The snow had thickened into a quiet storm outside. The kind that blanketed the palace in a hush, muting every sound except the slow crackle of fire and the gentle flutter of paper in the room. Evening drew closer, and the golden light in Yen's office had grown softer, mellowed, made heavier by time and heat and the slow crawl of dusk behind the tall glass windows. The air inside was thick—warm from the hearth, touched by the faint perfume of ink, and something else now. Something headier.
Dinner was approaching.
Yen leaned back in his chair now, legs parted, one arm resting lazily on the armrest, the other draped over the back. His expression was unreadable—detached, half-lidded—but the weight of his gaze pinned her in place as surely as his grip ever had. His office was a space of duty, of command, of cold decisions and colder silences—but now, with the light dimming and the walls pulsing with heat, it felt smaller. More intimate. Like the walls themselves had drawn closer to trap them together.
He beckoned her closer with two fingers.
She hesitated—just long enough for the air to tighten.
Then she obeyed.
Lily stepped between his legs, her skirts brushing his knees, her breath caught somewhere in her throat. Yen didn't speak. He simply caught her hips with both hands, thumbs pressing into her waist through the fabric as he guided her down, slow and steady. She knew what he wanted before he even said it, before his gaze dragged up her torso and settled on her face with that unreadable hunger.
"Straddle me," he murmured, voice a low, gravelled breath.
She obeyed again, her knees folding to either side of his thighs, the bulk of her gown rustling around them. Her hands instinctively found his shoulders, gripping for balance as she shifted into his lap—facing him now, chest to chest, the press of her weight settling on his thighs.
He said nothing at first.
Just looked at her.
And caressed her sides slowly—one hand gliding from her waist up to her ribcage, then down again, following the contour of her form as though reminding himself of the shape of her. His fingers curved around the slope of her hips like he owned them. Like he'd carved them himself.
Lily lowered her gaze. His stare was too much—burning through her like an open flame. So she leaned forward, burying her face into the crook of his neck. Her arms curled around his shoulders, clinging—not out of affection, but to hide, to breathe, to ground herself in the familiar scent of his skin and the warmth of his collar.
He didn't return the embrace.
Didn't stroke her hair.
Didn't whisper anything soft.
"No," Yen muttered near her ear, one hand gripping the back of her thigh. "Ride me."
She froze.
The words were too calm. Too final.
His hand moved then—sliding up the back of her leg, gathering her skirts with slow, practiced ease. He bunched the fabric at her hips, exposing her thighs to the cold kiss of air, his touch never rushed, never frantic.
Lily swallowed hard and sat upright again, reluctantly pulling away from his shoulder. Her face was flushed, her lips parted slightly, her hands trembling where they rested on his chest. She met his eyes—just once.
His were silver. Flat. Expectant.
Her fingers moved next—slow, uncertain at first. She found his belt, unfastened the clasp with careful hands, then tugged at the buckle until the leather hissed free. She unbuttoned him next, peeling open the heavy wool and linen layers until she reached the waistband of his trousers.
He watched her the entire time.
Not a word. Not a breath wasted.
When she reached beneath the fabric and freed his length, her fingers brushing the heat of him, his breath hitched—a single exhale through his nose—but otherwise, he remained still. Like a man letting the storm come to him. Not meeting it halfway.
Meanwhile, his hands moved under her skirts—sliding up her thighs, coaxing them apart further until she had no choice but to shift higher in his lap. The warmth of his skin against hers sent a ripple of tension through her core, her legs trembling slightly at the press of his palms.
Then he was guiding her again. Not forcefully—just firmly. Steady. Unrelenting.
She gripped his shoulders tighter as she rose on her knees, positioning herself over him. Her breath faltered when the head of his cock brushed against her entrance, slick and already aching. She hadn't realized how wet she was—how much the long, silent hours had stirred in her belly.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
"Look at me," he said, voice rough.
She didn't.
So he gripped her hips harder.
"I said—look at me."
Her eyes fluttered open.
Their gazes met.
And in that moment—hung between tension and surrender, fear and familiarity—she began to sink down.
It was slow.
She took him inch by inch, her lips parting, her chest rising with each breathless second. He filled her like he always did—too much, too deep, too soon—and yet she kept going, kept moving, kept lowering herself until her thighs met his.
Yen let out a low groan then—a sound from the back of his throat, dark and guttural. His hands gripped her ass, fingers sinking into the flesh as he held her there, buried to the hilt. Their bodies were flush now. Nothing between them but the sound of her heartbeat hammering in her ears and the heat of him pulsing inside her.
For a moment, they didn't move.
Just… stayed.
Lily's breath came in shallow gasps, her forehead resting lightly against his. Yen's hands were still on her, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the underside of her thighs.
"Move," he murmured, not unkindly.
Her fingers curled into his shirt.
She began to rock.
Gently at first—hips shifting forward and back, her spine arching with each motion. The friction built slowly, steady and cruel. Yen didn't buck into her. He let her do the work. Let her ride at her own pace, but never once gave her the illusion of freedom.
Because his hands never left her hips.
Because his gaze never softened.
Because his lips curled, ever so slightly, when she whimpered and clenched around him.
"Good wife," he rasped. "Keep going."
The chair creaked beneath them, rhythmic now, as her pace grew bolder. She rolled her hips with more urgency, more need. Her skirts were bunched at her waist, her legs spread over his, her hair falling around her flushed face in a dark curtain. Every time she slid down, he hit something deep inside her—something that made her toes curl and her head tip back.
He leaned forward.
Licked the sweat from her collarbone.
Bit her shoulder.
Not hard.
Just enough to make her gasp.
Then his hand slid between them—found the place where she needed him most. His thumb rubbed slow, tight circles on her clit that made her moan softly against his ear, her body trembling from overstimulation.
"Don't stop," he said, voice almost a growl now. "You'll finish like this."
She nodded—frantic, dizzy.
She tried to keep going.
But her legs were shaking, her core clenching, her vision blurring. The orgasm crashed through her like a wave, stealing the air from her lungs. She choked on a cry, body locking up, and he didn't let her go—not for a second. He held her down, thumb still teasing her even as she writhed in his lap, even as her nails dug into his shoulders.
He let her ride it out.
Only when her body slumped forward, breathless and spent, did he finally move—gripping her hips again and thrusting up into her with sharp, rough strokes.
This time, it was him unraveling.
His mouth found hers, kissing her deep, open-mouthed and possessive, as he rutted into her, faster now, chasing his own release. When he came, it was with a low hiss against her neck, his grip bruising her thighs as he spilled inside her.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Sweaty. Tangled. Silent.
Outside, the storm howled louder.
Inside, the fire crackled.
And Yen, still buried deep inside her, brushed a thumb across her cheek and whispered,
"Dinner can wait."