❝I am not a dragon, Aemond Targaryen. You may have claimed me as yours, but to think I'd bend that easily? That is beyond foolish.❞
⟼ Ayla Bolton & Aemond Targaryen: bound by marriage, strengthened by love, ignited by madness.
𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗺𝗼𝗼𝗻𝘆 |...
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I have never craved so much to be queen as I do now, consumed by the flames in my chest that burn even hotter than the ones in the fireplace next to us. Not just an ordinary queen.
His queen.
My hands travel to the collar of his vest, pulling him back down on me, where he had started such a delightful torture, only to feel his lips on mine for the first time after this morning. I do not know where this urgency comes from, but any minutes we spend apart is making my heart ache. The sweet taste of wine still lingers on his lips, so intoxicating my head begins to spin as we invade each other's mouths with the same greed of a starving man.
Aemond's kisses are never the same, and never fail to shake me up every single time our lips collide together. His hand wanders past my waist, sneaking under the layers of my gown just to brush lightly against the skin of my inner thigh.
"Mine." He pants against my lips, scraping his fingers up enough to make me reach all the Seven Heavens at once. Heat begins to pool in my lower back as his digits trace circles against the cloth of my undergarment, which has never felt more unnecessary. I am not completely a stranger to arousal, I know what is happening to me, but it is the first time it depends on someone else, and it is the sweetest agony ever. Aemond growls in my mouth when I buck my hips against his hand, chasing the relief yearning into me.
"I need to get out of this dress." I cry desperately, with his lips now nuzzling against my throat. I am probably looking like a mess, with my hair sprawled everywhere, drops of sweat glistening on my forehead, and my wedding gown all crinkled and bloodstained, pulled up to my thighs. A sight I wish to reserve for him and him only.
Aemond lifts me up, and I quickly enlace my legs around his waist. I wonder if he knows how he makes me feel, feral and lustful with a mere touch of his hands. I can barely stand up when my feet reach the floor, legs trembling with anticipation, sighing with relief as soon as I feel the strings pulling my dress together loosen up. The heavy fabric pools at my feet soon after, and his firm grip is fast enough to reach my stomach, sticking our bodies together. Fueled by nothing more than instinct, I make sure to grind my hips against his crotch just a fair bit to scrap another growl away from his lips.
I like that sound. It is suddenly all I want to hear.
I turn into his embrace, the strings of his vest scratching against my almost bare back it is a sudden reminder there are still too many layers in between us. I fidget with the loops with shaky fingers, unhinging fastening after fastening until his ivory skin finally shimmers under the pale candlelight.
There is no way this man could be real. He looks as if he was made by Gods, if not one of them himself. But his touch belongs to the most mischievous of the demons. It sure does. I feel it every time he leans his fingers just where I want them to be, as he could read my mind, exploiting my thoughts only to drive me over the edge.
