Chapter 7: The Emperor's Submission
The tent flap had barely settled behind her when Jensen hit the ground.
Lalisa had imagined this moment a hundred times over the brutal two-day journey—had rehearsed cutting words and cool dismissals, had steeled herself against the force of his need. She had pictured him angry, accusatory, demanding explanations for her silence. She had pictured herself standing firm, meeting his fire with ice.
She had not pictured him collapsing.
He fell to his knees with a sound between a sob and a prayer, his hands finding her legs, his fingers digging into the fabric of her traveling dress as if she might evaporate if he did not hold on tight enough. His face pressed into her thighs, his breath hot and ragged through the layers of silk, and he inhaled—a great, shuddering gasp, as if he had been drowning for weeks and she was air itself.
"Lalisa. Lalisa. Lalisa." Her name fell from his lips like a litany, like a man who had forgotten how to say anything else. "I thought you were gone. I thought you had left me. I thought—"
His arms wrapped around her legs, squeezing so tight she could feel the tremor in his muscles. His shoulders shook. She felt the hot dampness of tears soaking through her skirts, felt the desperate drag of his breath as he pressed his face deeper into the soft flesh of her thighs.
"You're here. You're fucking here. You came."
Lalisa stood motionless, her hands at her sides, watching this most powerful man in Europe unravel at her feet. She had ridden for two days straight, changing horses at every post station, sleeping in snatches in the jolting carriage, sustained by nothing but spite and love in equal measure. She was exhausted. She was furious. She was trembling with a need she had not allowed herself to acknowledge until this very moment.
And now he was on his knees before her, weeping into her skirts like a child.
"I didn't write," he babbled, the words tumbling out in a broken flood. "I know I didn't write enough, I know I should have sent more, but I was so afraid, I was so fucking afraid that you had finally tired of me, that you had found someone better, someone who didn't need you so desperately—"
"Jensen." Her voice came out flat, cold. She felt his flinch through his entire body.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, my rose, I know I'm unworthy of you, I know I don't deserve you, I know I'm a monster and a madman and I can't stop writing, I can't stop needing you, I can't—"
"Undress me."
The words cut through his babbling like a blade. He went still, his face still buried against her, his breath catching in his throat.
"What?"
"You heard me." She reached down and gripped a fistful of his black curls, yanking his head back so he was forced to look up at her. His face was wrecked with tears, dark circles carved beneath his feline eyes, a cut on his jaw where he had apparently nicked himself shaving. He looked like a man who had not slept in weeks.
He looked like he had been waiting for her. Only for her.
"I said undress me." Her voice was silk wrapped around steel. "Are you deaf as well as mad?"
A choked sound escaped his lips—something between a laugh and a sob. His hands moved immediately, finding the lacings of her traveling dress with a frantic desperation that tore at the delicate fastenings. She heard fabric rip, felt the cool air against her collarbone as he pulled the bodice down with more force than finesse.
"Careful," she murmured, a warning wrapped in velvet. "That dress cost more than your entire campaign."
He made a sound of raw frustration, his shaking fingers fumbling with the intricate knots. "I don't care. I don't give a fuck about the dress, I need to see you, I need to touch you, I need—"
"Then be patient." She slapped his hands away and reached for the lacings herself, her movements deliberately slow, deliberately teasing. She watched his face as she loosened each tie, saw the hunger burning in his dark eyes, the way his throat worked as he swallowed. "You have spent two weeks writing me letters like a lovesick schoolboy. Surely you can wait another moment."
"I cannot." His voice cracked. "Lalisa, I cannot. I have been going mad without you, I have been dreaming of you every night, I have been—"
"Shh." She let the dress fall from her shoulders, pooling in a whisper of silk around her feet. She stood before him in nothing but her thin chemise and her riding boots, the fabric clinging to the curves of her body, her nipples visibly peaked beneath the sheer material. "Now my boots."
He practically lunged for them, his hands wrapping around her calf, lifting her foot with a reverence that bordered on worship. He unlaced the boots with shaking fingers, pressing kisses to her ankle as he worked, his lips hot against her skin. When the first boot came free, he dropped it carelessly and moved to the other, his urgency escalating with each passing second.
She let him. She let him undress her piece by piece, standing passive while he stripped away every layer of protection she had worn like armor during the long journey. She let him see the exhaustion in her face, the shadows beneath her eyes, the ragged state of her nerve endings after two days of nothing but worry and want.
When she stood completely bare before him, his eyes traveled over her body with a hunger so intense it felt like a physical touch. His gaze lingered on her breasts, on the curve of her hip, on the neat triangle of dark hair between her thighs that he had begged her to keep wild.
"Look at you," he breathed, his voice barely audible. "Look at my little storm. My rose. My—"
"Undress yourself."
He blinked, as if emerging from a trance. "I—"
"You heard me." She stepped back, giving him space, her eyes never leaving his. "Stand up and undress yourself. I want to watch."
The command sent a visible shudder through his body. He rose on unsteady legs, his hands already moving to the buttons of his uniform jacket. He tore at them with the same frantic energy he had applied to her dress, popping several in his haste, the dark wool falling from his shoulders to join the pile of her discarded clothing.
His shirt followed, ripped over his head in a single motion that left his black curls standing on end. She drank him in—the lean muscles of his chest, the faint scar across his ribs from a sabre wound in Italy, the trail of dark hair that led from his navel downward, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers.
"Slower," she commanded, and he froze, his hands on his belt. "I said I wanted to watch. Don't rush."
He swallowed hard, his fingers fumbling with the buckle. This time, he obeyed her. He unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, drawing out the motion, his eyes never leaving hers as he unfastened his trousers and pushed them down over his hips.
His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the head glistening with arousal. Lalisa felt her mouth go dry at the sight of it, at the familiar weight and shape of him, at the memory of how perfectly he filled her. She had missed this. God help her, she had missed this.
"Now crawl to the bed."
His eyes widened. "Lalisa—"
"You heard me." She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, watching him with an expression of cool command. "Crawl. You said you would bark for my affection. Show me how much you mean it."
For a moment, he looked like he might argue. Then something shifted in his face—a surrender so complete it made her breath catch—and he dropped to his hands and knees on the rough tent floor, his eyes locked on hers as he began to crawl.
He moved slowly, deliberately, each movement a testament to his submission. She watched the muscles of his back ripple as he crawled toward the bed, watched his cock bounce heavily between his thighs, watched the raw vulnerability in his expression as he closed the distance between them.
When he reached the edge of the bed, she made him wait.
"Bark."
His jaw tightened. "Fuck you."
"You said you would." She smiled down at him, a slow, wicked curve of her lips. "You wrote it in your letter. Should I bark to gain your affection? Those were your words, were they not?"
"You are a cruel woman."
"I am your wife." She knelt before him, bringing her face level with his, her breath ghosting across his lips. "And I have ridden two days through mud and rain to reach you because you could not stop writing me love letters long enough to win a war. You owe me a performance, Emperor."
Something broke in him then. She saw it in his eyes—the moment his pride surrendered to his need. He opened his mouth, and a sound escaped him. A single, sharp, desperate bark. It was ridiculous. It was degrading. It was the most honest thing she had ever heard him say.
"Again."
He barked again, louder this time. The sound echoed through the tent, mixing with the distant noises of the camp outside. She could hear guards moving, could hear the murmur of men who had no idea that their Emperor was on his hands and knees, barking like a dog for his wife.
"Good boy." She reached out and stroked his hair, watching his eyes flutter closed at the gentle touch. "Now get on the bed. On your back. I want to see you."
He moved with a desperate obedience, crawling onto the bed before flipping onto his back, his cock standing rigid against his stomach. He spread his legs for her, offering himself completely, his hands gripping the sheets with white-knuckled intensity.
"Please," he whispered. "Please, Lalisa, I need—"
"I know what you need." She rose from the floor and climbed onto the bed with deliberate slowness, straddling his hips. She positioned herself above him, the heat of her cunt brushing against the tip of his cock, not quite taking him inside. "But I am not sure you deserve it."
"Please." His voice broke. "I will do anything. I will write you a hundred letters a day. I will stop accusing you of infidelity. I will—"
"You will do what I say." She reached down and wrapped her fingers around his cock, stroking him slowly, watching his eyes roll back in his head. "You will come when I tell you to come. You will beg when I want you to beg. And you will remember that I am your Empress, not your possession."
"Yes. Yes, I understand. Please—"
She sank down onto him in a single, smooth motion, impaling herself on his length with a gasp that she could not quite suppress. He was so thick, so beautifully hard, filling her completely in a way that made her see stars. She heard him cry out, a broken sound of pure relief, his hands flying to her hips.
"Do not move." She gripped his wrists and pinned them to the bed above his head. "Do not fucking move, Jensen."
He froze, his body trembling with the effort of obedience. She could feel him shaking beneath her, could feel the desperate tension in every muscle as he fought to hold still. And then she rose, slowly, drawing herself up until only the head of his cock remained inside her, teasing the sensitive rim of her cunt.
"Look at me."
He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze with a look of such raw, naked need that it made her heart clench. She held his eyes as she sank back down, taking him fully, a low moan escaping her lips at the sensation of being so completely filled.
"That's it," she breathed. "That's my good boy. On your back, taking whatever I give you."
She began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that was more torture than pleasure. She watched him writhe beneath her, watched his hands clench and unclench as he struggled not to touch her, watched the cords of his neck stand out with the effort of his restraint.
"Faster," he begged. "Please, Lalisa, please, I need—"
"I know what you need." She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest, her lips against his ear. "You need to remember who you belong to. You need to remember that no matter how many wars you win, no matter how many countries you conquer, you are mine. Completely. Utterly. Mine."
"Yes," he sobbed. "Yes, I'm yours, I'm so fucking yours—"
She began to ride him harder, faster, her hips slamming against his with a wild, desperate rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart. She could feel her orgasm building, a familiar coil of heat in her belly, but she forced it back.
She was not done with him yet.
"Say it." She rode him relentlessly, every movement driving him closer to the edge. "Say I am your Empress. Say you are my dog."
"I am your dog," he gasped, his eyes rolling back in his head. "Your loyal, fucking dog, I would crawl through fire for you, I would kill for you, I would—"
"Say it again."
"I am your dog. Lalisa, please, I'm going to—"
"Not yet." She slowed to a teasing pace, watching his face contort with frustration and need. "Not until I say so."
"Please." His voice cracked, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes. "Please, my rose, my little storm, please let me come, I need to come, I need—"
His desperation was intoxicating. She could feel her own control slipping, her own need rising to match his. She began to ride him again, faster and harder than before, her nails digging into his chest, leaving red crescents in their wake.
"Now," she gasped. "Come inside me, Jensen. Fill me up. Mark me as yours."
He came with a broken sob, his release spilling inside her in wave after wave of hot, pulsing seed. She felt the tremors rack his body, heard the desperate prayer of her name on his lips as he emptied himself into her. And she came with him, her own orgasm crashing over her like a wave, her inner muscles clenching around his cock as she rode out the pleasure until she collapsed against his chest, trembling and spent.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing and the distant noise of the camp outside. Jensen wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, his face buried in her hair as he whispered her name like a prayer.
"I love you," he breathed. "I love you so fucking much it terrifies me."
Lalisa lifted her head, looking down at her husband's tear-streaked face. She reached up and brushed a curl from his forehead, her touch gentle now, tender.
"I know," she said softly. "I know you do. But you cannot keep drowning me in letters. You cannot keep accusing me of infidelity every time I do not write back within the hour."
"I know." He closed his eyes, shame flickering across his features. "I know I am impossible. I know I am too much. But I cannot help it, Lalisa. The thought of losing you—"
"I am not going anywhere." She pressed a kiss to his forehead, then his lips, soft and reassuring. "But you need to trust me. You need to believe that I love you, even when my letters are not as passionate as you would like. Even when I write about the dogs more than I write about you."
He laughed, a broken sound. "You read the letter."
"Every word." She smiled down at him. "And then I burned them all and rode two days to show you that you do not need to bark for my affection. All you ever need to do is ask."