You frown. “Just here. Well, I tried it on in the store, but I don’t think I could walk around the ship wearing this.” You chuckle, and then your eyes widen. “You don’t want me to, do you?”
I crush you to me, I kiss you so hard it probably hurts, I grab great handfuls of the silk and rub it all over your skin. Oh, God. You are naked beneath. You squeak and kiss me back. That’s a good start, but it’s only a start. I’m about to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a solar turn. A long turn. For a really large star.
You place your hands on my shoulders and pull your mouth away from mine. I moan, but you gently push at me, step out of my embrace. You are blushing brilliantly, like one of your roses, and you drop your eyes as you raise your shaking fingers to the nape of your neck. Once again, I cannot move.
“There’s a clasp,” you murmur and look back up at me with your shy smile. “Do you want me to…?”
I can’t speak, only nod.
“Okay,” you whisper, and pop open this invisible clasp. The halter top falls open, burgundy silk collapsing around your pearly skin, revealing your breasts. Exquisite, luscious. I remember the first time I saw them, when I pressed you up against that tree and showed you what your body could do.
This time I won’t be stopped. This time, when I haul you to me, I complete the act by throwing us both down on the bed. You beam up at me, bright as daylight, and say, “You do like it!” before threading your fingers into my hair. Your voice bubbles with delight. You’re not wearing any perfume, but I smell you, getting wetter and more ready by the second, headier than any incense.
I drag you to the edge of the bed and shove up your skirt. Then I drop to my knees, part your legs, and drink. Fresh water and wine, one and the same. I drink until my face is wet with it and you’re moaning. I feel you flutter, I feel you clench around my tongue, I hear you give one final cry, and then I feel it too: that deep throb and swallow inside me, that sublime spasm of pleasure, and I have to stop and pant against your thigh until I’m done.
I marvel at it: I can still come just from fucking you. I remember the first time it happened, which, not coincidentally, was that time I had you against the tree. How it shocked me. It should probably have clued me in, though. I should have known what I was getting myself into, that this was a game I could not win, and that when I tried to stop—after you first told me that you loved me—I was bound to fail. How could I resist this? Resist you?
“Oh golly,” you whimper, and I laugh breathlessly against your thigh before raising up on shaky knees. I kneel before you, worshiping you as your humble supplicant. And seeing you lying here on our bed, legs spread and bare breasts heaving, I know I would do it again in a heartbeat.
I am not finished with you yet. I slide my arms around your waist, lift you, drag you into the middle of the vast mattress. You put your arms around my neck and murmur agreeably, dazed with passion. You kiss my sticky cheek and give me a woozy, happy smile, brilliant with innocence.
And how do you pull that off, I want to know. How is it that you can submit with such glee to anything I ask of you in bed, no matter how outrageous, and still remain pure as the snow? How is it that you’re you? Why can’t I work you out? Why can’t I ever get to the bottom of you, no matter what I do?
I drive my fingers inside you as if I’m trying to do exactly that. You arch up and groan, biting your lip. You are tender down here now, raw and sensitive, but as you writhe and wriggle on my fingers, you don’t seem to mind at all.
“Mír,” you sob, giving me my name. Not Your Majesty. You never call me that, even in front of others. (Although once you called me Assistant in bed and got very embarrassed.) What you are to me, I am to you