A/N: Everything is working against this story. I had to let it sit for months, then when I finally got motivated to fix it (shoutout to the tumblr user going through my Erendor x Samara tag and liking everything), I got sick (probably worst fever I've had in my life).
I'm pushing through all that because I need to free this story, and myself from it.
Fire-like, pain races through her nerves. Samara only half succeeds to strangle her whimper in her throat, completely fails to stop herself from clenching around his cock.
Erendor's teeth drive deeper into her shoulder, into the tender skin connecting it to her neck as if searing their shape there isn't enough. As if he wants to tear a chunk of her flesh out and scarf it down to brand her his. As if he's allowed to devour her because he owns her.
She hates that.
It makes no difference.
She can only dig her nails in his desk, bite the inside of her own cheek.
She's not allowed to leave a mark on him.
He's her king and he is as much hers as the throne is without him sitting it. She has no claim on him – in blood or in name.
She's taken it as a compliment. That he asks her into his bed regardless, because he wants her.
This is not it.
He's pounding into her in a way she honestly did not consider him capable of. It's rough and vengeful, like he wants to shove her over the edge, hurl her into orgasm.
It's ugly and angry, and she cannot stand the sweaty contact of their bodies where he tore her clothes off and she pulled his aside. Their skin sticks together and it might just peel off when he pulls away.
He will once he's had his satisfaction.
He always does.
He knows the same thing she does.
"You're going to come for me," he grunts in her ear in-between pants loaded with exertion.
Something tightens in her lower belly, in the pit of her stomach.
He's right.
She's quickly building to a climax and her eyes well up with tears.
It's sickening.
She doesn't want it.
Not like this. Not when her pleasure isn't the end goal, nor is his for that matter. It's all for his ego and if her energy weren't all going into just breathing through the inevitable quivering, the violent seizing of her pussy around him, she would have splintered his desk with her bare hands.
Her orgasm is a given, has been for years, and she can't do anything to stop him from wringing it out of her. Her body cooperates with him rather than with her, especially now that they've been fighting for weeks. Her flesh is begging for his touch, has been since they'd left each other high-strung and dissatisfied. The sounds of his fingers pumping into her drenched pussy would have shaken her to her core if he hadn't bent her over the desk and sheathed his cock inside her in one swift, smooth thrust, all the air in her lungs replaced with their shared craving.
She hadn't been sure which would be the bigger defeat – to try to pleasure herself and face the inevitability that it will feel nothing like she wants it to or not to try at all and silently admit that any relief for her lay in his arms. Her only consolation had been his gaze lingering on her lips every time she'd opened her mouth and his too-frequent stolen touches for the sake of appearances.
She'd had to force herself to keep an amble pace on the way to his chambers, her heart fluttering with excitement and dread. He'd grabbed her from the door and slammed her against his desk, her palms slapping brutally against it and the wood digging into her thighs. She could have hissed, twisted like a snake out of his grip. A simple no would have restored the space between them.
Her teeth would have sooner severed her tongue than let a single treacherous sound slip out of her.
She needs this.
Distance never worked for them. The separate bedrooms did nothing to keep temptation at bay when they sat on their thrones next to each other all day and it was perfectly natural–expected even–for a king to come and go from his queen's chambers as he pleased. They only had anger to shield themselves behind and now here they are – fucking like they want the other dead, for the crime of making them dependent.
If she knew when and how they'd bound themselves together, she could pick the pattern and undo it, protect them both from this burning agony, this need to be so close even when they're mutually destructive.
He is hurting her.
If he lets her go, she will stop breathing. And it won't matter one bit compared to the emptiness she'll feel if he doesn't fuck her over that precipice of resistance lodged into her brain.
The way he stretches her to bursting with every quick thrust only to leave her hollow and then fill her again pulls her taut like a bowstring. A pulsing, vibration, has already started behind her sternum where she's stuffed her voice. At a point the dam will break and everything will spill from her – the tears, the screams and her orgasm.
She needs this. Not given out of the goodness of his heart or the urgency of his lust, but because she took it from him.
She pushes back into him. Challenging his rhythm takes him by surprise, throws off his balance to leave him grasping, clinging to her. The force in her own hips dictates his movements, sets the pace in the space that opened between her and his desk – enough for her to slip a hand to her clit and stroke herself to ecstasy.
He sputters behind her, chokes on the air rushing out of him in a hot, heady torrent assaulting her neck. It does nothing to deter her touch – the squeeze to his balls, her nails scraping the sensitive, vulnerable skin. With every uncontrolled jolt of his hips, his cock hits spots inside her that make her eyes roll in the back of her head.
His fingers close around her throat and she's coming. There's no doubt about it, no choice afforded to her, no defense against it.
The orgasm rips through her like a tidal wave.
She collapses back against his body, grabs at his arm, his thigh. She can't breathe, doesn't remember human speech but her voice erupts like lava from a volcano, burns through her ribcage, her throat, his palm covering it.
He holds her through it, the tremors of her climax shaking him, too. His hips have stilled, keeping him wrapped up in her. Her name falls from his mouth – half awe, half reverence, as he comes inside her. As if he's just been claimed by a force of nature even when it's her pulse kicking under his fingers.
Blood wets her fingertips where she's driven her nails into his flesh.
She has him now.
Small Doses by Bebe Rexha has been on my Erendor x Samara playlist for a while now and it's so perfect for this fic.