His Secret Slave to Scandalous Queen

She swallowed. "End your suffering, sire...In my eyes, it is already yours." It was true, in every way that mattered, she was already his. All the waiting he wanted, she didn’t understand it.

The sentence pushed him off the edge inch by fucking inch, and they both knew it. Henry lowered himself to his knees.

The King of England knelt between her open thighs, his hands resting against her skin, his face lifted towards hers. "Is this where you want me?" he asked. "Is this how you want me?"

"Only when it gives us both pleasure."

Henry smiled and slipped his fingers beneath the edges of her linen drawers and looked up at her once more.

He pulled.

The fabric shifted aside, baring her to him. Livia’s fingers tightened against the chair. Henry’s gaze locked inside her. He looked at her as if the world had narrowed to this one place, this one offering.

"Your legs stay there," Henry said. "No matter what."

Livia nodded quickly. "Yes."

he lowered his head. The first touch of his tongue against her clit stole every breath.

Livia jerked.

Henry’s hands caught her thighs at once, holding her firmly in place. His fingers spread over her skin, keeping her open as his mouth returned. He flicked his tongue again, circled the sensitive bud. He sucked her clit into his mouth.

Livia gasped. "Your Majesty."

Henry answered by sliding two fingers into her. Her back arched against the chair. One hand flew to his hair before she remembered herself and stopped. This was not his bedchamber. This was the great withdrawing chamber. Someone could pass by. Someone could hear.

"Henry?" she whispered. Livia’s body throbbed around Henry’s fingers.

His fingers began to move. Deeper, curling inside her. He worked her open with ruthless strokes, his fingers scissoring then thrusting.

Livia bit her lip. The sound escaped anyway as pleasure gathered too quickly. She reached for him again, and this time she did not stop herself. Her fingers slid into his hair, gripping as he drew another gasp from her. "Your Majesty, please."

His hands tightened on her thighs, and his mouth became more insistent, tongue circling. His fingers moved harder, deeper, as if he meant to pull the orgasm from her.

Livia’s head fell back against the chair. Henry curled his fingers again. Thought abandoned her. "Ay... ay... ah..." She no longer cared who heard. Let them hear. Let Whitehall press its shameless ear to the door. Let them call her scandalous.

All that mattered was his mouth, and the rising pleasure that had begun to pull her apart from the inside. She trembled, fighting to keep her legs where he had placed them. Her thighs strained against his grip. Her breath caught and broke.

"Henry."

He groaned against her, and the vibration nearly ended her. Livia cried out, fingers tightening in his hair as her body clenched. She came apart in his hands. He slowed only when her body began to soften, when her hand loosened in his hair, when her breath came ragged and stunned. Only then did he lift his head, his eyes dark, his mouth wet, his expression satisfied.

He withdrew his fingers from her reluctantly. "Now tell me...who is your king?"

Livia looked down at him, still trembling with the last echoes of pleasure. "You are."

"Remember that the next time you want to be naughty."

Livia could come up with no response. Henry looked pleased with himself. Far too pleased. Henry’s gaze then lowered to her gown.

He smiled, his eyes dancing. "You will have to ask Mrs Crowe to have your gown cleaned."

Livia frowned, still breathing unevenly, then looked down. Her soul left her body. The beautiful gown, the gown meant for the Langford ball, was visibly wet where the fabric had gathered beneath her. The evidence of her pleasure sat there. Livia slapped a hand over her face. "Oh, God."

Henry chuckled and rose from his knees. Then he took her wrist gently and pulled her hand away from her face. "Too late to be shy, your Majesty."

"I hate you."

"I know."

"You are a menace."

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "And you just begged me so sweetly minutes ago."

Colour rushed back into Livia’s face.

"Shall we return to my chambers?" he asked.

Livia tried to move. Her body objected at once. "I do not think I can walk."

Henry’s brows lifted, delighted. "And I did not even fuck you."

She laughed and reached for him. "Carry me."

"You did not even have to ask, my love." He bent and slid one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back. "I would take any opportunity to touch you."

He lifted her into his arms. Livia curled naturally against him, her arms going around his neck. The motion pressed her close to his chest. He carried her towards the doors as if she weighed nothing. "Open," he commanded.

The guards outside obeyed at once. The doors swung wide. Henry stepped out of the great withdrawing chamber with his intended in his arms, walking proudly into the corridor as though he had just returned from battle carrying a conquered kingdom.

Livia buried her face against his shoulder. The guards at the door stood rigid. They moved down the passage towards his apartments. Servants stepped aside and dropped into curtsies.

"Henry," she whispered. "Everyone is looking."

"Of course they are."

She could hear the smile in his voice. She was smiling too. What neither the king nor his intended fully understood was that they had set everyone within hearing distance on fire.

The guards outside the great withdrawing chamber were already tight in their breeches, staring into the distance. The attending maids looked awkwardly back and forth, flushed and fascinated in equal measure, already deciding which version of the story could be repeated.

By the time Henry reached his apartments, the rumour had outrun him. Word was travelling fast in Whitehall about how the king wrecked his intended in the Great Withdrawing Chamber.

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