other matters," he grumbled.

"So you're stopping because you are - what? Hungry?" she asked. It didn't sound like a light jest, and she looked offended now.

"Aye," Thorin answered.

Any lie seemed better than the truth really. Being jealous of his old self wasn't something he was intending to admit. She watched his face for a bit and then slowly closed her knees.

"Alright," she drew out. "Be it your way."

He moved back and jerkily pulled up his breeches and his trousers. She rose as well, marched to the wall, and picked up her bloomers.

"So you know," she said in a low voice, "I don't believe you for a moment. But I know you well, so I don't expect any explanation. You never explain yourself. It is below your majesticness, I assume."

She pulled her undergarment on and straightened her skirts.

"I will join you at the table," she said and turned to her desk. "I still have some matters to finish."

Thorin felt additionally irritated at being dismissed thusly; but he'd put an end to their dalliances himself; so as discontented as he felt he had nothing to say.

"I shall see you in half an hour," he answered and walked out of her study.

In the bedchamber he quickly changed into a fresh tunic, breeches, and trousers - and left his boots on the floor of the wardrobe. He then called a maid, and asked for supper to be served in the adjoint parlour. He poured himself some juniper water and sat in one of the large armchairs in front of the fireplace. His mood was growing only fouler.

Half an hour passed; and she hadn't come. He poured himself the second drink. He sipped and watched fire dance on the white elm logs.

The door opened, and she walked in slowly. He lifted his eyes and froze with his glass half-lifted to his lips. Her hair was scattered on her shoulders, not a single braid in sight, except for the two traditional plaits on the sides of her face, that he'd never seen her without. He assumed another marital plait still hid in the copper and silver waves; but otherwise her hair was undone. She was also dressed in the most informal attire: a long white tunic, and a heavy dark green robe thrown over it. It was tied so loosely that one good tug at the belt would open it. The tunic underneath appeared rather gauzy.

He forced himself to stop staring at her ankles below the hemline, her tiny feet in soft home slippers. He looked at her face - and saw her lips pressed in a stern line.

"You seem to disapprove of my attire, my lord." Her voice was tense. "I apologise for misinterpreting. I assumed we were to repose after our supper. But alas, it seems I am once again behaving inappropriately. Not quite the Dwarven wife and Queen you had hoped for."

"I don't… disapprove," he said, and poured the drink down his throat.

"No? Why are you looking at me like that then?" she hissed, and then she took a sharp breath in and shook her head. "Pardon me. It's the same old neverending tanglement of tempers. You brood, and never say what it's about. I get irritated and behave unseemly. And then we argue. Or not. Sometimes one of us stops; and we make peace, and then–"

"You look ravishing," he rasped out; and she stopped, her mouth half-open. "Red-hot. Like a firebird."

She inhaled again, audibly, her chest rising.

"And I don't disapprove. I'm stunned," he said and slowly stood up.

"You rejected me in my study," she said in a low voice. "Anyone has the right to change their mind; but you never explain; and I start wondering and–"

"I apologise," he said; and she shook her head again.

"You have nothing to apologise for. We are just too different when it comes to emotional talk."

"We are," he whispered, and stepped to her. He picked up her hand and lifted it to his lips. "You can talk about emotions, and I can't."

"You have gotten better with years," she said. She then blinked, her lashes fluttering anxiously. "I am sorry, I didn't mean–"

"You didn't mean to say that I am once again the incomplete version of your husband?" he asked, and flipped her hand, and kissed the centre of her palm.

"Thorin." It was her turn to whisper. "You aren't a version of my husband. You are my husband. And you're the man I'm in love with. I'm just privileged to know the younger you."

He gave her a small smile, and she returned it.

"Let's eat. You seemed to have been hungry earlier," she said. This time, her words did sound like a harmless teasing. "Gave up what measly pleasures I have to offer for..." She looked at the table over his shoulder. "For kidney and mushroom pie."

She pulled her hand out of his grasp, and stepped to the table. He gently wrapped his hand around her upper arm and turned her to face him.

"I might have made a mistake."

He pulled her in, and she arched her body. Some parts of his anatomy rejoiced at the contact. She was avoiding his kiss, though; and he saw her eyes twinkle with mischief.

"Thorin Oakenshield admitting he'd made a mistake? Never did I think I'd live to witness it."

"Am I forgiven?" he murmured. His gaze lingered on her red lips; and he saw blush slowly colour her cheeks.

"You have nothing to be forgiven for," she answered stubbornly. Her voice was, nonetheless, breathy.

"We both know that it's not true. Just a few minutes ago you painted quite a picture of my flaws," he said and raised an eyebrow. "I brood. I speak not of my feelings. What else was there?"

"I can't think of a single thing," she muttered. "Must be the hunger torturing me. It makes my mind sluggish. The pie smells mouth-watering."

"You are mouth-watering," he said - and picked her up under her arms and plopped her backside on the table.

Perhaps, he'd had quite enough of the idle talk. Perhaps, he'd learnt by now to guess the desire in her eyes. Perhaps, the low cut and lacy collar of the damn tunic clouded his mind.

"Thorin..."

He quite enjoyed her moaning his name like that.

He pushed her knees apart and grabbed the back of her neck. Her head dropped back, and she moaned again.

"Ulsuzul… Abadbunt… Zardana..." he muttered, his head spinning, and he pressed a trail of kisses to her neck. He then ran his tongue along the sweet skin. He wanted all of her taste.

"Did you just call me a lynx and a witch?" she mewled, her voice trembling.

"You're driving me mad," he growled.

And then he jerked her belt open and dove in and pressed his half-opened mouth to her sternum, through the soft lace. He could smell the lilac oils, and her legs squeezed his hips, and her warmth and her tightness called to him.

"Mahal, yes," she moaned.

She pressed her hands into his shoulders and pushed away from him. She fell back onto the table, and then he saw her her grab the tunic and jerk it up. Her centre opened to his eyes; and he aligned them; and she welcomed him with a groan.