Alliance by Marriage

Chapter 8

It's only when the sun is sinking, and its reddish glow on the water begins to dim into grey that I head back to my cabin. The wooden steps creak under my feet as I make my way downstairs. Two soldiers stand guarding my door. They'll remain here all night—even though there's no reason to expect trouble from anyone on the ship, the tradition of always having bodyguards around runs strong in my family. Now, they also have the additional job of guarding Emilio. Even after his vow of obedience, I'm not completely sure he won't try anything.

I push the heavy wooden door, step inside and shut it behind me with a muffled thud.

The room is softly lit by a few candles fixed in standing copper holders. The servants have set the scene—my robe and a bath towel are laid out on the bed, there's food on the table, and the polished wooden bath in the corner is filled with water. Judging by the steam rising over it, this has been done recently. I smile to myself. They usually predict my coming back correctly, as if they know my plans before I do.

Emilio is sitting in the armchair in the corner. His expression is blurred by the distance and the weak illumination, but his posture seems relaxed, his hands lying limply on the armrests. He's wearing one of my robes—a sign that he has bathed and changed, as instructed. Good.

I walk over to the bath and begin to unclasp my sword belt.

"Don't servants disrobe you?"

His voice is quiet, without the edge it had in the morning—another good sign. He's had time to calm down and think about his behavior. I wonder if he's also used some of that time to nap. The bed looks like it hasn't been slept in, but perhaps the servants have made it when they filled the bath.

"I can undress myself," I say, placing the belt with the attached ammunition on the chair. Then, another idea strikes me. "In fact, you can do the job. Come here."

Slowly, he pushes himself out of the armchair and gets up to his feet. My robe looks bulky on him, its fur trimming brushing his ankles as he comes closer. The light and the shadows from the burning candles play on his face. The circles under his eyes seem more prominent now, so he probably hasn't slept. If so, I can only imagine how exhausted he must be.

I don't mind. Exhausted people are less likely to act up.

"Undress me," I say.

He obeys. I turn and move to help him take my shirt off. He gets down to one knee to unlace and take off my boots. Then, my pants. He works in silence until my clothes pile up at my feet and I stand naked.

He stands in front of me, looking down. The bath with its still steaming water looks inviting in the evening chill, but it's not the only thing that's inviting.

I reach out and run my hand down his slim neck, then slide in under his robe. I push aside the thick fabric, exposing one shoulder and some of the smooth skin of his chest that's rising and falling in quick breaths. I rub his skin mindlessly with my thumb, exploring the soft texture under my rough fingertip. Then, I delve my fingers into his hair, grip the long strands and pull them back a little to make him look at me.

His large eyes gleam in the candlelight. There're many emotions—alarm, expectation, traces of fear—but they're beautiful nonetheless, and so are his lips, now slightly parted. I know exactly where I want them to be. Just the thought of it makes me hard.

I lean over and kiss him. His lips remain unmoving, but he makes no attempt to draw away. He has promised to be compliant—and it seems that he's taking it seriously. I do feel a tinge of respect for that. I also feel an urge to test how far I can go, whether there're limits to what he's willing to tolerate.

Although the truth is, the consummation of this marriage must happen no matter how he feels about it.

"Turn around," I say, and he obeys.

Once he's standing with his back to me, I wrap my hands around his waist and draw him closer. It feels good, his back pressed to my chest, his buttocks pressed right to my bulging erection, still separated by the fabric of his robe. His head is at the right height for me to sink my nose in and nuzzle at the sweetly scented hair. His body is hot and compliant under my hands. My fingers start untying the robe's sash.

I look around to find the dully glimmering little bottle with oil on the nightstand. I smile a little. The servants have thought of everything.

"Brace yourself," I say.

His hands fly up and land on the thick wooden bed post in front of him. I bow down a little and raise the hem of his robe. My hands slide underneath it. He's naked there, as I expected. I run my hands up his thighs and grab his buttocks, forcing a small protesting sound from him, which he stifles immediately.

"Bend," I say.

He obeys, leaning forward, placing his forehead on his wrists crisscrossed on the wooden pole. I let my hands rummage freely under his robe, over his hot skin, his heaving chest, feeling the drumbeat of his pounding heart. Oh, how I love this feeling of control. How I love knowing that I can do anything to him—if I choose to. My body has already chosen, my dick poking and prodding about without my conscious permission, searching for the entrance, indifferent to the preparations required. It's ready.

I'm ready.

Yet I hesitate.

"Do you want this?" I whisper in his ear. "Say that you want me."

There's a pause, his body tense under my hands.

"Yes," he whispers at last. "I want you."

Yet there're tears in his voice, and his head shakes briefly in a gesture of negation.

I pause, conflicting impulses running through me. I want to fuck him, sure. I also want him to give himself willingly. This is not what's happening. He obeys my commands and says whatever words I put in his mouth, but in his mind, he still denies me. I have no control over that part of him.

That won't do.

I shall own him completely.

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