13. SOREN
Thirteen
SOREN
I want to give Layla something. Not because it’s expected, but because I saw her shivering this morning when the wind cut through the east wing. She tries to hide it. Pretends the cold doesn’t bother her. But I see everything.
I have the furriers bring their finest pelts. I select a cloak lined with silk the exact color of her skin. I add a dagger that belonged to my mother.
When I present them at breakfast, her eyes go wide. “Soren… this is too much.”
“It’s not enough.” I drape the cloak over her shoulders. “You look like a queen.”
“I am a queen,” she says, but she’s smiling.
Then she pulls a jar from behind her back. MeliTar honey. And spices. “For your terrible northern cooking.”
I should be offended. Instead, I decide to prove her wrong.
That evening, I banish the kitchen staff and attempt to cook. Fish. Simple enough.
I burn the fish. Set off the smoke alarm. Fill the kitchen with black smoke.
Layla finds me waving a towel at the ceiling, cursing. She bursts out laughing. The sound is the best thing I’ve ever heard. She laughs until she’s crying, leaning against the doorframe.
“You… you couldn’t conquer a recipe, big guy,” she gasps.
I stalk toward her. “I’ll stick to conquering, you stick to cooking.”
“You couldn’t conquer a recipe,” she repeats, still giggling.
I catch her around the waist and lift her on the kitchen island. “Keep talking, wife.”
“You couldn’t…”
I shove her skirt up and bury my face between her thighs. Her laughter turns to a moan in half a second. I eat her pussy right there on the counter, her honey sweeter than anything from MeliTar.
Then I stand, free my cock, and push inside her.
“I conquered you,” I growl, fucking her slow and deep. “That’s all that matters.”
She wraps her legs around me. “Yeah. You did.”
I take my time. I kiss her neck, her jaw, her mouth. I tell her she’s beautiful. I tell her I’m sorry the fish is burned. I tell her I’ll order takeout for the rest of our lives if it means I get to come home to her every night.
She comes again, clenching around me, her nails scratching red lines down my back. I follow, flooding her on the kitchen island.
After, I carry her to our chambers, her legs wrapped around my waist, my cum leaking down her thighs. The servants scatter. I don’t care.