"We shouldn't be doing this," he whispers, his breath jagged and warm against the nape of her neck. His voice is heavy with reluctance but it doesn't reach his hands as they hover just inches away from her.

Her lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. She tilts her head to meet his gaze, her voice a low purr.

"Don't you want to know what it feels like to soil the Queen?"

She watches as his eyes darken, pupils blown wide with unspoken need.

"Your queen," she drawls, her fingers gliding across the broad plane of his chest, tracing idle circles that linger before descending lower, inch by torturous inch until his hand shoots out, gripping her wrist with force.

He’s stretched his restraint too thin.

She leans closer, her breath brushing against his lips, a tantalizing hint of what lies just beyond their self-control. With a deliberate pull, she claims his mouth in a kiss that explodes into raw, animalistic hunger. Their lips collide, every tilt of their heads, every press of their bodies a declaration of illicit longing that neither can suppress.

He groans against her mouth, his resolve unraveling as her hands clutch at him, pulling him closer, closer still. The silk of her slip slides beneath his palms as he pushes her back onto the bed, his weight pinning her down as if anchoring her to this moment. Moonlight spills through the parted curtains, pooling over her skin like liquid silver, revealing the stark, unguarded desire in her eyes.

For a moment, he hesitates, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as his gaze rakes over her body. The slip clings to her like a second skin, its sheer fabric baring the curve of her hips, the shadowy promise of her thighs. The hem has ridden up scandalously high, and his pulse thunders in his ears as he takes in the peaks of her nipples, so close he could taste them.

"This is madness," he mutters, though the words feel like an empty echo of sense that no longer holds sway over him.

"Madness," she echoes, her voice a whisper, her hand cupping the side of his face and pulling him closer, "is pretending you don't want me."

Her confidence is a weapon, and it cuts through him, sharp and clean. He swallows hard, his resolve crumbling entirely as he lowers his mouth to her neck, trailing kisses that are slow, deliberate, each one setting fire to her skin. His hand cups her breast, the weight of it fitting perfectly in his palm, and her gasp fans the flames of his desire.

She arches into him, her body a plea, a demand, as his lips move lower, tasting the faint salt of her skin. Every hesitant inch he conquers makes it harder to stop, every moan she lets slip drives him further from the edge of reason.

He knows he should stop. He knows the consequences, the dishonor, the betrayal, but here, in the dim glow of moonlight and the feverish heat of her body, he can no longer remember why he shouldn't fall to his knees for his queen.

A sound breaks through their fevered haze, soft, deliberate footsteps echoing down the corridor.

He stiffens above her, his breath hitching as the steady rhythm grows louder, closer. A low hum follows, rich and unmistakable.

The King.

Her eyes widen as realization dawns, but instead of panic, she smiles, almost wickedly.

"We can't stay here," she whispers, her voice urgent but still laced with heat. She grabs his arm, trying to pull him toward the hidden servant's passage. "I know a place—"

But he doesn't move. His grip tightens around her wrist for a fraction of a second before he lets go, his jaw tight as though wrestling with an invisible force.

"Come," she hisses, tugging harder, but he steps back, his gaze flickering between the door and her face.

Then, without warning, his form begins to shimmer, edges blurring like smoke caught in a draft. She freezes, watching in disbelief as he vanishes into thin air, leaving her alone, her outstretched hand clutching at nothing.

Her breath catches, not just from shock but from something sharper—a pang of disappointment that cuts through her chest. He fled. He chose to leave her behind.

The hum grows louder, the footsteps deliberate and steady. Her mind races, but not with panic.

Her pulse pounds, a different kind of fire still burning beneath her skin. She knows what she needs to do.

The door creaks open, and the King steps in, his broad frame silhouetted by the dim light of the hall. He stops mid-hum, his gaze immediately finding hers.

"Ah, my Queen," he says, his voice warm, as if he hadn't expected to find her here waiting. "What a pleasant surprise."

She doesn't answer. Instead, she moves toward him with feline grace, her steps slow and deliberate. Her silk slip clings to her curves as she prowls closer, her bare feet soundless against the polished floor.

His brow arches, amusement flickering in his eyes.

"Have you been waiting for me?"

"Always," she purrs, her arms slipping around his waist, pulling him into a slow, languid hug. The scent of him—earthy and spiced—fills her senses, stirring something primal within her.

As she presses against him, she tilts her head, brushing her lips against his neck.

"How was your day, my King?"

He chuckles, the deep, rich sound vibrating against her chest.

"Tedious, as always. You know how it is—"

But his words falter as she begins unbuttoning his shirt, her nimble fingers working with practiced ease. He lets her take her time, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches her.

"My Queen," he murmurs, his voice dropping,

"what are you up to?"

She doesn't answer, doesn't need to. When his shirt slips from his shoulders, revealing the broad planes of his chest, she pushes him back onto the bed, straddling him with a confidence that leaves him momentarily breathless.

She leans down, her lips brushing his ear.

"I'm taking what's mine," she whispers, her voice a blend of sultry defiance and invitation.

He doesn't resist. His hands find her hips, gripping firmly as she grinds against him, the silk of her slip riding higher, her warmth pressing into him through the thin barrier of his trousers. Her nails drag lightly down his chest, leaving faint red trails in their wake.

When he finally shrugs off the rest of his clothing, she guides herself onto him without hesitation.

The slickness left by another man makes it easy, a cruel irony she buries deep within her mind as she begins to move.

Her eyes close as her hips roll, and she sinks into the rhythm of their bodies, but her thoughts are far from the man beneath her. In her mind, it's not the King's hands gripping her waist, nor his lips murmuring praises against her skin. She imagines the other man, the one who vanished when she needed him most.

It's his hands she feels, his mouth she envisions exploring every curve of her body. The ache inside her builds, her movements growing more frantic as she chases the release she desperately needs.

Her climax comes like a wave crashing over her, her body shuddering as she bites her lip to keep his name from slipping out. The King groans beneath her, following soon after, his grip loosening as satisfaction overtakes him.

He gently nudges her off, rolling to his side with a contented sigh. Within moments, his breathing evens, sleep claiming him quickly.

But she remains awake, her thoughts churning.

The pleasure had been fleeting, a hollow echo of what it could have been. As her fingers trail down her body, she gives in to the memory of the one who left her behind. Her touch is slow, deliberate, her moans stifled as she tries to find what she'd been searching for all along.

What she doesn't know is that she's not alone.

In the shadowed corner of the room, the other man stands, invisible but watching. His chest heaves with restrained anger, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles ache.

He should look away. He should leave. But he can't.

The sight of her, writhing, desperate, hers, all for someone else, ignites a storm inside him. Lust and fury clash, the possessiveness he feels warring against the oath he's sworn to the King.

She's his queen. His.

But it's the King's bed she shares.

And yet, even now, he can't stop himself from imagining what it would feel like to cross that distance, to claim her as his own. His breathing is ragged, his magic trembling at the edges of control.

It takes everything he has to stay hidden, to keep his hands from reaching out and dragging her back into his arms.

He disappears just as quietly as he came, leaving the Queen alone in her longing and himself drowning in a dangerous sea of desire and rage.