Sunday, February 28, 2016

A Doctor Shamal Lemon -- Reindeer Antics

Character: Doctor Shamal

Fandom: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

OC: [Name]

Inspiration: Yeah, so.  I’m a terrible person for not finishing this sooner.  At least it's technically still winter...?  The last requests should be out within the week!

It all started because of the reindeer antlers.  It hadn’t really been his idea, precisely, but when Takeshi shoved them onto his head the moment he entered the building, Shamal had only shrugged and left them there.  He didn’t really care.  They were only a tiny bit annoying because they had little bells on the tips, and they made little sounds whenever he turned his head to the side.  And he was doing a lot of that, glancing around and scoping the place out, looking for – there.
[Name] was standing with her usual group of friends across the room.  He eyed her with his usual lecherous grin and smirked his usual leering smirk when her eyes just happened to turn toward him.  Well it wasn’t his fault, was it?  She should’ve known better than to wear something so…well, sexy didn’t really cover it.
She definitely pulled off the sexy Santa outfit better than anyone he’d ever seen.  Almost see-through stockings that traveled up her thighs, short red skirt, high necked but very tight top.  He could just barely make out the hint of her girdle peeking out provocatively from under her skirt, connecting her stockings to…well, hopefully he’d find out.  He chuckled to himself and raised a hand in greeting, making [Name] raise her eyebrows and tilt her head to the side, no doubt trying to decide if he was worth her time.  Nice girl like her was allowed to be picky, but Shamal would love the chance to show her a good time.
He abandoned the hunt for now.  The night hadn’t even started yet and he definitely needed a drink.  One vodka on the rocks later and the music had begun to play, dancers were making use of the center floor, and [Name] had suspiciously disappeared.  He wasn’t too worried.  There weren’t that many places to disappear to in this place, unless of course you wanted to make use of one of the hotel rooms upstairs.  But [Name] wasn’t like that…or at least she wasn’t yet.
He just enjoyed his drink, talked to a few of the Vongola who deemed him worthy of conversation (frankly, there weren’t that many) and bid his time.  After a while his self-imposed pupil sauntered over to order a drink and snap at him (Hayato never seemed to lose his bad humor, Shamal mourned) before leaving him to speak with Tsuna (again).
It was all very boring, really, but at least there were several provocatively dressed women at the party tonight for him to enjoy.  The one he was most interested in, however, was still nowhere to be seen.  Until there was a tug at the stupid reindeer antlers on his head and suddenly she was there, right next to him wearing that sexy as hell outfit and a bland smile.
“[Name],” he drawled, peering over at her with mischievous eyes.  He rested his chin on his hand and glanced down at her, making absolutely no effort to hide the fact that he was checking her out.  She didn’t seem to mind, and just glanced at the bartender and ordered a, “Martini, please, nice and dirty.”  She glanced at Shamal with a smirk.
“What’s with the antlers?” she asked while the bartender prepared her drink.  She turned around to lean against the counters, elbows resting behind her.  The position forced her chest outward just a little, just enough to make him notice. 
He smirked and shrugged.  “Don’t ask me, it wasn’t my idea.”  He wiggled the antler headband and then his eyebrows, “Why?  Does Santa want to ride his reindeer?” 
She gaped at him, cheeks turning just a little bit red, and then spluttered, “What?!”  He was absolutely unashamed and [Name] rolled her eyes.  Why was she surprised?  He made digs at everything that had breasts.  Still, there was definitely something different about the ones he’d made to her.  They were never quite as dirty as some of the others she’d heard.  Never quite crossed some of the boundaries that had been crossed with other women. 
He chuckled lowly and murmured, “I could buck you around all night, [Name].”  Okay.  Scratch that. 
She sighed and gave him a look that told him to shut the fuck up or she’d probably bash his face in.  Needless to say, Shamal didn’t listen to the silent warning.  He never did.
“Humph.  As if,” she muttered.  “Maybe if you’d learn some manners first.”  She hadn’t actually meant it as a condition, but Shamal’s eyes lit up and he grinned.
“Manners?  I’ve got plenty of those.  Shall I show you?” he wondered, standing up.  She barely even got a sip out of her martini before he was hooking his hand around hers and dragging her off to the dance floor…without even asking.  So much for all his talk.  But she went, because she didn’t feel like making a fuss over a silly dance.  Even if she suspected that his form of dancing was a little different from hers.
Except, surprisingly, she was actually having fun.  Apparently Shamal could be a gentleman if he wanted, he just chose not to most of the time.  As he drew her into the dance, his hands didn’t wander and he didn’t get as close as she thought he would.  It was just a normal dance.  And the way he’d spin her around actually made her laugh for the thrill of it.
“See?  I’m not as bad as you thought,” he smirked as he brought her back in after a particularly wonderful twirl.  Then he paused, made a face, and added, “Though I can be really, really bad if you want.”  He meant really really good, of course, but he liked getting around to that part in the most disorderly fashion.  It was more fun that way.
[Name] rolled her eyes and muttered, “I’m afraid I’m not that easy, Doctor.”  It was actually more of a purr – which of course piqued his interest.  He raised an eyebrow at her and smirked.
“That’s fine.  I like a good chase,” he drawled.
A fleeting smirk lit her eyes.  “I’d expect nothing less from a professional skirt-chaser.”
She really shouldn’t goad him.  She knew how he can be.  She heard plenty of stories and had been around him long enough to know that most of them wer probably true.  But a part of her couldn’t help it.  She liked teasing him.  It didn’t help that she had this curiosity – a curiosity that demanded to know if all those rumors were just exaggerated.  Which was why she didn’t complain (too much) when the good doctor chuckled and dragged her very close, hands slipping down her back in a tiny rebellious way that crosses the lines of etiquette. 
“Oh, chasing skirts is all well and fun,” he murmured in her ear, breath hot and lips barely brushing against skin as he moved her body over his.  “…But I don’t limit myself to just looking.”  He had the audacity to actually squeeze her ass very briefly before darting his hands to her back again, blinking innocently as if the whole thing had been an accident. 
[Name] raised both eyebrows this time and shifted closer, heart thrumming dangerously in her chest.  She couldn’t deny the shiver that dazzled her skin when he’d done that risky little move of his.  Couldn’t deny that he was definitely making her even more curious than she already was.  So she just trailed her hands up his arms and tilted her head in a subtly challenging way.
He saw her expression for what it was and felt a tiny bit surprised that this was actually working.  Some of that surprise leaked out into his voice when he lowly murmured, “Good girl like you probably shouldn’t let me taint me though.”  He grimaced inside at the words, and wondered why he said them at all.  What was he doing, trying to push her away after all effort? 
But [Name] just shrugged and turned the tables yet again with that delicious smirk of hers.  “What if I’m not the good girl you think I am?” she wondered, and he paused.
Yup.  Surprised didn’t even cover what he was feeling.  He couldn’t believe that this was so simple.  So he hummed contemplatively and said, “Well then…I’d say I might have to test that out for myself.”
[Name] smirked wider and leaned in, laying her hand over his chest and subtly pressing her body against his.  Her leg darted between his legs just barely, just enough to make him grit his teeth.  He had to bite the inside of his cheek just to stop his moan from spilling from his wayward lips. 
“I’m sure we can run a few thorough tests upstairs, if you’re willing,” she whispered, and Shamal nearly fell, his knees shook so much.
His eyes flashed.  She reached up to flick at the antlers still on his head, and he decided that he wasn’t going to let this chance pass him by for anything in the fucking world.  So he grabbed her hand and dragged her off the dance floor, not even caring who saw them as he pulled her out of the room and into the hallway toward the elevators.  [Name] laughed as he did, a low burning sound that made him wonder who, exactly, was doing the seducing here.  He suddenly got the feeling that it wasn’t him.
The moment the elevator opened, he shoved her inside and against the wall, lips crashing down onto hers before she could so much as speak.  To say it surprised her would be a lie – [Name] was completely prepared for his little move, had been planning it even.  She met him halfway, practically barring her teeth as she kiss him back with a vengeance that made Shamal groan.  Hands were everywhere, and he had his up her shirt before the elevator door closed.
“Are you – sure you want to…mmm…do this, darlin’?” he heard himself mutter, because it was [Name] and he couldn’t believe his luck.  Part of him was still convinced that she would disappear into thin air and he’d have dreamed this all up.  But she just nipped dangerously at his lower lip, fingers quick and strategic as they hurried over the buttons of his dress shirt.  Her actions alone gave him his answer, but for good measure she murmured a low, breathless, “Yes.”  Impatience was a lovely color on her.
By the time they reached their floor, clothes had been undone and hung off their frames.  Hair had been mussed and lips were swollen, eyes dark and empowered and bold, hands always moving and shifting in search of skin.  They stumbled into the thankfully deserted hallway, mouths still working with that delicious fury.  Shamal doubted he’d have stopped even if there was a whole crowd of people waiting on the other side of the elevator doors.
He didn’t give her the option of choosing which room to bunker down in.  All his thoughts were focused on other things and he didn’t even consider it.  He knew that his hotel room was close to the elevators and started for it, dragging her with him as their lips bumped and broke apart from the movement.  [Name] giggled.  He grinned.
“Impatient, are we?” she asked teasingly as he fumbled for the key – it was in his pockets somewhere.  He glowered at her, smirked when he finally found it, and dangled it in front of her face with a mischievous expression.
“Would you like to do the honors?” he asked.  She paused, biting her lip, and then mumbled a curse as she grabbed at the key.  It was her turn to fumble as she slid it into the lock, her turn to raze the door open with her impatience, her turn to grab him by the collar and pull him forcefully into the room.  He grunted in surprise (he’d never met a woman so excited for sex before, it was sort of amazing) and allowed her to pull him down into another kiss that sent his head spinning beautifully.
Within seconds, his shirt was a pile on the floor and his trousers were undone and hanging off his hips.  He had to admit, she made quick work of him.  Her eagerness alone had made him half hard, and he was well on his way to the point of no return (as it were).
She squirmed against him, hips dancing a delicate timeless dance that only made him ever harder.  His control had never been particularly good, and he let that go too.  Useless things flew from their bodies – clothes, jewelry – but when Shamal reached up to tug the antlers off, [Name] stopped him with a wide smirk. 
“If I’m going to ride you, you’d better keep those on,” she purred.  At once, fire reared through him.  The words caused beautiful phantoms to dance around his head, images of her astride him, how her breasts would look as she moved, how delicious the sight would be, to hold witness to such a moment.  He would have a front row seat.
A slow smile crept up his mouth, tilting it into an expression of pure lust and something akin to adoration.  He was impressed, to say the least.  [Name] had always seemed to delicate.  The good girl.  But what was the saying?  That it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for?  The sentiment fit rather well.
“You’d better get started, then,” he murmured with that sinful smile, bumping his nose against hers as he ducked his mouth for another kiss.  It was passion, heady and endless, that made him gather her up in his arms and pull at the stays of her clothes.  Desire that made him moan when she slid her hand down to cup his erection.  Impatience that had him dragging her across the room, fumbling with the last of their clothes, and falling down onto the mattress in a flurry of movement.
[Name] let out a startled laugh that bled into a moan as he nestled between her legs and lowered his mouth to her breasts.  She fit perfectly in his hands, and he spread his palm over one while his tongue licked at the other.  Her nipples were already taut and hard, pebbled with a desire that he would only continue to induce.  Her fingers tangled into his hair and dragged him closer, legs curling around his waist and hips twisting up into a writhing arch that rubbed their lower bodies together in the most senselessly beautiful way imaginable.  He groaned against her breast, caught between wanting to punish her or reward her for the move.  After a moment, he decided that rewarding her would be so much more gratifying.  Punishment could come later.  There were many more hours spread out before them before the morning would force their goodbyes.
Shamal had a reputation for being a ne’er-do-well, but it was in fact untrue.  (A little.)  He was, in fact, very good at pleasing women.  Whether he liked to brag about it later hardly mattered to the women who were at the receiving end of said pleasure.  He’s never heard any of them complain.  [Name] didn’t either, especially when he started lowering himself down further and further, lips pressing swift and firm and sometimes lingering kisses into her skin as he mapped out her body.
“Shamal…not that I don’t enjoy where this is going…” [Name] murmured as she watched him, “but I’m feeling a little impatient right now.”  Her eyes fluttered as he kissed her hip, tongue flicking out to curve over the jutting bone.  He was a sight for sore eyes in that position, with his head between her thighs and his breath fanning out over her leg.  Especially when he looked up at her with an almost dry look, eyebrow raised and eyes sparkling somewhere between mischievous desire and incredulous disbelief.
“I have a feeling you’ll regret those words in a minute,” he breathed, lips brushing over her clit just barely, just enough to catch every ounce of her attention.  She stared, and he stared back, and then he gave her a smirk and ducked his head.  The lazy pull of his tongue over her folds was enough to have her arching up, body shuddering and breathy moan spilling from her lips. 
She wasn’t proud of the sound that left her that moment, but Shamal seemed to enjoy it immensely.  He chuckled, the sound vibrating over her like smoking thunder, and pressed his mouth directly against her as if he was kissing her actual lips.  The sucking that ensued was tremendously enthusiastic and left her into a boneless mess.
He lapped at her like an animal and she gasped and writhed beneath him with powerful lurches.  His forearms pinned her hips down, and with every whimpering shift he grinned just a little wider; lapped just a little faster.  Before very long, she was twisting her fingers into his hair and attempting to pull him away from her.  The pleasure that had stacked itself up within her was threatening to fall, knocking over like tiled dominos clattering in uneven lines. 
Shamal, for all his stubborn desire, allowed her to call this particular shot.  He lifted his head and peered at her.  Her body was beaded with sweat, her chest heaving, nipples hard and taut, thighs quivering…  She looked even better than he’d ever imagined.
There was a silent order gleaming in her eye, a vague ‘get-over-here-or-else’ expression that left little room for argument.  He didn’t have it in him to argue anyhow, and he crawled up her body wordlessly, lips curling up as he examined the drifting flash of need evident in those stark eyes.  When his hips joined against hers and his hardness rubbed against her core, that need tripled with a power that left him near to breathless just at the sight of it.
“You’re more impatient than I expected,” he chuckles, thinking about how easy going [Name] tended to be in practically every situation.  But if he’d thought that gentle acceptance would translate into shy hesitance in the bedroom, he was wrong. 
She tightened her lips and said breathlessly, “And you’re slower than I expected.”  The hidden part of her sentence drifted between them in slanted shades of desire: hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.
He smirked, but wasted no more time with the insignificant tides of their one-time affection. 
Her eyes fluttered when he eased the tip of his cock in, gently spearing her flesh.  It was easy to sink into her.  Easy to let her take him further and further, until the depth of her felt like an ocean purged of light.  The only light that would guide him now was the flashing thunderous prayer that shattered her gaze into a mosaic of bright passion.  He would repair her, but only after destroying her in the best way possible.
“Shit,” she gasped, and he raised an eyebrow as he hilted himself inside her.  He paused briefly, inspecting her face for signs of pain.  Shamal was a diehard skirt chaser, yes, but never let it be said that he was a selfish lover.  But after a moment, [Name] narrowed her eyes at him and murmured, “What’re you waiting for?  Me to change my mind?”
He couldn’t stop the bark of laughter that shot from his lips.  It was a broken sound, muddled with desire that was barely held in check.  How he could feel amusement when he was buried within her was beyond him, but there it was, lifting in his chest and scattering over his skin.
“A little too late for that,” he muttered, hardly coherent, and thrust.  She crumpled into the sheets with a moan and he swore it was the best sound he’d ever heard.
They writhed together, twisting limbs around limbs and grinding skin into dust.  The world shimmered around them, there and not there.  The importance of it had been washed away and replaced with the sway of their bodies and the soft-but-hard angle of their hips.  The only thing that concerned him was the reaching.  The path had hardly been set upon; all that was left was getting to the end of it.
And they did, much sooner than Shamal would have liked.  But [Name] was already blistering with the pleasure of his previous antics, and when her back pushed off the mattress and her voice rose in a litany of moans, the feel and sight of her was too much.  He could have handled it (he had enough experience by now to shove his desire to the back of his mind), but any strength he had left was shattered when she started murmuring his name.
“Shamal…Shamal – “ and the starkness of her passion hit him square in the chest, sending him overboard into the squalor of his own release.  He cursed, drew himself out of her, and wrapped his fingers around his length.  The sight of him bucking into his own grasp left [Name] moaning all over again even though her orgasm was nothing but the shredded remains of a song lost to the world. 
She swatted his hand away and replaced it with her own, coaxing his release with every swipe of her skin.  He spilled himself onto the flat of her stomach, painting her skin with the pale translucence of his own finish, and when he was done he lowered him down beside her with a heaving sigh.
He groaned a moment later.  “Sorry…made a mess of you…”  He was so satiated and relieved that he couldn’t even bring himself to make sense.  [Name] chuckled, stretching her body out and sighing.
“Get me a washcloth?” she asked, then added as a tired afterthought, “Next time we can’t forget the condoms.  Honestly, I can’t believe you didn’t have one on you.”
He can’t believe it either.  Usually he always had one in his wallet or shoved in his back pocket, but – “Wait, next time?” he questioned, just now realizing what she’d said.  He rose up onto his elbow with a raised eyebrow, surprised that she actually wanted to do this again.  He wasn’t used that, but…he liked the sound of it.
She copied his expression with a little jaunty smile and reached up to tug at the reindeer antlers still hanging off his head.  He completely forgot they were still there.
“I’ve decided I need more time to figure out what women find so irresistible about you,” she explains, then nudges him with her knee and says, “Washcloth.”  He hums and gets up to amble off to the bathroom.
Huh.  Well, Shamal usually isn’t a one woman kind of guy, but as he cleans her up and they settle back on the bed, he decides that he might make an exception for her.


Sunday, February 14, 2016

A France Lemon -- Roses Red

Character: France

OC: [Name]

Fandom: Hetalia

Inspiration: Because Valentine’s Day is the day of clichés, which makes France the perfect candidate.  And because I thought I should post something since it's the holiday of love and all that crap :)  

You’ve been dreading this day, expecting the absolute worst.  But oddly enough, there is no bouquet of roses waiting for you in the kitchen when you wake up.  No mushy note near the coffee pot.  Francis barely glances your way as he rushes out to his car, giving you only a brief peck before disappearing.  You go to work feeling wary, but he doesn’t appear outside the building during your lunch break, and no flowers are sent to your office at all.  It’s glorious.
You’re in a good mood when you drive home from work.  Francis must be extremely stressed out if he actually forgot about Valentine’s Day.  So – because you’re not heartless, usually – you make a quick stop at the grocery store and buy a box of chocolates.  It’s not exactly the most extraordinary gift, but you have a feeling France won’t mind.  He’s very gracious when it comes to accepting such things, and anything cliché is his forte.  Which is why you also end up buying one of the red roses that are displayed near the registers.  It’s a little bit wilted but just cliché enough to have an effect, you’re sure.
You’re grinning when you open the door to your apartment.  You absolutely loathe Valentine’s Day, and Francis seems to have forgotten about its existence entirely, which makes the sun a little brighter and your smile a little softer.  He usually drags you out to some fancy restaurant every year.  You enjoy dressing up for it, but the idea of not making a big deal out of the frankly ridiculous holiday has you sighing with happiness as your kick your shoes off and meander into the kitchen. 
You don’t see him at first, though you know he’s home.  There’s some kind of movie playing in the living room.  Soft, old fashioned voices lilt their way through the doorway.  You don’t think much of it.  Francis likes his black and white movies.
With a soft hum, you put your purse down and take your gifts, wandering into the living room in your search for him.  But when you step into said room, all thoughts flee.
It is transformed.  The television is playing some romantic old movie and the couch is strewn with pillows and even the quilt from your bed.  There are little fairy lights hung up by the windows, which are drawn just enough to shed only the barest rays of evening light.  Dimmed and beautiful, the dull light gleams on a bottle of champagne, which is set up by the couch on the small table along with two flutes.  It looks like the expensive sort.  And then there’s the fact that Francis has strewn the entire room with roses.  Literally every inch of it.  A large bouquet stands ready by the television, and the couch is littered with petals.  It’s so cliché you that actually choke.
“Ah, mon amour.  There you are,” his low voice sounds behind you.  Before you can turn, he’s wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him, resting his chin on your shoulder with a smirk.  He chuckles and you’re stuck between excitement and drowning in all the clichés that you think are ridiculous.
“…Rose petals?  Really?” you hear yourself ask.  Damn.  He hadn’t forgotten after all, he’s just been bidding his time to surprise you. 
He chuckles again, “You should see the bed.”  He smirks when you groan, and peppers your exposed neck with a fluttering of kisses to appease you. 
“But what’s this?” he wonders idly, wrapping his fingers around the wrist that’s holding the rose you bought.  “For me?  How romantic of you, amour.”  You let him extricate it from your grasp and you sigh, turning in his arms and thrusting the chocolates at him too, without preamble. 
“I thought you forgot, so I felt bad, which made me buy you this crap to make you feel better, and now obviously I regret it because you didn’t forget after all – “ you ramble, thinking to make him understand.  But Francis only smiles down at you, looking gleefully pleased that you’d gone out of your way.  He takes your hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, soft and gentle and so cliché and romantic –
“Forget about Valentine’s Day?  How on earth could I?” he asks with a laugh.  Then he brings you closer to quietly say, “Thank you, ma chérie.” [2] And presses a kiss to your mouth.
He pulls away to lift the slightly wilted rose to his face, inhaling the soft scent of it as he sends you a smile.  For some abhorrent reason, a blush actually creeps over your face at the sight.  You’re sure it’s because you’re a tiny bit embarrassed that he seems to like your gifts so much when his gifts are so much…more.  He had obviously put a lot more time in this than you, and yet here he is, holding your cheap rose with gentle fingers and looking at you as if you’re a Goddess proving your love through metaphoric gestures.
“Ah – your jacket,” he suddenly says, realizing that you’re still wearing it.  You pause, then start unbuttoning the coat.  Of course you should’ve known that Francis wouldn’t let you do something so mundane on the day he sets aside to practically worship you.  (Sarcasm aside, you suppose you could have it worse.)
He folds the jacket over his arm and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with twinkling eyes.  “Now how shall I seduce you tonight?” he wonders, clearly enjoying the scrunched expression you send him as the words reach you.
You mumble something incoherent beneath your breath and then say louder, “You can do whatever you want, Francis, but I’m going to take a shower first.”  And then you start off for the bedroom.  Behind you, Francis exclaims something about how the two people on the television screen are about to have the most romantic kiss in the history of movie kisses and that you’re being a spoil sport – but you’ve already disappeared and he huffs.  He thinks about joining you (of course) but pushes the hot-blooded desire down.  That can come later, he promises himself.
Ma fille têtue…” [3] shakes his head and grins to himself, tapping his chin idly.  “I think I’ll enjoy making her break.”  His eyes flicker as he watches the historically romantic kiss, and he smiles to himself.
Meanwhile you’ve become an incredulous sentinel in the bedroom doorway because you’re too busy staring at the rose petals on the bed to remember the shower you were going to take.  Seriously.  Rose petals everywhere.  You shake your head with a sigh and an image randomly springs to mind – of Francis below you, sprawled out amongst those petals and peering up at you with smoky eyes, made all the more lovely with the luxurious setting – but you toss it away as soon as it emerges. 
The shower makes you feel refreshed and ready to face the evening that awaits.  You take your time drying off and even wonder, for a moment, what Francis’s reaction to you would be if you wore your most hideous pair of pajamas.  Would he laugh at the obvious move and mention how you can’t get out of his plans so easily?  Or will he make a face and abandon his seduction plans?  The thought makes you make a face – you might not be a huge fan of rose petals or champagne or Valentine Day, but that doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy being intimate with Francis.  In fact, the very thought of ignoring all his cliché décor and going right to sex makes you smirk.  Perhaps he won’t be the one doing the seducing after all.  Perhaps you should turn the tables on him.
So you select the sexiest pair of lingerie you can find and sit down at your vanity, drawing your fingers through your tangled, damp hair.  He likes the little details, the little, unnecessary things that you sometimes do just because.  You put in earrings, little ones that match the black lingerie.  Slip a delicate black robe over your shoulders.  Then after a moment’s hesitation, you clasp on the simple silver pendant Francis had gotten you decades before.  The heart shaped pendant rests just below the hollow of your throat; noticeable enough for him to see it on first glance.  You have a feeling he will very much like to see it there.
You stalk out of the bedroom like you’re going to battle.
Francis idly glances over at you from the couch, where he’s got the bottle of champagne propped between his legs as he wrestles with the cork.  His fingers pause immediately upon sight, eyes hungrily scanning the length of your body before landing on the necklace around your neck.  His gaze softens just a touch, but only just.  He’s clearly got other things on his mind now, besides gentle romance. 
You stand between his knees and smirk, reaching out to curl your fingers around the neck of the champagne.  Then on a whim, you mischievously move said fingers over the neck in an action rather similar to when you touch him.  He notices, of course.  His eyes flash dangerously, as if he’s asking you when kind of game you’re playing, and what the rules of it are.
But there are no rules.  You pull the champagne away from him and deposit it back onto the side table, then kneel down between his legs.  You’ve barely even done anything and you can already detect the slightest hint of hardness tenting up his trousers. 
“I see you’re more interested in getting right to it,” he murmurs with a chuckle, reaching out to touch the necklace you’re wearing with a fond smile.  “Tempting,” he admits, “but I would rather be the one between your legs.”
You can’t help the shiver that catches you, can’t stop it from shaking down your spine.  You have a feeling he notices, but you just smile.  “Isn’t Valentine’s Day about love?  Why do I have to be the only one on the receiving end?”  Your hands creep up, and he watches carefully as your fingertips tap against his thighs.  His resolve is breaking.  Of course it is.  He’s got a woman between his legs, suggesting in so many words to suck him off.  What man could refuse?
“Amour, I – “ he interrupts himself with a hiss that makes you smirk in amusement.  Your fingers have found that hardness, and you’re rubbing him through his trousers while your free hand works on the button.  Despite his complaints, Francis shifts his legs apart a little.  He obviously wants you to continue, no matter what he says.
You pull the zipper down and he pauses for only a moment before lifting his hips a bit and helping you pull the trousers away.  He sighs, “You aren’t making this easy, are you?”  But you barely hear him.
With the trousers gone, his cock stands ready, curling up into the air.  He’s half hard, but you’ll fix that soon enough.  The prospect is exciting enough to make your eyes gleam as you glance at the rest of him.  His button up shirt is splayed out over his lower abdomen, hiding the muscles of his chest away.  But – you’re getting ahead of yourself.  First things first: make Francis so aroused that he abandons all this cliché shit.
You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock and his eyelids flutter.  A lilt of French escapes him as you start to pump him gently, but it’s an incoherent string of words.  A good sign, that.  When you lower your mouth to suck at the tip of him, he curls his fingers into your damp hair and chuckles.
“You are a minx,” he tells you, watching as you slowly take his cock into your mouth.  It’s rather lovely, the sight of him disappearing between your lips.  He decides to allow you your fun, though he knows it’s only because he can’t possibly deny you anything when you’re kneeling between his legs pleasuring him.
Fire shoots through his veins, sparked by the delicious feeling of your tongue as it rushes over the underside of his shaft.  Your fingers add to the heat by pumping the rest of him, and soon you’re setting a teasing pace that has him holding his breath and shifting his legs apart for easier access.  All his carefully thought out plans are slowly diminishing into the back of his mind, replaced by the abrupt desire to turn to more primal instincts.  He can revisit his more romantic strategy later, when he can actually string together a rational thought.
You pull your mouth away to pepper him with kisses, fluttery touches that make the muscles of his legs tense.  You drag your mouth down, down, down, until your tongue is licking over his balls and you’re sucking at them while your hand pumps him and up and down.  The combined sensations make Francis crumble, and this time the stream of French is very coherent to you.  You smile at the curses you hear him mutter.
There’s nothing quite like the empowered feeling of having him right where you want him, knowing that he’s going half insane because of you.  With one last lick, you flatten your hands over his thighs and devour his cock, pulling it back into your mouth with the intent to make him utterly crazy – and it only takes a moment for it to work.  He hisses, clutches at your hair and bucks his hips up into your mouth, letting loose a moan that makes you wet and eager.  But you ignore your own needs for now, because the sight of him is too beautiful and you don’t want to distract yourself from it.
You bury him into your mouth, so deep that your nose brushes against the blond hair that litters his pelvis, and then you swallow.  The feel of your throat convulsing around his cock is enough to make him moan loudly, his body transforming into an inferno of heat that laps at his skin and makes him feel flushed.  He’s so aroused that he can’t even breathe properly, only pant in shallow gasps.  And then you raise your eyes to meet his, and the sight of your peering up at him with his cock buried to the hilt in your mouth makes him grit his teeth and shakily murmur, “If you keep that up, I won’t be of much use to you later.” 
His orgasm feels imminent.  He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s been anticipating his intimacy all day, or if it’s just you and the extraordinary way you make him feel.  Whichever, his words do have some impact on you because you slowly, slowly drag his member out of your mouth.  Your eyes never leave his as he watches more and more of him reappear from between reddened lips.
Your hand replaces your mouth.  “We can’t have that,” you say with a wicked smile, and he practically groans all over again just at the sight of it.  Still, despite your words, your tongue darts out and flicks at his tip, and the movement breaks him.
As shivers dart through him, Francis clenches his jaw and shoots forward, making a split second decision as he heaves you onto your feet.  “No, we can’t,” he growls, and drags you off to the bedroom with all the determination of a man bereft of love.
You let him, laughing giddily when he lifts you up and tosses you onto the bed.  The movement causes your robe to flutter open, revealing pale thighs and more of your lacy back lingerie.  His eyes darken at the sight, and Francis takes a brief moment to look you over like you’re a present he’s about to unwrap.  It’s not an idle sentiment, because the next moment he’s crawling after you and untying the robe, shifting a hand over your leg and tracing the line of your panties.  Your breath catches as you watch him pull his shirt off, muscles roiling as they follow his movements.
“My turn,” he murmurs with a sinful smile, and abruptly ducks his head down to press his tongue over the cloth that covers your core.  It’s already wet from your arousal.
His teeth sink into the fabric, gently nipping and teasing and suckling.  You arch your back with a moan, thighs trembling.  It’s such an impromptu touch that you’re taken completely off guard despite the fact that you really should have anticipated it.  Francis is nothing if not thorough, especially when it comes to reciprocating affection.  And this sort of affection happens to be his favorite.
“Francis – “ you start, fingers grappling toward him.  But he intercepts them, curling his own fingers around your wrists and pinning them against your stomach in a fit of dominant passion.  He laps at you and it’s not nearly enough, because you can’t feel him properly with the panties still covering you.  You writhe and pant and try to shift yourself from his grasp, but his fingers only tighten around your wrists and he doesn’t let you gain the upper hand.
He chuckles against you, eyes dancing as he glances up at your form.  To say that he likes the outfit would be an understatement, and the fact that he can make you so crazy when you’re not even fully naked sends a pulse of male pride through him.  He’d like nothing more than to just tear the lingerie off of you and fill you with his cock, which is pressing diligently and maybe even a little painfully into the mattress as he hovers above you.  But he wants to make you as crazy as you make him, and besides, he loves seeing you flushed and breathless from his teasing.
His tongue darts out and firmly circles your core, tasting you through the thin layer of cloth.  The move is calculated: he makes sure to make the circle wide enough to encompass the bundle of nerves at the top of your clit.  His reward comes in the form of a stunning gasp.  Your fingers clench around his, tight and clinging as your hips roll up to his face. 
“Francis!” you cry again, both a complaint and a plea.  It’s a lovely sound that goes straight to his cock, which twitches greedily.  It takes all his self control not to just rut into the mattress to take away some of the strangling desire.
He smirks wickedly and grasps both your wrists in one hand, moving the other down to hook his finger into the edge of the panties to drag the cloth that cover your core to the side.  Then his tongue is lapping at your bare skin, wet and wanting for more of his touches, and you let out a sharp keening moan that makes him abandon your wrists to lift your hips closer to his face. 
The moment you’re free, you clench your fingers into his hair and push your hips up, pressing your clit to his face with all the wanton desire you can muster.  It must make quite the sight, because he doesn’t last long in that position before Francis is muttering a swift curse and letting your hips fall back to the mattress.  You’re aching and throbbing so much that you barely even notice the way he jerks your panties down your legs and starts on your bra.  A quick press of fingers and it’s gone, bringing the robe with it.  Then he’s nestling between your thighs, rubbing his cock against the wet seam of your entrance, and leaning down to press his lips against yours.
You moan, wrapping your arms around his shoulders with a soft cry.  Your hips wriggle against him, demanding him to finally take you – and he does, because he probably wants to fuck you more than you want to fuck him, and that’s saying quite a lot.
He slides in easily, smoothly.  You’re so wet that you barely feel the strain at all, and you just moan all the louder because it feels so good to be filled with him.  The moment Francis is hilted inside you, he lets out a breathy moan that makes you all the crazier, and immediately starts off at a pace that threatens to make you come much faster than you thought possible.
“Oh yes, yes,” you mumble, nonsense streaming from your lips as his hips pin you down again and again.  He stretches you, delves deep and then rushes back in, and it isn’t until the immediate ache of his desire is quenched that he even thinks about slowing down.  But it’s impossible.  As much as he enjoys slow lovemaking, his need for you is insatiable.  He can’t slow down.  He can only go faster, writhing against you and soaking up your moans.
Your nails bite into his back, wrack over his skin.  He barely feels it.  He can only feel the immense pleasure that comes from the way you wrap around him, the way he fits so snugly inside you and slides so easily against your inner walls.  It’s glorious, beautiful.  He loses himself in you.
“Francis,” you moan, low and breathy in his ear, and he thinks he’s seconds away from breaking entirely when you gasp and arch and come – and the rush of desire that rises up within him at the sight makes him groan.  He follows immediately.  You pull him down into the shade of your love and he forgets what it is to be one person, separate from you.  He forgets everything except the way you hold him, yearn for him, sigh out when you feel him fill you with the heat of his release.  His thrusts stumble, his pace shatters, and he lowers his head to your chest and sighs out too, floating between emotions he cannot name as calm tranquility replaces the burn of his passion.
It takes a few minutes for him to acknowledge anything besides that peace.  Your fingers card through his hair, massaging over his scalp as you lay beneath him in satiated exhaustion.  Loving him takes a lot of energy but you doubt you’ll ever be able to stop. 
“You know this is only round one,” he mumbles, raising his head to give you a lazy smirk.  You raise an eyebrow and he shifts his body up over you before laying back down at your side.  You fit yourself against him, hooking one leg over his hips and reaching up to pluck a rose petal from his hair.  How it got there, you’ve no idea, but suddenly you find the situation very amusing.
A gentle, playful scoff, and you say, “Rose petals.  You are aware that you don’t need to do all this, right?” 
It’s his turn to arch his brow.  He looks at you carefully, the corner of his mouth tilting up into a smile as his eyes glimmer with warmth.  His fingers trace your cheekbone as he murmurs, “It’s Valentine’s Day.  Would you prefer I ignore you entirely like an utter brute?”  You laugh.
“I love you,” you say instead, because suddenly you don’t care about his clichés.  The tired happiness that creeps over you makes you find it endearing instead of annoying, and you lift yourself up to kiss him slowly.
“Mmmm…” he sighs, kissing you back with all the slow passion he’s been waiting to use.  Round two is equally as sentimental.

Extended Ending

“More champagne?” Francis asks, lifting the half empty bottle to your glass.  You hum in agreement and he fills it with the sparkling liquid.  An arm wraps around your bare shoulders and pulls you closer to his chest.  He gently taps the rim of your glass to his with an idle smile.  In the background, the black and white movie is replaying, serenading you with the softly lilting voices of decades prior.
It’s late, past midnight probably, but time seems to pass silently between you.  You tug your quilt closer and press your bare skin against his beneath it, sending Francis a little smile as you do.  He chuckles lowly and kisses your cheek.
“This is nice,” you admit, and it is.  The romantic movie, the flowers and the lights – it all adds to the gentle ambiance of the room.  But the nicest part is him, him and his love for you and the way it makes your heart warm and happy and anchored.
He hums, another soft chuckle escaping him, “I liked your methods just as much.”  A teasing, mischievous glint creases his eyes and you fail to fight back a grin.
“I’ll remember that for next year,” you say, and press your mouth to his with soft intent.  He quickly makes it more, burning that softness away and replacing it with passion as easily as if he were breathing.  It shouldn’t surprise you – Francis exudes passion if everything he does, even if said things have no romantic potential at all.  But it still makes you drown against him, and you laugh when he takes your champagne flute and deposits it onto the table without preamble. 
You don’t sleep in your rose strewn bed that night; the couch happens to be infinitely more comfortable as it is.


[1] Mon amour … My love
[2] Ma chérie … My dear
[3] Ma fille têtue … My stubborn girl

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

An Arthur Pendragon Lemon -- Radiant Demise

Character: Carina

Fandom: BBC Merlin

OC: Carina, long curly black hair, blue eyes, confident and stubborn

Inspiration: I’ll admit, I borrowed some of this from Zorro…except backwards ;)  Not sorry.  And for the last few people waiting on requests, I swear I'm working on them and won't abandon you x) I'm taking Accounting this semester so.  Seriously just kill me.  I can barely even count to ten as it is.  

She is trying to kill him.  There’s no other explanation.  And he thinks it might actually be working.
He grips his sword, ducks back and parries when Carina lunges forward.  Her blade nips the bark of the tree he uses to shield himself, and before she can fully pull it back, he’s swinging at her from the side.  Dirty fighter, she glowers – yet still manages to stop his blow by spinning a dagger out from her belt and clanging it against metal.  The defense lasts two seconds before he overpowers it, but by then the sword is back in her hands and Arthur is scowling.  His plan has, evidentially, failed.
She laughs.  “Come now, darling, this is only a bit of fun.”  She jumps out of the way of a particularly determined swing and purses her mouth.  “There’s no need to get so worked up about it…”  She has no idea if her voice is annoyed or amused or maybe a strange combination of the two.
Arthur narrows his eyes at her and skims his sword over hers.  The sound of metal on metal slides over their ears.  She holds firm, waiting for him to knock her blade aside.  He’s being quite antagonistic, really – she wouldn’t have been very surprised if he tries to knock her feet from beneath her.
“I’m not getting worked up, I’m just trying to beat you,” he tells her, and before she can respond, Arthur is twisting around her and lunging toward the opening beneath her arm.  But she has followed his movements carefully and has already planned ahead, knocking the blade out of the way and dancing backwards.  And as she does, she loosens the already loose collar of her shirt, revealing several more inches of skin.  She is definitely trying to kill him.
Her eyes sparkle when she casually glances down at his body, and she chuckles.  “Oh, I think you’re a little worked up, Arthur,” she purrs, and he grinds his teeth together.  It isn’t that obvious, is it?  That he is completely lusting over her right now?  Well he is her husband, so he of all people actually has the right to. 
“Must be hard to spar when you’re so hard down there,” she teases quietly, voice low and almost taunting, in a way.  He knows she is only trying to get a rise out of him, and he is half tempted to let her if only it would result in them being done with this silly sparring match.  He wants her writhing beneath him in the grass, gasping his name while he brings waves of pleasure down on her.
His head tilts back a tiny bit and he swallows back every impatient, desire-fueled thought.  Yes, he might be occasionally willing to sacrifice his power for her, but this time the more stubborn side of his nature is winning.  Unfortunately for him, his lovely wife has more stubbornness than a fucking ox.
“It’s not that bad,” he says, voice measured and calm.  Too calm.  Like he’s trying to outwit her.  She doesn’t rise to the bait, only makes some of her own.
A raised eyebrow pierces the air between them.  “Oh?  Maybe for you.”  And then suddenly she’s slipping her hand beneath her loose fitting tunic and he’s frowning in confusion as he watches her do…something…  And he knows he should probably use this distraction to his advantage, but really, the only thing Arthur can do is stand there and stare as he realizes just exactly what she’s up to.  She’s untying her breast band.  She’s untying her fucking breast band in the middle of a spar.  And he just got a little harder.
“Mmmm…that’s much better,” Carina says as she shifts the binding out of her shirt.  It falls to the grass beside her, and her now freed breasts push against the thin fabric of her tunic.  Her nipples are hard and he can see practically every detail, has memorized every detail – knows what’s waiting for him and fuck everything to hell, he can’t think of anything except ripping her clothes off.
That is most certainly the response she’s looking for.  She smirks and reaches up again, this time to loosen her shirt once more.  The stays between her breasts are undone, displaying a fair amount of cleavage to her husband’s hungry eyes.  Far too much for a proper lady to show in a public place (she supposes that the forest outside the palace is technically still public).  But then again, Carina has never been a proper lady, at least not where desire is concerned.
“You’re going to kill me,” he muttered to himself, the thought once again spinning through his head.  His wife is a superb swordswoman – he never knows if he’ll win or lose when they have a match – but she’s never used such tactics before.  She wants him to go crazy.  And if he knows his wife at all, she won’t be satisfied until she sees it rip him apart. 
Carina smirks and stalks forward.  They dance again, and Arthur barely has time to block her strike before the blade is twisting to the side and trying to disarm him.  He catches the hilt of his sword firmly to prevent it from flying out of his hand and watches as she spins away.  Every fucking movement draws his eyes to her chest.  He can’t help it.  He’s a man with a fucking hard on and the woman he’s desperately in love with is twirling around him with her breasts free and begging to be touched.
“God damn it,” he mutters, lifting his sword to parry yet another blow.  Truthfully, he’s getting a little tired of this game.  He can’t think strategically when all he can think about is the boner that’s lifting up his trousers.  It’s gotten worse.  Much worse.  And she knows it, because her eyes are twinkling with mischief.
“I think you should follow my example, Arthur,” she says, the side of her mouth twitching up.  She looks so wicked that he’s overcome by the very real desire to throw down his sword and just grab her like the brute she’s turning him into.  He can be a bit of a bully when it comes to the things he most wants.  It’s not something he’s particularly proud of, and he’s been working on it, but she makes him crumble.  It’s a very good thing that she can be a bully too, at least enough of one to match him word for word, touch for touch.
Still, he’s slightly confused by her words and the rest of him doesn’t even care.  Talking takes effort.  Moving takes effort.  All he can think about is what it’ll feel like to spill himself inside her hot, wet, tight –
The very tip of her blade is suddenly right in front of him and he jumps in surprise because of the way he’s so brutally dragged out of his daydream.  She could have ended this so easily – but she hadn’t.  Instead of pushing her blade to his neck and calling victory, Carina hooks it into his collar and pulls down…ripping his shirt in two from top to bottom.  Then she dances back with a laugh and Arthur stares in total shock.
“You just – did you really – damn it Carina, what am I going to wear back to the castle?!” he exclaims, but he’s not really angry.  No, her movement has only succeeded to make him even more lustful than he’d been before.  Fuck it, but he loves her brusque attitude, her ‘I-always-get-what-I-want’ demeanor.  He’s got it too.
She stalks to the side and says in a positively sinful voice, “Guess you’ll just have to go half naked.”  The idea is not at all enticing, but the way she says ‘naked’ definitely makes him shiver.  Her eyes glint at him, like she’s telling him that she wants him to get naked right now.  With a tilt of her head, Carina says, “You know, I think I’m a bit bored with this match.  I’m going to go wash in the river.”  She drops the sword to the ground. 
He raises an eyebrow and is about to say something but then his mouth goes dry, because as she turns her back on him, Carina lifts her tunic up and over her head.  Her back is completely bared, and he can see the sideline of her breast as she turns to the water that’s gushing nearby.  She starts for it…but she doesn’t make it very far.
He’s behind her before she can take three steps, arms hooking around her waist and body pressed tightly to hers.  Carina tilts her head back with a heady sigh as his hands lift up to her breasts, cupping them firmly and squeezing.  He mutters out a curse and drops his fingers to her leggings, mouth searing over the skin of her neck as he struggles with the ties.  And she bites her lip, closes her eyes, and laughs lowly in her throat.  He’s acting like he hasn’t had sex in months.  (A gross exaggeration.)
But she doesn’t complain when he shuffles her leggings down.  She’s a little too preoccupied for that, especially when he tips her chin up and crashes his lips down over hers.  He kisses her like she’s the only thing he wants, ever.  And as his lips move over hers, his fingers brush over her body, sliding his touch against her bare skin and making her burn.
“Arthur…” she whispers, the edge of a plea gently encasing her voice.  He kisses it away, devouring it, one hand rising to cup her face.  She cranes into him and moans breathlessly.  Her legs rubs together, hoping to somehow ignite her lower body in the way she’s craving, but the only thing she succeeds in doing is drawing Arthur’s attention down.  Not that that’s a bad thing.
His eyes slice back up to hers, looking dark and wicked, and she purses her lips to hide her smile.  “Would you like me to touch you, my Lady?” he purrs, voice rumbling low.  She pauses and takes a moment to study him – the blown eyes, rumpled clothes, ready-to-kiss mouth, and the hard bulge that has manifested against her rear and pushes against her in a way she cannot ignore. 
Remembering that he has asked her a question jolts Carina from her momentary stupor.  Her eyes jerk up to his, which are crinkled in amusement as he watches her.  He raises an eyebrow and leans closer, running his hand down her stomach to the crevice of her thighs.  “Is that a yes?” he wonders idly, casually, as if he’s not inches away from her very aroused core.  Carina gives a breathless laugh and leans her head against her shoulder, murmuring a soft, “Yes.”
It is all he needs.  His fingers converge on her, slipping between her legs and tracing her core.  With a grumbling sort of groan, Arthur mutters, “You’re soaking.”  He sounds ridiculously pleased about this.  Carina hums out a breathless agreement and shifts her legs further apart, hips slowly grinding up against his.  He swallows at the feel of her rubbing against his erection, and nips at her ear for good measure, just because.  His fingers increase their pace, thumb shifting over her clit as he slides one slowly inside.  She spreads easily for him, and he adds another, gently thrusting.  His mouth finds hers again.  This time, their kisses are languid, lazy.
But Carina doesn’t want him to be gentle with her.  She finds herself craving a different sort of passion, one that begs for a more hardy touch.  Her teeth nip at his bottom lip, a quick drag of painful pleasure that leave Arthur wanting more.  He kisses her harder in retaliation and she smirks.  He raises an eyebrow at the expression, and chuckles.  She’s so asking for it.  And he isn’t the sort to deny his lady anything.
With a lurching heave, Arthur abandons his position to instead lift her up into his arms.  Carina lets out a surprised laugh that’s quickly muffled by his lips.  He stumbles a ways over to a patch of grass and lowers her down, breaking the kiss and reaching for his tunic.  She stretches out her bare body and peers up at him, watching the twist of his muscles as he moves it over his head.  An impressive body, he has – built from years of training.  It certainly isn’t wasted on her, either. 
He comes back down and murmurs, “Would you like to do the honors?”  His eyes shine with amused desire that is clearly reflected in her own gaze.
Carina smirks and drawls, “The honors?  And here I thought your arrogance had somehow faded over the years…”  Arthur only gives her a swift grin and shrugs, neither negating nor agreeing with her. 
She laughs and slides her hands down his body, making sure to trace every contour of it before she reaches his trousers.  And then she’s slipping them off his hips and freeing his very hard erection, and Arthur leans down to kiss her again as she brushes her fingers over him.  Very hard indeed.
“As much as I’d like to take my time with you in this…romantic glen,” he whispers a little sarcastically, “I don’t think I can be patient.”  His hips surge forward in her fingers, and Carina swallows tightly.
“Mmmm…good,” is all she says, and he relaxes against her gratefully.  She guides him forward, legs shifting around his waist, and her breath catches as he fills her.  Taking their time is all well and good, but this – this desperate hasty mess that they’re in, the firm ache of their bodies, the impatience in their kisses – it is infinitely more enjoyable.
He thrusts slowly at first, patient enough to, at the very least, make sure he isn’t hurting her.  She’s tight and probably not as wet as she could be, and it is uncomfortable in the beginning.  But Arthur’s fingers descend on her core, rubbing pleasure into her body and making her react to him in the basest of ways – and after hardly a minute of this, she is even wetter and moaning his name and there is no more discomfort, only dark shades of desire shirking the tides of their passion.
She moans a low, heady moan and Arthur picks up his pace, angling his body above her to sink more deeply into her core.  The subtle movement makes her crazy – she grasps him and whimpers, biting her lip and wrapping her legs firmly around him.  With every downward thrust, she pushes her heels against his hips to force him even deeper.  He thinks her enthusiasm is delicious; it makes him absolutely insane.
“Arthur,” she moans, arching herself into him.  His lips descend upon hers, his hand rising up from her core to clutch at one breast.  He rolls her nipple between two fingers and longs to lean down to suckle at it, but he doesn’t want to interrupt his pace and so he tells himself he will enjoy her more thoroughly later on, when they are more comfortable in their chambers.  The thought spurs him, makes him push himself faster, feeling the delicious strain of his orgasm slowly building, shivering over his form like heat lightening on a summer night.
His fingers return to her core, rubbing at the top of her clit with firm, controlled movements.  He tries to hold his finish off, slows his pace down a little – he wants her to come first, needs to see the pleasure cocoon her body – and it’s definitely worth it.  The feel of him inside her, the quick way his fingers glide over her core, it makes her arch up and clutch at him desperately, eyes locking with his in silent warning.  He watches her as she shatters, body coiling as her orgasm thunders through her, and before she’s finished, he hurries his pace once more and throws himself back into the passion with a low groan.
Carina lies back, gasping.  She’s more than satisfied, and Arthur appears to share the sentiment.  He sends her a boyish, tired smile and curls up beside her, dragging her body against his as they lay together in a patch of sunlight.  
And if this is heaven, then Carina isn’t sure she’d be that surprised.  Because what makes her more happy than anything else is the feel of him beside her, skin warm and arms strong and eyes tinted with familiar, beautiful love.