He's careful, of course. They haven't built up to the point when he'd last done this. Just gentle caresses while they kiss for now, senses attuned to her body to know when best to stop teasing.
"Do you want me to fuck you right here on your desk?" He asks in a low growl, his grin so hungry it's easy to remember he's a predator merely shaped like a man. "Because I don't think I can wait to move this to some other, more private venue."
She's definitely not ready to take him straight away, but she trusts him to know her limits and not to push her past them. He had seemed to know just what she needed the last time they lay together without asking, it stands to reason he would know tonight as well.
"What venue is more private than the Queen's own chambers?" she asks, the fine little hairs on the back of her neck rising in response to that low growl of his. A sensible person might be frightened by a witcher looking at them so hungrily, by the way he sounds when he speaks to her. Éomer is clearly not very sensible. "I want you to fuck me so well right here on this desk that I will not be able to sit at it without thinking of your cock."
Her study may not be her bedchamber, but no one will interrupt them here, not even the servants. He doesn't have to worry about being caught up her skirts.
"Maybe I'll keep coming back. Maybe we can see how many places I can fuck you. Would you have a witcher for a lover, even now that you are queen?" His fingers shift a little bit, delving between her thighs and finding the small but distinct shape of her clitoris with the tips of his rough fingers. The lighting touch is at once careful and teasing.
"I would have any lover I please," she counters, her thighs tensing as she shifts into the touch of his fingers, one hand curling around the back of his neck while the other strokes restlessly across his shoulder and down his arm.
"What better lover than a witcher who will not give me any bastards to raise?" She might as well be honest about it. There are many reasons she'd take Eskel as a lover, ones that have nothing to do with him being sterile, but right now, for her current situation, it is the one reason that seems to be the most important. She will have to bear some man's children eventually. It might as well be her husband's.
"Practical as always." He chuckles. "Probably for the best, because I intend to make the most of the time we have together and that could be very risky indeed, where I a normal man." He rocks against her thigh, patient but not interested in concealing his desire. "Of course, a normal man can't fuck you as many times as I can."
Perhaps after she has produced at least one legitimate heir, a bastard child may not be so terribly scandalous — well, for a given value of not terribly scandalous — but it truly is just as well that Eskel cannot get her pregnant.
"I have no interest in normal men," she promises with a breathless little laugh, arching up into him. She will have to marry one eventually, most likely a younger son of a neighboring kingdom, a prince with enough money in his coffers to buy food to feed her people and repair the damage wrought to their lands. In return, she will sell him a crown and her womb. Neither of them will probably want the marriage, but want has nothing to do with duty, and Éomer will always fulfill her duty.
Eskel is something entirely outside of that. Eskel is not for Éomer the queen, but for Éomer the woman. It will be enough.
Queen, commander...she could be a pauper or a whore. As long as she was still Éomer, the woman who had held his ruined flesh together, saved his life and then fearlessly crawled into his bed, he knew he would want her for as long as she wanted him in turn.
He buries his face in her neck, groaning. As soon as he thinks she's able to take it, he presses one of those thick fingers inside her.
She has not taken another lover since their last meeting, too busy with trying to keep the tattered remains of her life together, but bedding a witcher is not the sort of thing you forget all that easily.
Tipping her chin back to make room for him at the crook of her neck, she squirms a little and tries not to whimper too obviously as he presses his finger inside of her, curling her fingers in his hair and holding on. She's wet for him already, slick and ready, but it still takes a moment for her body to remember how to adjust to the intrusion.
"'S'alright." He pants. "Not gonna rush it. Even if I want to." She can probably hear his smile against he neck. "I want you so bad, but the wait's worth it."
She turns her head in towards his, brushing her lips over the tip of the scars carving their way down his cheek absently as she clings to him and shifts her hips in tiny little jerks to get some friction. "You could," she offers. She can take a little pain with her pleasure, he knows that, and now that he's here in front of her, with his big hands touching her body again, she desperately wants him inside her properly. "I don't want to wait."
He trusts her to know what she can and can't take, so he pulls back from her, still thrusting his fingers, slow and curling a bit, as he unlaces the front of his trousers. He groans as his cock is freed of the stifling confines of the leather.
He withdraws his fingers and thrusts into her with a deeply satisfied snarl, the desk lurching slightly. He groans her name.
She probably could have used a little more stroking, a few more gentle touches, but she truly was impatient for him, and when he thrusts into her, her cry is less from pain and more from the relief of having her wants fulfilled. Wrapping her legs around his hips and her arms around his shoulders, she clings to him and presses her face into his hair.
"Hush." He says, though he's laughing while he says it. Who is he to tell her to keep it down?
He wraps a hand around her thigh to keep it hooked around him as he thrusts into her, setting an urgent pace. He'll see if there's time for more later, but for now he's entirely focused on whatever they can get. Made all the more intense by how long he'd had to think of this moment on the journey south, when he would find her in his arms again.
His laugh sparks one of her own, and she yanks on his hair when he shushes her as punishment for being so presumptuous as to try and tell her what to do.
"You hush," she counters. Nobody will come investigate any noises that might be made, as she can certainly look after herself should the need to arise. They'll be fine.
He makes a hell of a noise when she yanks his hair suddenly and the cadence of his thrusts falters for half a step. He pants and growls as he writhes between her thighs. All of his senses consumed with her.
For a moment, she falters as well, unsure if maybe he didn't like it when she pulled his hair a little too hard, but then she comforts herself with the knowledge that he would probably tell her if he didn't, and besides, the way he applies himself to fucking her off the edge of the desk is a fairly clear indicator that he's enjoying himself.
Swallowing to smother another moan, she strokes her fingers through his hair where she'd grabbed before. "Just like that, darling," she murmurs, arching into him.
It's hard to focus, but he does his based to maintain the pace she seems to like.
He can't put his mouth on her as much as he wants in this dress and he knows he shouldn't leave any marks around that heavy gold torque she wears.
He's not likely to hang on much longer but he's determined to see her get off before him. Somewhere, probably near the scar on her shoulder, he raggedly moans her name.
If he'll consent to stay at least the night, he can put his mouth wherever he likes. And while he may be right about not leaving marks where they'd be so very obvious, she's finding it a little hard to care right now, clutching at him as he thrusts into her steadily, shifting and squirming as she tries to get him to rub her in just the right way.
Her name growled into her shoulder like that has her shivering again, her legs tightening around his waist.
The ledgers and papers on her desk lurch and some of them fall heavily to the floor. Eskel ignores them, completely focused on the moment. Finally, he can resist no more and he gives a terrible shudder and a snarl that he hides in her hair. Instinctively, he thrusts deeply and shivers in her embrace.
At the moment, Éomer cares not a whit for the papers or the ledgers on her desk; he could toss them into the fire and she'd hardly say a word, too busy focusing on the heat built up between them, on the sweat prickling her skin and the hot, damp caress of his breath on her neck.
He shoves his hips against hers, pressing as deep inside her as he can get, and Éomer lets herself moan in his ear as she grinds her hips in a little circle, her legs crossed behind his back and holding him tightly in place.
She can wait for him to settle before slipping her fingers between her thighs to send her toppling after him.
It doesn't take her very long to follow him, a few rough passes of her fingertips against her clit enough to send her clenching tight around him, and if there's a more pleasurable way to ride out her orgasm than by clinging to his broad shoulders, she hasn't found it in a very long time.
She holds him for as long as she can until he steps away properly, extricating himself from her embrace and grinning that charming, lopsided smile at her, and Éomer can't even find it in herself to be even slightly annoyed about having to deal with the mess between her thighs whilst wearing a gown she definitely does not want stained.
Sliding off the desk before his seed can start to dribble out of her to pool against her clothing, she settles her skirts around her legs again and tries to at least run her fingers through her hair to put herself to rights.
"The pleasure is certainly all mine, witcher," she responds with a laugh of her own, waiting until he's set himself to rights before stepping into his space again so she can cup his face in her hands and kiss him gently, all of the stress and worry of before melted away. "You will stay the night, won't you?"
His passion curbed for the moment, he returns her more gentle kiss, resting his hands on her hips.
"How could I refuse?" He says, resting his forehead against hers. He closes his eyes with a heavy, contented sigh. "Can we go now? Or do you need to finish anything here?" He gestures to the disheveled desk.
Waving a dismissive hand at the desk and its scattered paperwork behind them, Éomer lifts her chin slightly to press her forehead more firmly against his, craving the simple chaste touch more than she'd expected she might in the wake of their hurried coupling.
"Oh forget all that," she says, more than willing to shirk her duties for the rest of the night if it means spending a little more time in his arms. "It will keep."
"Alright. I'll help you tidy up in the morning." He promises. "You'll probably want to get cleaned up. Sorry about that." He steps back to take her arm, to allow her to lead him to her bedchamber. "And I won't lie to you, I'm glad to find you somewhere with real bedding. Miruvor and I have slept rough most nights. I mean, I couldn't spare the coin because I had to pay for her." It might not be readily apparent that Miruvor is the name of the barley-colored mare.
In his defense, he'd gotten sidetracked from that particular conversation.
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"Do you want me to fuck you right here on your desk?" He asks in a low growl, his grin so hungry it's easy to remember he's a predator merely shaped like a man. "Because I don't think I can wait to move this to some other, more private venue."
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"What venue is more private than the Queen's own chambers?" she asks, the fine little hairs on the back of her neck rising in response to that low growl of his. A sensible person might be frightened by a witcher looking at them so hungrily, by the way he sounds when he speaks to her. Éomer is clearly not very sensible. "I want you to fuck me so well right here on this desk that I will not be able to sit at it without thinking of your cock."
Her study may not be her bedchamber, but no one will interrupt them here, not even the servants. He doesn't have to worry about being caught up her skirts.
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"Maybe I'll keep coming back. Maybe we can see how many places I can fuck you. Would you have a witcher for a lover, even now that you are queen?" His fingers shift a little bit, delving between her thighs and finding the small but distinct shape of her clitoris with the tips of his rough fingers. The lighting touch is at once careful and teasing.
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"What better lover than a witcher who will not give me any bastards to raise?" She might as well be honest about it. There are many reasons she'd take Eskel as a lover, ones that have nothing to do with him being sterile, but right now, for her current situation, it is the one reason that seems to be the most important. She will have to bear some man's children eventually. It might as well be her husband's.
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"I have no interest in normal men," she promises with a breathless little laugh, arching up into him. She will have to marry one eventually, most likely a younger son of a neighboring kingdom, a prince with enough money in his coffers to buy food to feed her people and repair the damage wrought to their lands. In return, she will sell him a crown and her womb. Neither of them will probably want the marriage, but want has nothing to do with duty, and Éomer will always fulfill her duty.
Eskel is something entirely outside of that. Eskel is not for Éomer the queen, but for Éomer the woman. It will be enough.
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He buries his face in her neck, groaning. As soon as he thinks she's able to take it, he presses one of those thick fingers inside her.
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Tipping her chin back to make room for him at the crook of her neck, she squirms a little and tries not to whimper too obviously as he presses his finger inside of her, curling her fingers in his hair and holding on. She's wet for him already, slick and ready, but it still takes a moment for her body to remember how to adjust to the intrusion.
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He withdraws his fingers and thrusts into her with a deeply satisfied snarl, the desk lurching slightly. He groans her name.
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He wraps a hand around her thigh to keep it hooked around him as he thrusts into her, setting an urgent pace. He'll see if there's time for more later, but for now he's entirely focused on whatever they can get. Made all the more intense by how long he'd had to think of this moment on the journey south, when he would find her in his arms again.
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"You hush," she counters. Nobody will come investigate any noises that might be made, as she can certainly look after herself should the need to arise. They'll be fine.
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Swallowing to smother another moan, she strokes her fingers through his hair where she'd grabbed before. "Just like that, darling," she murmurs, arching into him.
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He can't put his mouth on her as much as he wants in this dress and he knows he shouldn't leave any marks around that heavy gold torque she wears.
He's not likely to hang on much longer but he's determined to see her get off before him. Somewhere, probably near the scar on her shoulder, he raggedly moans her name.
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Her name growled into her shoulder like that has her shivering again, her legs tightening around his waist.
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He shoves his hips against hers, pressing as deep inside her as he can get, and Éomer lets herself moan in his ear as she grinds her hips in a little circle, her legs crossed behind his back and holding him tightly in place.
She can wait for him to settle before slipping her fingers between her thighs to send her toppling after him.
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He clings to her a while longer before he feels like he has to pull away, pressing a last kiss along her jawline.
"My lady..." He laughs, grinning at her as he laces up his trousers. "It is certainly a pleasure to be with you again."
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She holds him for as long as she can until he steps away properly, extricating himself from her embrace and grinning that charming, lopsided smile at her, and Éomer can't even find it in herself to be even slightly annoyed about having to deal with the mess between her thighs whilst wearing a gown she definitely does not want stained.
Sliding off the desk before his seed can start to dribble out of her to pool against her clothing, she settles her skirts around her legs again and tries to at least run her fingers through her hair to put herself to rights.
"The pleasure is certainly all mine, witcher," she responds with a laugh of her own, waiting until he's set himself to rights before stepping into his space again so she can cup his face in her hands and kiss him gently, all of the stress and worry of before melted away. "You will stay the night, won't you?"
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"How could I refuse?" He says, resting his forehead against hers. He closes his eyes with a heavy, contented sigh. "Can we go now? Or do you need to finish anything here?" He gestures to the disheveled desk.
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"Oh forget all that," she says, more than willing to shirk her duties for the rest of the night if it means spending a little more time in his arms. "It will keep."
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In his defense, he'd gotten sidetracked from that particular conversation.
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