Giving us ample time to get to know one another before having to become more public figures. Ours is a quiet honeymoon…mostly.
To my immense gratification, Elinor has quickly found her confidence in the bedroom. Which is where I would much rather be than in my throne room—mine now, no more blasphemous pretending. Alas. The obligations of kingship have not abated simply because of my father’s passing.
With the fae hiding place no longer a secret, all manner of disruptions have bubbled up, and all are laid at my feet—a tenfold increase in the number of fae beasts roaming about, no longer content to be mostly confined to Thorn Mountain; farmers worried that they won’t be able to compete with magically-enhanced crops; merchants complaining that fae-crafted goods are unnaturally superior to their own. Even the soldiers are complaining that they can’t win in a battle against the fae and their magic.
Meanwhile, every single person in Belterre is scheming how to get their hands on the stuff. I can’t decide whether to keep magic illegal or decriminalize possession of it. As Elinor points out, I can’t imprison most of the country. Yet Briar is protective of her beasts, and surprisingly, so is Killian. Ironic for him to fall for a human woman cursed with magic. In any event, neither of them wants their precious fae beasties hunted the way they were before the fae abandoned us.
All in all, the past three hours of hearing pleas from the peasantry for protection in various forms has left me in a state of profound frustration. I know the perfect solution. I just need to summon my wife and get rid of literally everyone else.
“Enough for today. We shall pick up again next week.”
Grumbles fill my throne room.
“In two days,” I relent. Two days isn’t so long to have to secure lodgings in hopes of laying your troubles at the feet of a king. Mollified, the petitioners depart. “The rest of you, get out. Send for my queen.”
I have taken to calling Elinormy queenin public, delayed coronation notwithstanding. It’s not for anyone’s benefit but hers. She requires time to adjust to new developments. Though she might technically be a princess by marriage now, she still thinks of herself as a servant. The more she hears that she is royalty, the sooner she’ll begin to believe it.
Or that’s what I tell myself. A possessive part of me just likes to say it as often as possible.Mine. My wife. My queen.
The door opens softly. My pulse quickens at her silhouette emerging from the shadow. The door clicks closed.
“You requested my presence?” Elinor says, arching one auburn brow. Her firelight hair is coiled upon her head like a blazing crown. I barely notice the gold tiara woven into those thick strands, winking at me when it catches the light.
The dull black mourning gown is hideous, but its severity only heightens her delicate beauty, austere but for her flaming-red hair. I have had gowns made for her in every color of the rainbow. She refuses to wear them until the mourning period for my father is finished. My only nod to the passing of my sire is the muted hue of my ensemble—light gray trousers, a charcoal waistcoat, and a black jacket. Surprisingly, I do mourn the loss, not that I want to discuss it. Right now, I need something more life-affirming.
I beckon Elinor closer. “Kneel.”
A slight smile tips the corners of her pretty lips upward as she falls to her knees, arranging her dreadful black skirt around her like a puddle of spilled ink.
“Show me your tits.”
Her brows arc in surprise, but her eyes darken. Wordlessly, she reaches behind her to tug free the laces. I vow I’ll acquire magic that rids one of cumbersome clothing at the wave of one’s hand, as soon as I can find a way to procure it. For now, I’ll take pleasure in Elinor’s slow tease.
She takes her time loosening the lacings, shrugging one shoulder out of her bodice, then the other, and dipping her hands into her bodice to tug her breasts over the edge.
“Anything else, my liege?” she teases. “Or do you want me to kneel here while you paint a portrait of my naked bosom?”
“That could be interesting.” I trace my chin, thinking. It would take me months to complete such a painting, if I possessed an ounce of artistic talent, which I don’t. An intriguing idea nonetheless.
She crawls up the two steps of the dais and settles herself at my feet, folding her hands across my knees and resting her chin on them. “Was it a difficult audience today?”
Her tone could have been cloying, yet her honeyed sympathy is a balm I desperately needed. Her position intensifies the needy impulse that prompted me to demand her presence here in the first place. My cock kicks. Her aquamarine gaze falls to the ridge in my trousers.
“Very trying.” I bring one hand to her soft hair and tug one fiery strand free. The red is a shocking contrast to the dull gray of my pants. Enraptured by the way it glides over the fabric, I tug another tendril free.
“Poor king,” she purrs, stroking my thigh. I encounter a pin and tug it free. She brings her hand higher, teasingly close to my aching erection. Impatiently, I take her hand and place it over the bulge. She smiles and squeezes lightly.
Shifting forward on her knees, she takes her time unfastening my belt and extracting my cock. I take the opportunity to pluck pins from her tresses with abandon, until hair falls in unruly waves down her back. I take her crown and toss it aside.
Elinor strokes my shaft and taps the head against her soft lips. “Tell me about what happened.”
She licks the underside. My hips tip mindlessly, seeking the wet heat of her mouth. I am denied. I’ll get what I want when she’s ready, and not a moment before.
“The farmers think the fae will play favorites. Bless those who can afford to pay for their magic and wither the crops of those who cannot.” I grunt. “They expect me to do something about it.”
“Hmm.” She peers up at me through her lashes. Need coils through me, a sharp pinch of anticipation. “What do you think you’ll do?”
“What is there to do? I can’t control the fae. The people will worship them in an attempt to win their favor?—”
