[ There is a hunger in Rhaenyra now that yawns, and stretches, and seeks to be sated; she has not known hunger like this since before their children were born, when she felt like little more than a broodmare intended to bring heirs into the world, a vessel meant to assure more of their line. When was the last time that she readily sought pleasure for pleasure's sake, the way men so often do? When was the last time she allowed herself to ride her husband's cock for the pure enjoyment of it, rather than trying to ensure that new life would take root inside her?
If Daemon bucks beneath her now, hips seizing upward as she works herself over him faster, she doesn't immediately chide him for being so daring, but her lips part for a smirk, her brow arching in subtle challenge. She has half a mind to lift herself off of him now, crawl up the length of his body and smother him with her cunt, ride his face the same way until he sees her pleasure assured — and then, and only then, finish him off properly. Would he enjoy it, she wonders? Would he willingly submit to anything she chose to do to him, surrender to becoming her throne in a manner more befitting of a whore on the Street of Silk, rather than a dragon queen?
She drifts down to him, slowing the pace of her hips in order that she might meet his lips more easily, licking over his mouth before slanting them together in a deep, devouring kiss. Let him feel the effect he has on her, how she slicks him more readily now, her arousal building as her breath quickens. She moans, soft and approving, when he thrusts into her from beneath, lets him take over the pace of things as she tightens her thighs at his hips. ]
There's no need to be gentle. [ Her whisper across his mouth is harsh and hurried, breathless; she has never loved him more, she thinks, than she does in this moment. ] True dragons never are.
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If Daemon bucks beneath her now, hips seizing upward as she works herself over him faster, she doesn't immediately chide him for being so daring, but her lips part for a smirk, her brow arching in subtle challenge. She has half a mind to lift herself off of him now, crawl up the length of his body and smother him with her cunt, ride his face the same way until he sees her pleasure assured — and then, and only then, finish him off properly. Would he enjoy it, she wonders? Would he willingly submit to anything she chose to do to him, surrender to becoming her throne in a manner more befitting of a whore on the Street of Silk, rather than a dragon queen?
She drifts down to him, slowing the pace of her hips in order that she might meet his lips more easily, licking over his mouth before slanting them together in a deep, devouring kiss. Let him feel the effect he has on her, how she slicks him more readily now, her arousal building as her breath quickens. She moans, soft and approving, when he thrusts into her from beneath, lets him take over the pace of things as she tightens her thighs at his hips. ]
There's no need to be gentle. [ Her whisper across his mouth is harsh and hurried, breathless; she has never loved him more, she thinks, than she does in this moment. ] True dragons never are.