Chapter 2: Reconciliation
Jaina reminisces the encounter with Brannon. How he took control of her, while he defended her dignity at the same time.
The cheek of the pervert! Jaina was disgusted with the entire situation, and yet, she found herself aroused again. The thought of his cock, his control, his pleasure at her expense, it was all too much. She felt the familiar ache growing between her thighs as she hurried away from the study, her heart pounding in her chest.
She needed to get away, to clear her head, but her body had other ideas. She darted through the halls of the manor, her heels clicking against the marble floor. She could still taste him on her lips, feel him in her throat, and the thought sent a shiver down her spine.
Damn him, for making her feel this way. She was Jaina Proudmoore, for crying out loud. She shouldn't be sneaking away like some lovesick maiden, her body aching with desire.
She turned a corner and froze. There, standing against the wall, was a figure she didn't recognize. A servant, perhaps? No, the way he leaned against the wall was too casual, too confident. He was young, maybe a few years older than Brannon, with dark hair and a thin, sharp face. He pushed off the wall as she approached, his eyes raking over her, making her feel exposed.
But then realised she is invisible and he was looking at the wall behind her. Brannon made her a nerve wreck. Should she go back, maybe? Her body screamed yes, but her mind...her mind was a whirlwind of doubt and conflicting emotions. She couldn’t go back, not like this. Not after what had just happened. She was Jaina Proudmoore, for fuck’s sake, not some common whore to be passed around by the young and horny.
But her body, her traitorous body, was on fire. The ache between her thighs was unbearable. She had to find release, and soon. She could feel the heat radiating from her core, her nipples hardened against the fabric of her dress, begging for attention.
Jaina’s hurried steps faltered halfway down the manor’s grand staircase, the cold stone beneath her boots suddenly feeling like judgment. She leaned against the carved banister, trembling fingers wiping at the lingering stickiness on her chin, the phantom taste of salt and musk thick in her throat. Defended me, the thought echoed, cutting through the shame like a knife. Brannon hadn’t just used her; he’d roared down that sanctimonious prick Darius, called her a national treasure while his cock was buried deep in her gullet. A shaky, almost hysterical laugh escaped her lips. No one, not Arthas in his passionate youth, not even Thrall in moments of raw honesty, had ever championed her so fiercely in the midst of such depravity. The sheer, absurd audacity of it sparked something low and molten in her belly, hotter than the humiliation cooling on her skin.
Her gaze drifted back up the shadowed stairs toward the locked study door. He was young, undeniably handsome beneath that flustered veneer, and he’d wielded his authority for her, even as he wielded her mouth. The dampness between her own thighs, ignored in her frantic escape, throbbed insistently now, a traitorous pulse answering the memory of his thick shaft twitching against her tongue. Fuck dignity. Fuck the whispers. Dalaran needed those ships now, and Brannon Stormsong, with his unexpected backbone and his magnificent cock, was the key. Resolve, sharp and reckless, hardened within her. She turned on her heel, cloak swirling, and marched back up the stairs, the click of her boots echoing her newfound, desperate purpose.
Outside the study door, she didn’t hesitate. Arcane energy flared briefly at her fingertips, bypassing the lock with a soft snick. She pushed the heavy door open. Brannon stood frozen by his desk, her discarded white panties clutched in one hand, his expression a comical mix of shock, lingering arousal, and dawning hope. "Lord Admi—" he stammered.
"Shut the door," Jaina commanded, her voice husky but firm, already striding toward him. "Lock it properly this time." Her eyes, still smudged with kohl but blazing with an intensity that brooked no argument, locked onto his. "You defended me, Brannon. Properly." She stopped inches from him, the heat radiating off her body palpable. "Consider that… encouragement." Her hand, bare now, snaked out, not towards his face, but lower, fingers deftly finding the buckle of his belt he’d just fastened. The leather gave way with a rasp. "Now," she breathed, her other hand pushing firmly against his chest, forcing him back until his legs hit the chair and he sank down, "let’s see if you can muster that resolve again." She didn’t kneel this time. She climbed onto him, straddling his lap, her skirts pooling around them. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his trousers and smallclothes, yanking them down just enough to free his rapidly hardening cock. "This time," she murmured, guiding the thick, eager head to her soaked entrance, her gaze never leaving his wide, enthralled eyes, "you finish inside me." With a sharp, gasping cry that was equal parts relief and raw hunger, she sank down, taking every thick, straining inch of him deep in one swift, claiming motion.
The door clicked behind Jaina’s invisible departure, leaving Brannon alone in the study reeking of sex, shame, and cold tea. He stared at the crumpled white silk in his hand, still warm, damp with her arousal. The evidence felt illicit, dangerous. He’d won his ships, but at what cost? The Lord Admiral’s tear-streaked face haunted him. He brought the fabric to his nose, inhaling her scent – salt, sea magic, and something uniquely, unbearably Jaina – just as the air crackled behind him.
Arcane energy snapped, a silent thunderclap that ruffled papers and made the fire sputter. Brannon whirled, the panties clenched in his fist like a guilty secret. Jaina Proudmoore stood mere feet away, not vanished after all. Her hood was down, revealing the full devastation: kohl smeared like war paint under furious, red-rimmed eyes, her braid half-unraveled, tendrils of white and gold plastered to her damp cheeks and neck. Her chest heaved, the deep cleavage he’d admired now glistening with a faint sheen of sweat and… him. The raw, violated fury he expected was absent. Instead, her gaze was terrifyingly focused, predatory.
"You didn't finish," she stated, her voice a low scrape of gravel, devoid of its usual melodic authority. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation laced with something darker. She took a single, deliberate step forward, the click of her boot heel stark in the sudden silence. Her eyes dropped, not to his face, but to the tented front of his trousers, straining against hastily fastened buttons. The dampness on her chin caught the firelight. "You held back. I felt it."
Brannon’s mouth opened, a stammer dying on his lips. "M-My Lady, I thought… after… I didn’t mean…" His gaze flickered between her ravaged face and the undeniable evidence of his renewed arousal. The scent of her on his hand, the sight of her wrecked before him, the sheer fucking audacity of her return – it was a brutal aphrodisiac.
Jaina closed the distance in two strides. Her hand shot out, not to strike, but to grasp. Her fingers, cold despite the room’s heat, closed like steel bands around his half-hard cock through the fabric. He gasped, arching into the shocking pressure. "No more talk, Stormsong," she hissed, her breath hot on his ear, carrying the phantom taste of salt. "No more fucking rituals." Her other hand fumbled urgently at his belt buckle, her movements jerky, fueled by a desperate, furious energy. "You wanted this? You earned this." The buckle gave way. Buttons popped. His trousers sagged. Her hand slid inside, past linen, finding bare, heated flesh. Her grip was punishing, possessive, pulling him free, the thick shaft swelling instantly in her tight, demanding fist. "Now cum," she commanded, her voice cracking, raw and imperative. "Cum inside me. All of it. Prove you’re not just a boy playing with his Admiral’s cunt. Fill me." She guided the swollen head, slick with his earlier release and her saliva, towards the hidden heat beneath her skirt, her eyes blazing into his, demanding surrender, demanding completion, demanding he stain her utterly.
Lady Jaina is in the mood for a royal fucking. Brannon doesn't hold back, fucking her doggy style while pulling on her braid.
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, sealing Jaina alone in the dim corridor outside Brannon’s study. The muffled thud echoed the frantic pounding of her own heart. Cool stone pressed against her back as she sagged against the wall, the scent of old wood and brine suddenly sharp in her nostrils. Her throat burned, the phantom taste of salt and musk clinging stubbornly. She scrubbed furiously at her lips with the back of her hand, the leather of her glove rough against her skin. Shame, hot and corrosive, flooded her cheeks anew. Proudwhore. The word echoed Brother Darius’s sneer, twisting the knife deeper. She’d sunk lower than their foulest whispers.
Inside her boot, nestled against her ankle, lay the crumpled silk of her discarded panties. A trophy. The dampness she’d felt transferring them to Brannon’s eager hands was undeniable proof of her body’s treacherous betrayal. Her jaw clenched. Lives. Dalaran. Focus. She pushed off the wall, forcing her spine straight. Arcane energy prickled beneath her skin, a familiar, grounding hum. She needed air. Space. To purge the feel of him, the smell of him.
She strode down the corridor, boots clicking a sharp, angry rhythm on the flagstones. The manor felt oppressively silent, amplifying the frantic whirlwind inside her head. The image of Brannon’s flushed face, the bulge in his trousers as he stammered his request, flashed unwanted behind her eyes. The sheer audacity of it. And yet… a treacherous coil of heat tightened low in her belly, a counterpoint to the icy shame. The raw power she’d wielded with her mouth, the helpless shudder that had ripped through him… it hadn’t been entirely unpleasant. Just degrading. Necessary degradation. For Dalaran.
She pushed open a heavy side door, stepping out onto a secluded balcony overlooking the Stormsong Valley. The afternoon sun was warm on her face, the salt-laden breeze instantly cooling the flush on her skin. Below, verdant farmland rolled towards the distant, brooding Shrine of the Storm. Peaceful. A stark contrast to the storm raging within her. She gripped the stone balustrade, knuckles white beneath her gloves. The rational part of her mind screamed retreat – teleport back to Boralus, bathe, forget this ever happened. But another part, a part she barely recognized, simmered with a restless, frustrated energy. The humiliation was a raw wound, but beneath it pulsed something hotter, darker. Unfinished. Denied.
The soft scrape of a boot on stone behind her froze her blood. She didn’t turn. She knew.
"My Lord Admiral?" Brannon’s voice was hesitant, thick with something she couldn’t quite place – awe? Fear? Lingering lust? "I… I wanted to ensure you were… unharmed."
Jaina remained rigid, staring out at the valley. The breeze tugged loose strands of her braid across her face. "Unharmed?" Her voice was low, hoarse, scraped raw. "Physically? I endure." She finally turned, her blue eyes glacial, pinning him where he stood awkwardly in the doorway. "My dignity, Lord Stormsong, is another matter entirely."
He flinched, colour rising again on his neck. "I… I know. Words are inadequate. But…" He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering down her form, lingering for a heartbeat too long on the curve of her hip beneath the deep blue skirt. "What you did… the risk you took… for your people…" He took a tentative step forward. "It was… magnificent."
Magnificent. The word struck her like a physical blow. Not ‘necessary’. Not ‘regrettable’. Magnificent. It ignited the simmering coil in her belly into a sudden, fierce blaze. The shame warred violently with a surge of pure, reckless defiance. He saw her degradation as magnificence? The perverse admiration in his eyes was a spark tossed onto dry tinder.
"Magnificent?" she echoed, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr. She took a step towards him, the click of her boot loud in the sudden stillness. "Is that what you call kneeling beneath a desk like a dockside whore?" Another step. He retreated instinctively, bumping against the doorframe. "Is that what you call choking on a boy’s cock?"
Brannon’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, not with fear now, but with dawning, stunned comprehension. The raw, filthy language, the venom laced with something else… something hungry. He saw it. The coiled tension in her frame, the flush creeping back up her neck despite the cool breeze. The defiance wasn’t just anger. It was invitation.
"A boy?" he breathed, a flicker of his own defiance sparking. He straightened slightly, meeting her glare. "Did this boy not make the mighty Lord Admiral swallow his seed?"
The challenge hung in the air. Jaina felt a tremor run through her, part fury, part exhilarating surrender to the dark current pulling her under. She closed the remaining distance between them in two swift strides. Her gloved hand shot out, not to strike, but to fist itself in the front of his fine overcoat. She yanked him forward, her face inches from his.
"You want magnificent, Brannon Stormsong?" she hissed, her breath hot against his lips. The scent of him – sweat, musk, the lingering salt of her own humiliation – flooded her senses, intoxicating and infuriating. The coil in her belly was a white-hot brand now. "Then show me. Don’t just take your trophy." Her free hand grabbed his wrist, dragging his hand down, pressing it hard against the silk-covered mound between her legs. She felt the damp heat there, undeniable through the layers of skirt and trousers. "Feel what your ‘magnificence’ did. Feel the fucking need it left behind."
Brannon gasped, his fingers instinctively curling against her heat. His eyes darkened, the stammering boy vanishing, replaced by a man staring at a precipice he never dreamed he’d reach. "Jaina…" he groaned, his own arousal pressing insistently against his trousers.
"Shut up," she snarled, releasing his coat only to shove him backwards, hard, into the dimness of the corridor just inside the door. "You wanted a ritual? You wanted to polish the mast?" She followed him in, kicking the door shut behind her with a resonant thud that echoed in the sudden gloom. The corridor was narrow, lined with tapestries depicting storm-tossed seas. "Then fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me like the Lord Admiral you claim to revere deserves to be fucked. Fuck me until I forget my own fucking name."
She didn’t wait for his response. The dam broke. Weeks, months, years of crushing responsibility, grief, and suppressed fury erupted. She spun around, presenting her back to him. Her hands slammed against the cold stone wall, bracing herself. Her hips thrust back, an unmistakable, demanding arch. "Now, Brannon!" The command ripped from her throat, raw and desperate. "Don’t you fucking dare hold back!"
A guttural sound tore from Brannon’s throat – part groan, part battle cry. Any hesitation evaporated. His hands, large and surprisingly strong, gripped her hips, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath the layers of cloth and corset. He yanked her backwards, grinding the hard ridge of his cock against the swell of her ass. She felt the frantic fumbling at her waist, the tearing sound as he shoved her skirt ruthlessly up over her hips, bunching the deep blue fabric around her waist. Cool air hit the backs of her thighs.
His fingers scrabbled at the laces of her snug trousers, clumsy with haste. "Fuck, Jaina…" he breathed, his voice thick with lust.
"Trousers. Off. Now," she ground out, pushing her ass back harder against him, feeling the impressive length straining against the barrier of fabric. The friction was maddening.
A grunt, then the blessed release as her trousers were wrenched down to her knees. The cool air was instantly replaced by the scorching heat of his body pressing flush against her. His cock, freed and fully erect, slapped heavily against the bare skin of her inner thigh, thick and demanding. She gasped, the contact electric. He was big. Thick. The memory of him stretching her throat was suddenly visceral.
One hand remained clamped on her hip, anchoring her. The other tangled violently in the intricate braid at the nape of her neck. He fisted it, pulling her head back sharply, exposing the long line of her throat. A sharp gasp escaped her, pain and anticipation twisting together.
"No gentle fucking," she panted, pushing her hips back, seeking the blunt pressure of his cockhead against her slick entrance. She was drenched, her own arousal mingling with the shame, creating a potent, addictive cocktail. "Give it to me. Hard."
Brannon needed no further urging. With a primal growl that vibrated through her back, he guided himself. The broad, slick head of his cock pressed against her soaked folds, finding her entrance with unerring aim. He paused for a fraction of a second, a silent question hanging in the charged air.
Jaina answered by driving her hips back with savage force, impaling herself onto him in one brutal, breathtaking thrust.
"FUCK!" The cry tore from both their throats simultaneously – hers a ragged gasp of shock and sudden, overwhelming fullness, his a guttural roar of triumph and intense sensation.
He filled her completely, stretching her deliciously, brutally. There was no gentle acclimation. Brannon, true to her command and unleashed by her defiance, did not hold back. He pulled her hips back onto him with bruising force, then slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt with a wet, meaty slap of flesh against flesh. The impact drove her hard against the stone wall, knocking the breath from her lungs.
"Yes!" Jaina hissed, the pain-pleasure exquisite. "Like that! Harder!"
He obeyed. Setting a punishing rhythm, Brannon fucked her with raw, animalistic power. Each powerful thrust drove her into the unyielding wall, her breasts crushed against the cold stone, her braid taut in his fist, pulling her head back at a sharp angle. The grip on her hip was iron, fingers digging deep, surely leaving bruises. The sounds were obscene – the wet slap of skin on skin, the rhythmic grunts tearing from Brannon’s throat, Jaina’s own choked gasps and sharp cries that were swallowed by the stone.
He pistoned into her, his cock a thick, relentless battering ram hitting deep, so deep. The angle was perfect, the head of his cock grinding against that spot inside her with every brutal plunge. Sparks of white-hot pleasure detonated behind her clenched eyelids, warring with the sting in her scalp and the ache in her hips. The humiliation, the powerlessness, the sheer wrongness of it fused with the intense physical sensation, creating a feedback loop of overwhelming, degrading ecstasy.
"Take it!" Brannon growled, his voice rough, punctuated by his harsh breaths. He yanked her braid harder, arching her back further. "Take your Admiral’s cock, Jaina! Take every fucking inch!"
She couldn’t speak. Her world narrowed to the brutal rhythm, the exquisite friction, the deep, stretching fullness, the sharp pull on her hair anchoring her to the onslaught. Her body moved instinctively, meeting his thrusts, pushing back against him, milking his cock with her inner muscles. A low, continuous moan vibrated in her chest, escaping in ragged bursts. She was coming apart, unraveling under the force of his possession. The stone scraped her cheek. Tears, born of overwhelming sensation, not sorrow, leaked from the corners of her eyes.
Brannon’s pace became frantic, erratic. His grunts turned into desperate groans. The hand on her hip slid around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing hard, rough circles through the slick mess between her legs. The dual assault – the deep, pounding penetration and the frantic stimulation on her clit – was too much.
Jaina shattered.
Her orgasm ripped through her with volcanic force, a silent scream locked in her throat. Her body convulsed, clamping down viselike on his driving cock, inner muscles spasming wildly. Stars exploded behind her eyes as wave after wave of pure, mindless pleasure crashed over her, drowning the shame, the calculation, everything but the raw, physical release.
The violent clenching of her around him tipped Brannon over the edge. With a final, guttural roar that echoed in the narrow corridor, he buried himself to the root and held, his hips grinding against her ass as he pulsed deep inside her. Hot jets of cum flooded her, marking his claim as thoroughly as the bruises forming on herThe arcane shimmer clung to Jaina’s skin like sweat as she materialized in the shadows of Proudmoore Keep’s eastern tower. The salt-laced wind ripped at her cloak, but she barely felt it—her pulse hammered louder than storm tides against the docks below. The scent of Brannon’s musk still clung to her tongue, the phantom stretch of her throat making her swallow convulsively.
She should’ve been strategizing. Should’ve been rallying troops, not pressing her thighs together like some dockside strumpet replaying the way his cock had pistoned down her gullet. But the memory of his grip on her braid, the *snap* of his hips driving her face into his groin—
"Fuck." The curse ripped from her as she shoved open the tower door. The stone passage swallowed her footsteps, the torchlight painting lewd shadows as she passed. Her fingers twitched toward the damp lace still missing from under her skirt. The little shit had her *scent* on him now. Her jaw ached.
The guest chambers loomed ahead. She didn’t knock.
The door slammed open under her magic, revealing Brannon mid-pace, her panties pressed to his face like a fucking prayer cloth. He whirled, eyes widening—then darkening—as she kicked the door shut with her heel.
"No more games," she snarled, yanking her cloak off. The fabric pooled like a slain beast at her feet. "You wanted to play at rituals? Let’s see if you can handle the tide, *boy*."
His breath hitched as she reached back, fingers tangling in her own braid. The *rip* of her corset laces splitting echoed like sailcloth in a gale.
Brannon was on her before the fabric hit the floor.
His hands molded to her hips, hauling her backward until her knees hit the bed’s edge. No finesse, no pretense—just the *smack* of his palm between her shoulder blades, forcing her down. Jaina’s elbows buckled, her cheek grinding into the duvet as his knee shoved her legs apart.
"Should’ve known," he growled, calloused fingers hiking her skirt up. "All that fucking posturing—" The head of his cock dragged through her slick, blunt and burning. "—and here you are, dripping for it."
Jaina’s laugh was half-snarl. "Less talking." She arched her back, presenting herself like a fucking offering. "Prove you’re more than a spoiled lordling with—*hng!*"
He sheathed himself in one brutal thrust.
The stretch punched the air from her lungs. Brannon didn’t give her time to adjust, didn’t *care*—his hips snapped forward, burying every inch until her cunt clenched around the impossible girth. A choked noise escaped her, half-pain, half-pleasure, as he withdrew and slammed home again.
"That’s it," he panted, fingers twisting in her braid. The *yank* forced her head back, her spine bowing obscenely. "Take it. Take every fucking inch, *Lord Admiral*."
Jaina’s vision whited out. The pain-pleasure of her scalp burning, the *slap* of his balls against her clit with every thrust—she was unraveling, her magic sparking wild at her fingertips. The bedframe groaned like a ship in a squall.
"Harder," she gasped.
Brannon obliged.
His free hand clamped on her hip, fingers bruising as he pistoned into her. The wet *smack* of skin on skin drowned out her ragged moans. She could feel him everywhere—the drag of his cock splitting her open, the sweat-slick press of his chest against her back when he bent over her, his teeth at her ear.
"Gonna cum," he warned, voice shredded.
Jaina reached back, nails scoring down his thigh. "Do it. Fill me up, you little *shit*—"
His groan vibrated through her as he came, hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside her. The heat of it tipped her over—her cunt clamped down, milking him through her own climax as the room spun away.
For a heartbeat, they stayed locked together, gasping. Then Brannon’s grip on her braid loosened, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades.
Jaina smirked into the sheets.
Three ships by morning.
*Worth it.