The King's Champion


He gasped for breath, and as he lifted his head she burrowed against his throat, soft lips and hard teeth, nuzzling and gently biting, and her fingers were tugging at something, the buckles and straps on his back. She was struggling to free him from his armor and he was helping her, snapping a strap in his impatient desire, and then his broad chest clad only in a loose silken shirt was pressing against hers, and he could feel the swift rise and fall of the ripe fullness of her breasts. He cupped one, sliding it easily from the low bodice of her gown, the nipple hard against his palm, the rest soft yet firm, and her back arched and she murmured his name in affirmation instead of protest.

The sound of his own name brought some semblance of sanity back to him. He started to draw back, knowing that if she gave herself to him in a moment of weakness, her fury would be as terrible as Calaan's own, knowing that he would forever blame himself for taking advantage of her sorrow despite the fact that she had been the first to raise her lips to him.

He wanted her desperately, had for years, but had sworn to himself that he would do nothing, for she was his dear friend and his friend's wife. With all of this in his mind, he started to draw back, sure that she would be glad once her own mind had cleared, and perhaps they would even someday laugh about how close they had come to ...

She reached down and unerringly found the one part of him that was unwilling to listen to his mind's frantic reasoning. Her touch was warm even through the thick wool of his trousers, her hand small but strong, slow and persistent, rubbing and turning and pressing, and the last of his hesitance was banished to the deepest dungeons of his mind.

He fumbled for the laces of her bodice and instead tore her gown, exposing both of her creamy breasts, and he dipped his head to them, inhaling the secret scent of her skin, sucking at first one and then the other, flicking his tongue across the pointed nipples, and her hand moved faster, until he had to reach down and take her wrist, stopping her before he spent his passion too soon. She seemed to understand and moved instead to pull at his belt.

Her head was flung back over the arm of the sofa, gasping and moaning, and her skirt had come up so that the tops of her stockings were revealed. He pushed her skirts to her waist, feeling the smooth skin of her thighs, the lace and silk of her undergarments. At the same time he somehow kicked off his boots, and raised his body to help her as she pulled his trousers down over his hips, freeing the throbbing length of his manhood, and it rubbed against the slightly rough texture of her stockings, making him growl like a v'leer and crush her to him.

The sofa creaked again, louder, and the arm bent outward. He started to shift his weight when the legs broke, spilling them onto the carpet. The fall was only a short distance, but it jarred him and he realized as if for the first time that he was nearly unclad, and Rowena's gown was hanging about her in shreds. He was lying on his back, uncomfortably atop one of his own boots. Rowena, sprawled half atop him, looked down at him through a veil of her own hair.

Once more reason tried to take control of him, and once more it was lost as she lowered her head and licked the length of his shaft, then sucked it deep into her mouth. He bit the heel of his hand to stifle a cry of pleasure, and sunk his teeth deeper as her lips and tongue worked him skillfully. He clawed the boot from beneath him and hurled it carelessly away.

She wriggled out of what was left of her gown, not lifting her mouth from him, one hand cupping and fondling the sac at the fork of his thighs. Now all she wore were her stockings and thin silk undergarment, and the latter shredded like cobwebs as he tore it from her hips. She swung her leg over him, straddling him, and rubbed the head of his manhood along the warm and moist furrow below her mound of golden curls.

He tried to speak, to ask her to not be so quick, for if it was going to happen he wanted it to happen slowly, to be in control and to give her the same pleasure that she gave him, but his words would have been wasted. Rowena was trasported by her passion, already at the brink of release, as was he. This time, this first time, had to be urgent, even savage.

He grabbed her hips and pulled her down, filling her, and she was hot and slick and tight, her firm buttocks and thighs flexing as she rode him, and she dropped her head to kiss him so suddenly that their teeth clacked together, but even that brief flash of pain could not dim the incredible pleasure. Their kiss muffled their cries. Rowena shuddered and he felt the walls of her passage constrict around him in spasms, and he knew he was rushing headlong toward his own spending, but he forced himself to wait. She threw back her head, whimpering as more climaxes burst over her, each more powerful than the last, and Richard could no longer restrain himself as the third began to shake her body, as if they were no longer participants in this act but helpess victims of it, like shipwreck survivors clinging desperately to each other as the hurricane tossed them amid the waves.

As the inner storms passed, Rowena slumped onto his chest, moaning softly. He caressed her as he fought to catch his own breath. He had been with many women before, countless women, but it had never been like this. What had just passed between them was a passion not Dorianite but more Aslani, a wild and animalistic force, or something non-godlike at all, pagan and ancient.

Rowena slowly raised her head, and he was alarmed to see tears glimmering anew in her eyes. She crawled carefully off of him and covered her mouth in dread, much as Eleanor had done. He sat up, concerned. Did she regret? Had it happened so quickly?

"Oh, gods, Richard," she said numbly. "I am sorry."

"Rowena, what is the matter? Sorry for what?"

A short, pain-filled sob escaped her. "I just ... raped you," she said in a tone of utter self-loathing.

"Raped -- Rowena -- what?"

"You tried to stop me, you did not want to, and I forced myself on you." She shuddered, a shudder entirely unlike those that had taken place but moments ago.

"No," he breathed. "Rowena, darling, it was nothing like that!"

"Richard, please --"

"Let me show you," he said, knowing that mere words would not prove it. He took her in his arms, batting aside her hands when she tried to cover herself, turning her face toward him when she tried to turn away in shame. "I've loved you for such a long time, Rowena. I've wanted you since the day we met." He kissed her brow, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. "The only reason I said nothing was because even I could see how it was with you and David. I knew you'd be married long before either of you did." He stroked her breast, firmly and soothingly. Already, he felt himself stirring.

She began to relax under his touch, wanting to believe but not quite daring.

"What we just did was meant to happen," he said. "I certainly never intended it, not now, not so soon, but it was right. The only reason I tried to stop was because I feared you would regret it. I did not want you to do something in your grief that you would later wish undone. You never forced me." He took her hand and placed it in his lap, where he was erect. "Does that feel forced?"

She caught her breath, then smiled slightly and blushed. "No," she whispered. Despite her maidenly blush, she closed her hand firmly around him.

He began kissing her breast and moved his hand down past her waist. "Are you forcing me to do this?" he murmured against her flesh.

"No," she whispered again, leaning back and parting her thighs.

He let his lips follow his hand, down over her stomach, kissing the crinkly hair that covered her mound. He tasted the combined juices of their pleasures, heard her moan as he spread her legs wider and began nuzzling and licking at her most secret of places, probing with his fingers while his tongue circled the tiny bud of her womanhood.

"Oh," she sighed. Her hips were already moving to meet his gentle kisses. "Oh, Richard, yes."

He continued, sometimes light and teasing, sometimes slow, but always tender. There was none of the urgency now, only sweet passion, and when she shivered in another spending he looked up to watch her face, to see how her eyes fluttered and her throat moved.

"You see, Rowena," he said quietly, positioning himself between her legs. "You never made me do anything I didn't want." He slid smoothly into her, loving her with all of his skill and all of his passion, and although this coupling lacked the frightening intensity of the first, he was still able to wring two more spendings from her before giving in to his own sweet release.

The End

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