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Rosemary, cinnamon, lavender, rose; the bath was as much oil as water, little pools floating on the surface and spreading against Dorian’s skin. The water was all but scalding hot, the Altusmage’s tanned skin darkly flushed. He sprawled in the bath, one leg thrown over the side, sweat sheening his forehead, a book in his hands. The thick pages grew damp with steam, damp as Dorian’s hair, his fingers, damp as the walls running with condensation; the atmosphere was heavy, his breathing heavy, his limbs heavy.
A different man than Dorian Pavus might have had slaves here to rub his shoulders, to comb oils into his hair, to feed him fruit, but Dorian much preferred this: the soft murmuring of the water against the sides of the tub, the richly scented air as thick as a blanket, every breath a labor, the turn of the pages an intimate rustle for his ears only. Peace and quiet, solitude and serenity.
He was understandably piqued when the bathroom door was thrown open, comparatively cold, dry air rushing in, the door slamming against the tiled wall. Dorian startled so badly he nearly dropped his book, scrambling to sit up.
“Dorian, we need to talk.”
Livia Petri, now of House Pavus, the daughter of a Laetan magister and a wickedly powerful mage, framed in the doorway. She swept into the bathroom with a rustle of crêpe and taffeta silk, midnight blue and black, snow white kidskin gloves to her elbows, a lacquered fan in her clasped hands. She snapped the fan open with a crack like a whip and a flash of gold leaf on the paper, fanning herself disagreeably as the damp, perfumed air settled around her.
Dorian closed his book, set it aside, folded his hands in the water and looked blandly up at his wife.
“Livia,” he intoned, his voice the driest thing in the room. “Dearest.”
Livia turned, all dark eyes and dark skin and dark, pouting lips, dark and fierce and rich as espresso. She was of a coastal type, tanned a richer olive than Dorian could hope for with his pale eyes and cinnamon-dusted skin. Her black hair, glossy and polished, was pinned up in a magnificently ornate fashion around a silver kanzashi that glittered with diamonds and sapphires. Eyes lined heavily with black, eyelids decorated with white powder.
“You look quite dedicatedly wintry today,” Dorian added. “Would you close the door, please? It’s freezing out there.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Livia snapped, and slammed the door shut with one hand. Her eyes were burning.
If anyone Dorian had ever known embodied Tevinter passion, it was without a doubt his wife. Dorian sighed.
“I take it this is about Octavia’s pregna—“
“Of course it is!” Livia cried, looking down at her husband sourly. “Every single one of my friends now has a child except for me!
Dorian’s eyes narrowed, faintly, kohl-lined and sarcastically bitter.
“You know very well why that is,” he replied coolly. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”
This stopped Livia in her tracks, halting the impending tirade; Dorian was starting to get a good idea of what could defuse the woman but he was still caught off guard now and again. She took a seat on a low chair, the endless knife’s-edge folds and fabric of her dress settling around her. Carefully-placed little corkscrew curls of hair fluttered about her face in the faint breeze from her fan. She was, without a doubt, very beautiful, a fact which Dorian appreciated to its fullest. It was what she kept under her sumptuous dresses that was the problem.
“Yes, I do know why it is,” Livia said, her voice measured now, calm and to the point. A voice she used when she wanted something, when she was willing to bargain and reason but not to go without. “Which is why we need to talk.”
Dorian rolled his eyes. “Livia, if we had only attempted it once, I feel it would already be amply clear that it isn’t going to work. Given that we have attempted it many, many times and every time has been an arrant disaster, I’m not sure why we are even having this conversation.”
“I’m not asking you to enjoy it!”
“There’s nothing to not enjoy!” Dorian scoffed. Even with the best intentions he had been completely incapable of arousal with Livia; even on the rare occasions where he had been able to coax himself to arousal, he hadn’t been able to maintain it.
“Dorian!” Livia thundered. “I. Want. A. Child!”
“Then go and get pregnant, if that’s what you’re asking for! Neither of us wants to deny each other what we need, do we?” Dorian threw up his hands at the same moment that Livia did.
“Ugh! If I was going to do that, what was the point of marrying you at all!? Our child needs your blood in their veins, as well as mine, Dorian, that’s the point!”
“Fine! Well you tell me how to do that, then!”
Livia frowned, the tiniest little line appearing beneath lovingly shaped eyebrows.
“Will you reconsider using a slave for… inspiration?” she offered. “Some of the human ones are very beautiful, I’m sure you’d like them—or you could have an elf if you wanted to.”
“Vishante kaffas! Absolutely not!” Dorian snapped. “It might be acceptable to use the slaves like that in your house, but it isn’t in mine! That is not what they’re there for!”
“Dorian, it’s normal for people to have favorites, you don’t have to be embarrassed! My favorites are more than willing!” Livia argued.
“I’m not going to reconsider, Livia, that’s final. I don’t have a favorite, I don’t want a favorite, thank you.”
“Ugh! Fine! Be difficult!”
“I’m not trying to be difficult!”
“Dorian, we need a child. I want my father’s seat in the Magisterium as much as you want yours but it isn’t going to matter either way if we don’t have at least one child!”
“At least one!?” Dorian squawked.
“Yes, at least one! There are two seats that will need filling when we retire!”
“I think what I could do as a Magister would matter a great deal, for your information, regardless whether the seat goes to my child or my second cousin twice removed on my retirement, and I think the same goes for you!”
“Venhedis! Dorian, this is not up for discussion. This is the only thing I want from you. I don’t need you to be interested in me, or to find me attractive—“
“Actually, I think you’re very beautiful—“
“And I’m more than satisfied with my favorites, for your information, they both have very talented mouths—“
“Blegh, Livia—“
“And I don’t care one shit what you want to do with Rilienus—“
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!—“
“All I want from you is a child! And you are going to give me a child, one way or another, no matter what!”
“Festis bei umo canavarum!” Dorian gestured sharply in frustration. “Just tell me what you want me to do and if it is within my physical capacity to perform it, I will be more than delighted!”
Livia did not answer. Thoughtful silence reigned.
She looked at her husband, not with resentment or pity but simply with calculation, as if he were a puzzle. With her eyes she traced the lines of his body, the plump musculature of his chest and his shoulders, the sculpted planes of his throat, his jaw, the sharp nose that resembled his father’s so closely, that she imagined their child would have if it were a boy. The dark hair, the kohl lining those grey eyes, those plump, soft lips that she never kissed except in greeting.
She found him attractive, of course she did; she delighted in men and Dorian was beyond beautiful. And she had known him for long enough that she had a good suspicion of what her husband would actually enjoy, even if he consistently refused to indulge in it. She was well aware of his feelings for Rilienus, their mutual friend but, as with the slaves, Dorian simply refused to do anything with him. It was infuriating, but it was also a puzzle and as with all puzzles, Livia was certain it had a solution.
She looked at him and she tried to see him like a man might see him; tried to imagine him as more conquest than conqueror, to imagine fucking him and claiming him rather than wishing he would claim her. She found her eyes drawn to every tender spot, every soft place; the lovely curve of his lips (which would have been lovely between her legs, she thought, but better where they belonged, stretched around something thicker), the pulse at his neck (lean over him, bend him in half, suck a possessive bruise over that flutter at his throat). She tried to see him like a man would see him – tried to see him as he wanted to be seen.
“I… have… a proposition,” she said slowly.
“I am listening, amata.”
But instead of explaining, she stood.
“Wash yourself and come up to my bedroom,” she said. “I will explain there. If you don’t like it, fine. If you do then we will both be satisfied.”
She left before Dorian could answer, sweeping out with her head held high, nose in the air, and shut the door behind her.
And what could Dorian do but stare after her, confused and curious, and obey?
***
He knocked on Livia’s door not half an hour later, freshly washed. He had been soaped and scrubbed and patted by, pampered by careful and meticulous slaves, his black hair smoothed back and styled, his skin soft and supple, massaged with a rich and spicy cream the scent of which lingered. He dressed quite modestly by Altus standards, shimmering cream silks draping his body, held in place with finely woven cords tied in clever knots and golden buckles on soft leather straps. He glittered with gold, from the heavy rings on his fingers to the circlet on his arm to the threads adorning his neck, fine as spider-silk. Dorian was every inch powerful, every inch masculine, using every inch of his sculpted body to flaunt his status and his wealth.
“Yes, Dorian, come in.” His wife’s voice, cool and measured, muffled through the boudoir door. He opened it and stepped inside, closing it behind him.
Livia’s bedroom was a glorious affair in white and gold, so very different from the dark reds and blues of Dorian’s own room. Her taste was a balance between refined femininity and sheer calculated powermongering that Dorian both respected and appreciated. The north-facing wall of her bedroom boasted a balcony with doors that could be opened all along the length of the wall, letting in the oppressively hot evening air and the sweet smells of the garden beyond. They were two floors above that garden and the doors themselves were shaded with white curtains that rippled in the soft breeze. Candles were lit, keeping the bedroom bright even as the sun began to set, and the whole room was cast with shades of orange and pink, flickering and soft in the late hour.
For a moment, Dorian did not even see his wife in the room.
Livia stood by the window, her midnight blue dress absent, as were the kidskin gloves, the glittering ornamentation in her hair, the kohl and the powder. Her skin was completely bare – had Dorian ever seen her without any make-up before? – and her hair unpinned and pulled back, tied with a plain ribbon at the back of her head to keep it out of the way. In place of the dress were dark green silk, robes that swathed her body in much the same way Dorian’s did (if a little tight in the chest), one shoulder bare, the other covered in a cape that draped all the way to her elbow. Tall boots, buckled and spurred with cruel iron, the only metal in the room that wasn’t precious. Low-heeled. Not the clothing of a Magister, not quite, but perhaps that of a praetor or a consul. Masculine and threatening.
“Why, Dorian,” Livia intoned, turning away from the window and smirking at him, her weight on one leg. “I think this is the first time in our marriage I’ve rendered you speechless.”
Dorian realized himself at that, exhaling sharply through his nose and scoffing. He crossed the room, picking up the pitcher from a long, low table against the wall and pouring himself a goblet of wine. His rings clicked against the glass as he brought it to his lips, savoring the bouquet before he sipped it.
“Well,” he said. “I can’t say I was expecting that.”
“Were you not,” Livia said, the corner of her mouth pulling into a rather smug smile. “Do you like it?”
For once, Dorian’s returned smile was quite genuine. “Actually, yes,” he said. “I do. But I’m going to have to disappoint you; it won’t be enough.”
“I didn’t think it would be,” Livia said. “You must let go of this idea that I am in denial about what you like, Dorian. I have no reservations about it. I am not attracted to women either; I can hardly feign ignorance about how you could fail to be.”
“And yet you demand a child,” Dorian said, over the rim of his glass.
“If I were all demands, Dorian, I would remain a housewife,” Livia sneered. “I intend to sit in the Magisterium. Trust me.”
“Trust a Magister? I’d have to be a fool.”
“Well then we should have no further delays,” Livia sniffed, while Dorian feigned outrage. She went to the bed and sat, her legs apart, her stance purposefully masculine. Dorian couldn’t deny he liked the figure she cut, from across the room, at least.
“I want you to come here,” she said. “And I want you to kiss me. Pretend I’m a man. Pretend whatever you need to. And if you don’t like what I do, you may simply tell me to stop.”
“A kiss? I did notice you staring at my mouth in the bath.”
“Just do it, please, Dorian.”
“This is all very ominous.”
“We’re Magisters, amatus.” She smiled.
“Not yet.”
“You helped research time magic, Dorian, you of all people should know what a relative statement that is. Come to the bed.”
Dorian did as he was told. “You know the illusion is going to fall away at some point. I still know you’re a woman.”
“As I said, if you don’t like it, tell me to stop.”
“Well then,” said Dorian. “All right.”
She pulled him into a kiss. There was no paint on her lips, no lingering scent of powder or perfume. She smelled of nothing but plain soap; a quick bath, then, hasty. But she was forceful, cutting to the chase, holding Dorian by the front of his robes and running one of her hands over his back, plucking at the knots, licking and sucking at his mouth before she forced her tongue inside.
If Dorian kept his eyes half closed and focused on the forcefulness, on the rough leather gloves that covered her hands up to her knuckles and the graze of teeth against his lips, he actually found it quite compelling. To his amazement he felt heat prickle up the insides of his thighs, which was far more of a reaction than she could ever normally elicit.
He groaned, quietly, and he felt her smirk against his mouth.
She pressed him back against the bed, pushing him down and holding him, and although he could feel her breasts pressed against his chest, the kisses were good. He held her, ran his hands through her hair, sighed as she scratched her nails over his arms, palmed his chest, teasing his nipples through his silk robes. She was forceful and dominating, and Dorian certainly appreciated that.
He did not, however, become aroused. Even clean, her scent was still feminine, her body small and lithe, and her breasts were soft and pillowy against his chest, impossible to ignore. He didn’t put his hands near them. He kept one on her shoulder and the other on her hip, and enjoyed the kisses. She had certainly made an effort and he might as well enjoy it until she grew frustrated with his lack of arousal and gave up.
Livia kept her own clothing in place, but she began to strip Dorian before too long. She exposed his chest, her mouth tracing the lines of his collarbones and the lovely, hard curve of his chest, her fingers following. She felt Dorian sigh and relax beneath her, a vulnerable little sound that she had never heard him make before escaping his lips.
She flicked her tongue against his nipple, and she felt him jump.
“I can feel you smirking down there,” Dorian said. Livia licked the nipple in response, and felt it harden under her tongue. Dorian made a sticky sound in the back of his throat.
“Well,” she said. “At least I got something hard. That’s a start.” She touched a fingertip to that pert nipple, rubbing in circles, pressing the stiff little nub back against Dorian’s chest and watching as he gasped.
She moved lower, deft fingers loosening knots and unfastening buckles, spreading the silk open around Dorian’s body as though she were unwrapping a present. Dorian shifted and arched to help her, being ever so obliging. When she uncovered his cock, she couldn’t help but lick her lips. Unfair, she thought; she would have liked this for herself. Even soft, Dorian was a proportionate size. She reached down and squeezed it, indulgently. He wasn’t hard, however, and she knew very well that her plan wouldn’t take off until she stopped delaying. She’d tried working him up with teases and touches before; it didn’t work, at all.
She needed to try something new.
“Turn over,” she said.
Dorian opened his eyes.
“Mmwhat?”
“You heard me, Dorian.”
“Er…”
Livia sat up, narrowing her eyes at him. “If you don’t like it,” she said lowly, “tell me to stop.”
Hesitantly, Dorian did as he was told. She could see confusion warring with disbelief on his face, but he did do as she’d asked and he didn’t tell her to stop. With his face turned away from her, pillowed on smooth, muscular arms against the sheets, Livia slipped a finger into her mouth and sucked on it before moving back between his legs. She traced the seam of his balls, back and back – and then slipped her finger between his cheeks and nestled it against his opening, just resting it there.
The response was quite immediate. Dorian moaned. The sound was throaty, guttural, utterly genuine, and Livia resisted the urge to crow about it. She felt smug. She felt assured.
Dorian pushed himself up to stare at her, utterly baffled, and the confusion on his face was almost enough to make her laugh. Almost. She grabbed him by the hair and pushed his face back down against the mattress.
“Hush, Dorian. If you keep running your mouth we’ll be here all night.”
He was silent until she began to move her finger, just massaging in gentle little circles, and then Dorian moaned again into the sheets. Livia took the time to explore him; she never really had before. She’d been too focused on his cock, on getting him hard enough to fuck her; she didn’t know the rest of Dorian’s body well at all. Now she traced the chiseled muscles of his lower back, the dimples at the top of his ass, the scattering of dark hair at the dip of his spine. She felt his muscles resisting her finger, felt how easy it would be to press inside anyway; felt him flutter every time she did press just a little. He was enjoying this, that much was obvious.
She spread his cheek with her other hand, running her finger from the base of his balls up to his tailbone and back down again, watching his reactions, watching him twitch every time her finger brushed over his entrance. She watched the shift of muscles in his back as he tensed and shifted, trying to get comfortable on the bed—was he getting hard?
The possibility of success was enough of a motivation. She moved her hand aside, bent over, and spat, felt Dorian jump in surprise as she did so. She worked the saliva around his entrance with her finger, pressing a little harder now, tracing little circles around him and then laying her finger against the opening, pressing in firmly.
Dorian just opened up for her. There was a moment of tight resistance, when she was certain that doing this would hurt him – and then that resistance melted away and she pushed her finger inside him, feeling him gripping her, tight and hot. Dorian made a ragged sound, hips squirming – he was definitely becoming aroused, there was no doubt.
“Does that feel good?” Livia whispered.
“Yes,” Dorian breathed. “Please…”
“Oh, I will. Shh.”
Livia pulled her finger out, watching as Dorian twitched at the loss of stimulation, as he whined softly.
She stroked his ass and Dorian groaned, rocking his hips. He was already half-hard and if she kept doing that he’d be aching soon enough. A part of him was mortified that she had deduced this preference, but perhaps he’d pay more mind to that part later because right now every inch of his body was screaming for her to keep going. He could feel her shifting around behind him and he didn’t have the gall to look up and actually watch her; he was, however, apparently shameless enough to spread his legs a little more, to cant his hips for her in blatant invitation. He was no longer thinking about pleasing her or getting aroused enough to give her a child; all he could think about was being touched like that. Every brush against his hole made something wonderful crackle up his spine, down the backs of his thighs; he’d never been desperate enough to do this to himself, but Livia apparently had no such compunction now Dorian’s mind was buzzing with need and lust.
A fire which was only stoked higher when he felt Livia bend down behind him and she ran her tongue flat over his entrance.
“AAH!” Dorian’s hands clenched in the sheets and he couldn’t help it, he rocked back and arched his hips up, pressing up against her mouth. He felt her circling him with her tongue, wetting him and exploring and everything was hot and wet and slick. Every few moments, when he least expected it, she ran the flat of her tongue across him, or else pressed the tip of her tongue against him like she had her finger; the third time she did this, she pressed it inside a little and Dorian cried out.
“Yes yes yes please Livia amatus please!”
Livia drew back, wiping her chin and laughing.
“’Amatus’?” she teased.
Dorian almost sobbed.
“Amatus, amata, I don’t care, please don’t stop..!”
It would be cruel to make him wait. Livia went back down on him, growing bolder with each passing minute. She squirmed her tongue against him, lapped at him wetly, probed him with the tip just to listen to him beg and squirm. Saliva dripped down the back of his balls, and Dorian began to rock his hips against the mattress.
Livia pulled back, delivering a light slap to his ass.
“No you don’t,” she told him sharply. “This is for you; that’s for me.”
Dorian whined.
There was no denying that Livia was utterly turned on by this. She could feel herself growing wet, tight heat pooling between her legs, could feel the slickness there every time she shifted on the bed. Dominating, irrepressible Dorian was lovely, without a doubt; but vulnerable, desperate Dorian was a treat she had never considered before, and was quickly developing a taste for. She pulled his hips up off the bed, denying him that stimulation, and rubbed her fingertips over the slick crease of his ass.
“You’ve never done this to yourself before, have you,” Livia said lowly, and Dorian shook his head.
“No, never… Please, please…”
“That’s a shame,” she whispered. “When you clearly need it so badly…”
“Yes! I do! Please, Livia, please..!”
“Patience, amatus.”
This time when she slipped a finger inside him, she didn’t stop with just her fingertip. She pressed and felt the delicious flutter as he gave way, sinking in to the knuckle. He clenched down hard around the intrusion, uttering a low cry, equal parts surprise and pleasure.
“Oh, Dorian,” Livia sighed softly, rocking her finger inside him, curling it and shifting it, letting him feel the pressure from the inside. “If I’d known you needed to be fucked this badly I would have done it a long time ago…”
Dorian made a noise suspiciously like a sob – which then degraded into a loud, keening wail as Livia’s finger ground obliquely against something truly wonderful inside him. Dorian had assumed the rumors about that spot were exaggerated; clearly, they had not been. His cock twitched sharply, heavy and erect between his thighs.
“THERE!” he cried. “There, touch that, oh, kaffas, please, touch that again!”
“What, here?”
A curl of her finger.
“Yes! Oh Maker, Maker, please!”
“Right here?”
“Yes!”
“This spot here?”
“Yes!”
“Like this?
“YES!!”
Dorian was beyond himself, rocking back against her hand, grinding and trembling and trying his best to fuck himself on her finger. He was absolutely wanton and she wasn’t even close to done with him, not yet.
She pulled her finger out, ignoring Dorian’s little cry of protest, retrieving a vial of simple oil and unstoppering it. She spread him with one hand and poured the oil down the crease of his ass, gathering it up with a finger when it threatened to drip down too far and pressing it into him, working him up, getting him slick.
Two fingers, then, and Dorian spread his legs, his breath hitching.
“Ah-! Oh, that’s—nnh, c-careful..!”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard your voice so unsteady,” Livia purred.
“Nnnh…”
Dorian reached down between his legs, lightly stroking himself as Livia pressed her fingers in. It helped, the pleasure blending with the pain and everything becoming heat and pressure instead. It didn’t take long for him to relax, for him to start to rock back against her fingers, and that was when she slapped his hand away.
“Come on!” Dorian cried, frustrated.
“What did I tell you? That is for me. And I can feel every time you get too worked up. You get tighter. You can’t fool me.”
Dorian’s face burned, and he whimpered and rocked back against her fingers, desperate for more stimulation.
It didn’t feel like preparation. Livia wasn’t rushing, wasn’t trying to stretch him; she was just playing with him, toying with him, letting every sensation build and build until all Dorian could think about was how full he was and how much fuller he wanted to be. His balls ached, and he swore he could feel his pulse in his cock; he’d never been so hard in all his life.
It wasn’t preparation but it worked just as well; Livia didn’t tire or get bored, and Dorian didn't know if it was because she was single-minded and focused on making her plan to have a child work, or because she was actually enjoying doing this to him, or both, but he had long lost track of time except that it was dark before she finally pulled her fingers out, the only light in the room the flicker of the candles.
Dorian felt wrecked. She had had four fingers inside of him at most, and he felt loose, slick, absolutely soaked with oil. The ache between his legs was absolutely unspeakable; as soon as she felt him tighten around her fingers she would push his hand away. Dorian had never drawn it out like this before, had never delayed his own pleasure, why would he? But Livia was right, this wasn’t only about him, and working him up was the safest bet; at least, that was how he’d rationalized it to himself when he was still capable of thinking. Which had not been for a long time now.
Livia shifted away from him and Dorian cried out, his back arching with sinful grace before he could control himself.
“No, no, come back, please, please, Livia, decoris, bella, amata, don’t stop..!”
He could hear her shifting around, could hear the soft tinkle of buckles and the creak of leather, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up from the sheets. He was drenched in sweat, his back slick with it, his hair a mess. He was trembling all over.
“You have no idea how beautiful you look,” Livia told him, walking back toward the bed; he could hear the footfalls of her heavy boots and the tap of her spurs on the tile. “All desperate. All mine. Do you want to be fucked, Dorian?”
Dorian shuddered. Yes. “What do you..?”
He did look up, then, and realized all at once what Livia had been planning. She stood by the bed, her robes pushed aside. She wore a glass phallus, attached with a leather harness buckled around her hips; it was beautifully made and it occurred to Dorian that, given his neglect, she probably owned several such things. She certainly didn’t allow her slaves to penetrate her, she’d made that very clear. Was this one of hers? He had no idea. It looked about the right size, the right size to be real. Dorian could hardly think. He wanted it inside him.
“The look on your face,” Livia snickered. “Lie on your back.”
Dorian did as he was told, spreading his legs, his chest rising and falling rapidly. A blush had spread all the way down to his chest, his hands shaking as he held his legs apart. Livia moved in, making him yelp as she grabbed his bent legs by the knees and all but folded him in half. His face burned, the position was too undignified, too intimate, but who would he be intimate with if not his own wife, and oh, Maker, she was going to fuck him, and Dorian was probably going to go mad.
He felt more oil between his legs, and then watched with glazed, hungry fascination as she slicked her toy, her hand moving over it as though she were slicking a real cock, her own cock, getting ready for him. A flicker of light between her fingers, a touch of magic to heat the glass for him, and she positioned herself between his legs. Dorian felt the head of her cock nudge up against him, and he bit his lip, turning his head to the side and gasping softly.
“Do you want it?”
“Livia…”
“Do you?”
“Please…”
“Do you want it, Dorian!?”
“Fuck me!”
Livia obliged.
She took it slow enough, arching her hips and pressing into him slowly, watching with open interest as he spread and spread for her. She felt the release of pressure as the head popped inside him, and Dorian confirmed it by crying out, the sound full of such raw emotion that Livia felt something twist in her chest. How long had he wanted this? How long had he needed it? It was his own fault, she thought, for refusing to do it with the slaves – but she didn’t let them fuck her either – or with his friends… but she was starting to realize why. He wanted intimacy. He wanted it with a spouse, a partner, not just a lover. He wanted a husband and he got a wife and it had denied him everything his body needed, denied him this. Until now.
Livia made a low, hungry sound in the back of her throat, and pressed all the way in to the hilt. Dorian screamed.
“Please!”
“Please what?”
“I need to come!” Dorian cried. His hands twitched in the sheets.
“Not unless you’re inside me,” Livia snapped. “Keep your hands by your sides.”
“Livia, please, please, let me--!”
“No.” She punctuated her words with a sharp thrust of her hips that had Dorian shaking beneath her. “You don’t need to come. You want to come. You’ll need to come later, you’ll need to come when you need it so badly you can do it inside me. And you don’t need to come yet.”
Dorian gripped the sheets with both hands.
His erection was dark, swollen, and Livia couldn’t help but stare as she set a rhythm with her hips, fucking him slowly and steadily. She had never seen him this hard before, not even close. He was big; satisfying. He would feel good when he fucked her and she finally, finally got to feel him come inside her. Clear liquid pooled at the tip of his cock, smearing over his belly.
“Are you that close?”
“Yes,” Dorian sobbed. “Yes..!”
“Aww.” Livia smirked, rolling her hips. Her toy was curved just so, and when she used it on herself it rubbed against her sweet spot with every thrust; she imagined it was having much the same effect on her husband. “Hold it back. You don’t need to come yet. You’re going to come inside me, Dorian, you’re going to fill me up with everything you’re holding back now and you’re going to give me a child.”
Dorian groaned, his expression rapt with suffering.
Livia shifted on the bed, setting one foot up on the edge of it and driving down into Dorian, fucking him mercilessly. Dorian’s fingers curled around her boot, stroking the thick leather, settling either side of the spur as he gripped her heel.
“Please,” he begged.
“No.”
“Please!”
“No.”
Dorian made a choked noise, tears trickling down the side of his face, disappearing into his hair. “Please!”
“Oh, Dorian,” Livia murmured. “Not yet. Hold it back.”
Dorian uttered an absolutely broken sound, and Livia felt her clit twitch, swollen and hot, in response. “Livia, please, you don’t understand,” Dorian sobbed.
“Shhh. I understand. Hold it back, Dorian.”
“Please, it feels so good, nothing’s ever been this good, Livia please, let me come, let me come…”
“I will let you come later,” Livia repeated firmly. “Hold. It. Back.”
Dorian threw an arm across his face and broke down, sobbing openly against the crook of his elbow.
“Dorian,” Livia sighed. “You look so good like this… You’re so hard, look at you, you’re leaking everywhere, it must ache so badly.”
“P-please, let me touch, I won’t come until you let me, j-just let me touch it…” Dorian sniffled, and Livia decided to take the risk.
“If you come,” she said lowly, “I won’t ever do this for you again.”
“I won’t come, I won’t come,” Dorian whispered, his hand already moving between his legs. “I promise, I won’t come.”
Livia watched as he took himself in hand, just two shaking fingers, not daring to use any more. He stroked slowly, up and down, up and down, snatching his hand away when he got close, sobbing with frustration but never disobeying.
“Please… I’m ready…” Dorian whispered, and Livia bit her lip.
“Not yet, amatus. Don’t come.”
“Don’t come,” Dorian murmured, repeating it to himself as he teased and stroked, trembling as the edge built and ebbed, built and ebbed. “Don’t come, don’t come…”
Livia fucked him for another minute more before Dorian snatched his hand away with a miserable, soft cry.
“I can’t,” he wailed, “I can’t, I can’t, Livia, please, I’ll fuck you, I’ll come inside you, I’ll do anything, I’m so close just please let me come, let me come…!”
“Anything?” Livia whispered.
“I need it,” Dorian snuffled. “I need it…”
“All right.” Livia pulled out, unbuckling the harness and detaching the toy. She pushed it inside Dorian and left it there, listening as her husband keened and whimpered and sniffed, watching as he squirmed his hips and struggled to keep his hands still.
She climbed on to the bed, straddling him. She was so wet by now that it dripped down her thighs. It wasn’t going to take either of them long.
“Are you ready, amatus?” she whispered. “Are you ready to come? Are you ready to make a baby?”
Dorian looked up at her, kohl smeared across his face, eyes rimmed red and eyelashes clumped together with tears, and nodded wordlessly.
Livia reached behind her, steadied Dorian’s cock at the base, and sank down on to him.
For a long moment she couldn’t speak. He was so hard, and so thick, and unlike every other time they’d gotten this far he didn’t soften inside her. He tipped his head back, crying out hoarsely.
No, this wouldn’t take long at all.
Livia’s hands flew between her legs as Dorian grabbed her hips, and she had never quite realized how strong he was. He lifted her and slammed her back down, fucking up into her with desperation completely beyond his own control. Livia spread herself, determined to come with him, to come quickly. She ran her fingers over herself, utterly soaked, slick, her clit hard and swollen and hot. She pulled back the hood with one hand and rubbed herself with the other, quick, sure strokes that had her panting and trembling and tensing in no time at all.
“Come for me, Dorian,” she whispered. “Come for me, come on, fill me up. Fill me up completely, let me give you a child, amatus.”
“Yesyesyesyes—“
“Dorian—“
Dorian broke first. He slammed up into her, silent, the breath just punched out of him as he came. She could feel how hard he shot, could feel those spurts of liquid heat inside her and she ground down against him, her eyes fluttering. She would have a baby, her baby, Dorian’s baby. She watched as Dorian shuddered through his orgasm, watched as his body released the tension and he began to keen through the aftershocks, desperate, animalistic noises, utterly spent.
He looked up at her, gazing at her with damp eyes full of awe and gratitude, and Livia lost herself. She clenched down and came with a scream, grinding herself against him. Dorian uttered a little yelp of pleasure, almost too sensitive as she pulsed and fluttered around him, milking another little spurt of come from the tail end of his climax.
He wasn’t sure how long they lay together before she pulled off him. She pulled the toy from his ass gently, carefully, and set it aside before curling up next to him on the bed. Dorian couldn’t move. He could feel that the sheets beneath him were completely sodden with sweat, could feel the lingering soreness in his ass and the wonderful, blossoming heat of his climax that still lingered in his lower belly, but he simply could not move. He was beyond exhausted. He felt wrung out in every way possible, emotionally, physically. Tears still spilled from his eyes, silent and too emotional for comprehension.
Livia lay beside him, brushing the tears away when they fell, hushing him gently. She held him tightly, stroking his hair, kissing his brow.
“Shhh,” she whispered. “Shhh. I’m here. I know. I know.”
Dorian turned his face to her and buried it in her shoulder, beyond words. He didn’t want to understand all of the things he was feeling; the time for understanding himself had long passed. He just focused on Livia, on his wife, soothing him through it all, and the feelings began to soften.
She took his hand, leading it to her belly, and he stroked there, through the praetor’s robes she wore for him.
“That’s going to be yours,” she whispered. Dorian smiled weakly, barely able to think; the exertion of smiling was almost too much for him.
“Mine,” he murmured. “Ours.”
“Our baby, yes,” Livia murmured. “Sleep, Dorian. You’re a mess.”
“Stay,” Dorian whispered.
“This is my bedroom,” Livia pointed out, stretching sleepily beside him on the bed.
“Stay,” Dorian repeated, a little more firmly. Livia was hardly going to argue. He hadn’t wanted to share a bed with her since their wedding night.
“I’m not going anywhere, amatus,” she said sleepily. She felt him roll against her, tucking his face against her neck, his mustache tickling her throat, and she closed her eyes.
At least one child, indeed. She doubted making another would be so difficult.