The moon hung high and cold over the Conclave, a silent, silver witness to the a la carte surrendering of a princess's virtue.
Eleanor of Strathmore was a trembling, sore, and blissfully satisfied mess against the ancient, moon-dappled tree. The rough bark was a stark, grounding contrast to the slick, hot wetness of Alaric's seed still dripping down her inner thighs. Her body ached in places she hadn't known could ache, and a deep, thrumming pleasure still pulsed from her very core.
Alaric, in stark contrast, was already composed. He pulled up his trousers with a casual, almost business-like efficiency, his handsome face showing no sign of the raw, possessive passion of moments before. He was a force of nature that had just passed through, leaving a beautiful, chaotic ruin in his wake.
He turned to her, a faint, almost friendly smile on his lips. "See, Eleanor? That wasn't so bad. A necessary... diplomatic exchange."
