Chapter 5: See You Again
The shock of the kitchen boys’ interruption still hummed in Yaa’s veins, a live wire tangled with the aftershocks of her climax. Simon’s grip on her arm was firm, guiding her not back toward the revelry of the hall, but deeper into the palace’s secret arteries. They moved through a labyrinth of servant corridors and hushed, tapestry-lined hallways where their footsteps were swallowed by thick wool rugs. The palace at night was a different beast, a sleeping monolith of whispers and old stone.
He finally shouldered open a heavy oak door, ushering her inside before closing it with a solid, definitive thud. The sudden silence was profound.
This was his sanctum. Simon’s study. The air was still and warm, carrying the comforting scent of aged paper, beeswax, and the faint, clean aroma of rain from the leaded windows. A fire crackled low in a great hearth, its embers painting the room in pulses of amber light. It gleamed on ranks of leather-bound books, on the polished hilts of swords displayed on the walls, on a massive, scarred desk piled with maps, reports, and the detritus of rule. In the center of the chaos lay a single, pristine scroll, sealed with violet wax—a foreign queen’s mark, untouched.
Yaa leaned against the closed door, catching her breath. Her robes were still in disarray, the memory of his mouth between her legs a brand on her senses. She watched him. He moved to the sideboard, pouring two glasses of a dark amber liquor from a cut-glass decanter without asking. His hands, so capable and cruel moments before, were steady.
He handed her a glass. Their fingers touched. The spark was still there, hotter now, forged in shared risk.
“A ghost in his own castle,” she said softly, taking a sip. The liquor was smoky, biting, and smooth. It warmed a path to her stomach.
“It’s the only way to move,” he replied, his eyes never leaving her as he drank. He was studying her, the way she held herself against the door, the flush still high on her cheeks, the dark knowing in her eyes. A predator appreciating another predator.
Feeling bold, emboldened by the liquor and the residual thrill, she pushed off the door and began to wander. She trailed her fingers along the spine of a thick folio, examined the intricate geometry of a astrolabe on a shelf, paused before a map of Astoria marked with red pins. Cities simmering with unrest. Her father had taught her to read such maps. The pins were not placed at borders, but within them.
“They hope you can fix it,” she said, not turning.
“They hope I’m not my father,” his voice came from closer behind her than she expected. “It’s not the same thing.”
She turned to face him. He was barely an arm’s length away, his grey eyes reflecting the firelight. The heat between them had banked but not died; it was a constant, radiating pressure. She felt it in the base of her spine, in the tightness of her breath. She enjoyed this, she realized. Being watched by him. Not as a princess, or a political piece, but as a woman still vibrating from the pleasure he’d wrung from her body.
“Sit down,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
A flicker of curiosity crossed his face. Without a word, he moved to the large leather chair behind his desk and sat, the old leather creaking softly under his weight. He leaned back, watching her, his expression unreadable.
The silence stretched, thick and pregnant. Yaa walked slowly around the side of the desk, her silk robes whispering against the polished wood. She stopped beside his chair, her hip almost brushing his shoulder. She could feel the tension coiling in him, a spring pressed tight.
With deliberate slowness, she lifted her right foot. She slid the delicate, beaded sandal from her foot and let it drop to the thick rug with a soft patter. Her bare foot, high-arched and elegant, found the hard muscle of his thigh. She pressed her sole against the fine wool of his breeches, rubbing in a slow, circular motion. She felt the formidable, rigid length of him beneath the fabric instantly, already straining.
A sharp, hissed intake of breath escaped him. His hands clenched the arms of the chair.
“Your turn,” she murmured, holding his stormy gaze.
Then she sank to her knees.
The world narrowed to the dark cave beneath the massive oak desk. The space smelled of old wood, leather, and him—a clean, male scent of soap and something sharper, more primal. Firelight from the room beyond painted his legs in long, shifting shadows.
She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers went to the fastenings of his breeches. Her hands, usually so sure with a bowstring, fumbled slightly with the ties, fueled by a dizzying mix of power and hunger. He lifted his hips off the chair to help her, a low groan rumbling in his chest as she finally freed him.
He was thick, veined, and fully erect, the head flushed a deep, ruddy color in the dim light. She leaned forward, her braids brushing his thighs, and took him into her mouth without preamble.
The taste of him was salt and skin and pure, raw masculinity. She heard him curse, a ragged “Fuck,” as her lips stretched to accommodate his girth. She used her tongue, lapping at the sensitive ridge, sucking firmly as she began to move her head in a slow, steady rhythm. One of her hands wrapped around the base of him, pumping in time with her mouth. The other found his balls, cupping their heavy weight, rolling them gently in her palm.
His hand came down, not to guide her, but to bury itself in her hair. He didn’t force her; his grip was an anchor, a point of connection. His breathing grew harsh, ragged. “Yes… just like that… gods, Yaa…”
She lost herself in the rhythm, in the taste, in the sounds she was pulling from him. This was a different kind of power. It was intimate, devastating. She hollowed her cheeks, taking him deeper until she felt him nudge the back of her throat. She relaxed, accepting him, and he groaned her name like a prayer.
She could feel the tension building in the cords of his thighs, in the tightening of his stomach. His grip in her hair tightened marginally. “I’m close… I’m so close…”
The door to the study burst open.
The sudden flood of light from the corridor was a shock. Yaa froze, her mouth still full of him, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Your Highness! Thank the gods,” a reedy, frantic voice echoed in the room. Lord Cordon, the King’s chief advisor. His footsteps clicked on the floorboards, approaching the desk.
Beneath the desk, in the darkness, Simon’s body went utterly rigid. His hand, still tangled in her hair, went perfectly still, a warning and a command. She didn’t move a muscle. She could see the advisor’s slippered feet stop a few paces from the desk.
“What is it, Cordon?” Simon’s voice was a marvel. It was flat, controlled, only the faintest rasp betraying any strain. He didn’t shift in his chair.
“It’s the King, sire. His fever spiked again. The healers are with him now, but he’s asking for you. Demanding, rather. He’s in a state about the Laurian trade accord. Says you must review the final terms with him tonight.”
“I’m occupied.”
“Sire, with respect, he is your King and father. He is… he is not in his right mind. He threatened to have the guards drag you from your bed.”
A long, tense silence. Yaa could feel the desperate, throbbing pulse of Simon’s cock against her tongue. Her own arousal was a distant, frantic hum, overshadowed by sheer, petrifying adrenaline.
“Tell him I am reviewing sensitive military dispatches,” Simon said, his voice dripping with icy authority. “Tell him I will attend him within the hour. Not a moment sooner. Now get out.”
“But, Your Highness—”
“Out, Cordon. Or I will have you removed from his service entirely. Try me.”
The advisor’s feet shuffled. A sigh of exasperation. “As you wish, sire. Within the hour.”
The footsteps retreated. The door closed with a soft, definitive click.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the crackle of the fire and their shared, harsh breathing. Simon’s hand fell away from her hair. Slowly, carefully, Yaa withdrew from him. She stayed on her knees for a moment in the dark, gathering herself, the taste of him still on her lips.
She crawled out from under the desk and stood on shaky legs. Simon was still seated, his head tilted back against the chair, his eyes closed. His breeches were still open, his erection flagging now, robbed of its moment. He looked exhausted, furious, and painfully aroused all at once.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words raw.
Yaa moved to him. She didn’t speak. She simply leaned down, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him. It was a deep, slow kiss, meant to convey understanding, not passion. A communion in frustration. He kissed her back, his hands coming up to grip her waist, holding her there as if she were a lifeline.
When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against her stomach. “This is my life. Interruption. Duty. His shadow.”
She stroked his hair, the coarse dark strands soft between her fingers. “Then we steal time where we can,” she whispered. “Like ghosts.”
He looked up at her, his gaze searching her face. The vulnerability she saw there, beneath the anger, was more intimate than anything they’d done with their bodies. “Can you… will you meet me? Tomorrow. The old glasshouse in the south gardens. After noon.”
It was a request, not a command.
Yaa nodded. “Yes.”
He stood then, fastening his breeches with abrupt, practical motions. The Prince was reasserting himself, armor clicking back into place. He went to the desk, picked up the sealed scroll with the foreign queen’s mark, and looked at it as if it were a venomous snake. “He wants me to marry for an alliance. To fix his mistakes with someone else’s army. That’s what this is.” He tossed the scroll back onto the desk. It was an answer to a question she hadn’t fully asked.
She straightened her robes, her own armor. “And what do you want?”
He looked at her, the firelight carving the lines of his face, the scars, the weary determination. “I want an hour of peace,” he said. “I want a partner who isn’t afraid of the dark in me. I want to fix my own kingdom, not with a borrowed sword, but with my own two hands.” He reached out, tracing the line of her jaw. “And right now, I want to see you tomorrow.”
He walked her to a small, discreet door hidden behind a bookshelf—a private exit. He opened it, revealing a dark, narrow stairwell leading down.
“Johnny will be at the bottom. He’ll see you back to your quarters safely.”
Yaa paused on the threshold. She looked back at him, a giant of a man standing amidst the maps of his fractured kingdom, the ghost of her taste still on his lips. The promise hummed between them, fragile and fierce.
She slipped into the darkness, leaving him alone with the scroll, the fire, and the long hour ahead in his father’s sickroom.