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It was a cavern of a room. Jaime Lannister slowly turned in a circle, closed his eyes and imagined it echoing with cheers.
The last big primaries were winding down, polls were closing in a few hours and–barring a glut of Stannis supporters showing up last minute–he would secure his party’s presidential nomination. It was a remarkable accomplishment for a second term Senator from the Westerlands.
He looked at the yellowed paint and fluorescent lighting, silently rehearsing his speech, struggling to absorb the enormity of this moment. The responsibility of carrying his party’s hopes on his shoulders was daunting. It was what he’d worked for, and still he worried that he’d made the right choice–
“You changed our plan.” Her words bounced off the walls, cutting through his fretting. He smiled for the first time in hours.
Brienne Tarth stormed toward him, practical heels clacking. The hall was nearly empty; a few employees milled around the edges, leaning on racks of folding chairs as they watched his head of security’s entrance. He didn’t blame them.
She wore a fitted suit like armor; silver-blonde hair twisted in a tight bun. Brienne radiated confident strength, and at the moment that strength was barrelling at him fueled by displeasure.
He had almost forgotten how intimidating she could be, how she could make him feel out-maneuvered even while standing in the middle of this huge, empty space.
Jaime stepped into her charge and squared his shoulders until they were almost of a height. “People have been gathering since dawn, Ms. Tarth.” He snapped the words. Her flinch was subtle, but there. “Voters who want to wish me well–”
“And how, exactly, Senator Lannister, am I to tell the well-wishers from the potential assassins?”
He rolled his eyes, hoping to lessen the tension. “Assassins is a bit dramatic–”
“Is it?” She crowded him, wielding her mass. Brienne knew exactly what she was doing, how to position herself to make those near her uncomfortable; she also knew that her posturing didn’t work on him, that Jaime enjoyed watching her take control. “You’re being reckless and impulsive, letting your ego drive your choices.”
“Those people waiting outside.” He pointed to the entry doors. “They want one glimpse–something to make them feel included in all this horseshit–something to prove that I’m a fucking human being and not another talking head who’s as big a prick as my father.”
“You don’t carry his water.” Brienne extended a hand, stopped short of touching him. “You don’t owe them anything,” she bargained, voice dropping at the end, gentle as a caress.
Brienne didn’t show her nervousness or her fear, yet Jaime felt it like a sixth sense.
“But I do, Ms.Tarth.” Inching toward her, fingers curling. Jaime wanted to press the worry from those wide lips. “I owe the people of Westeros my nomination, this opportunity–”
“Wanting to include them in your celebration is a nice gesture.” Her eyes were calm seas. “But you can’t effect change if you’re dead.”
“It wouldn’t exactly be a brilliant endorsement of your skills, either.” Jaime had meant to make light, but she jerked back like he’d struck her. Her pride had always been a match for his, her temper just as quick, and he could be so fucking stupid sometimes, so thoughtless.
“Screw you,” she snarled, livid. “Don’t put me in charge and then undermine my authority. Don’t second-guess my experience–”
“I’m not.” Jaime grabbed her hand, stole a squeeze before she tugged it free. “This is important to the campaign.”
“All the security in the world can’t control a street full of people.” Her voice cracked, worry bubbling from the fissures. “There are a dozen sight lines that I won’t be able to defend you against.”
“I won’t announce the switch. For all that anyone knows, I’ll be entering through the underground garage–”
“What if I lose you?” The words were quiet, rushed. If he hadn’t been watching her mouth, he’d have missed them. But he’d known all along that this was the fear beneath her anger.
“You won’t.” He quit resisting the want that ached in his hands. Stroked a thumb across her cheek, whisper-quick. Electric eyes tracked his movements. “Have faith, Brienne.”
“I do…in this.” She touched the lump in her coat where her pistol rested. “And this.” Long fingers dug into the kevlar covering his chest, right over his heart.
“I’ll be fine.” He smiled. She didn’t.
“Your mind is made up, then.” Her voice was resigned, but she was far from accepting. Brienne stood at attention, brittle with emotion.
“Yes.” He waited.
“It’s your call, Senator.” She spun on her heel, yanking her phone from her coat pocket with focused aggression. Everything about her–the long stride, the way her back was ram-rod straight–it all radiated fury.
Jaime let his head fall. It was going to be a very long evening.
***
The reception was taking forever. They had relocated to a downtown hotel after the speech: a low-ceilinged room with carpeted floors and soft lighting, a crush of shuffling wait-staff and too-perfect people. If allowed, Jaime would have wandered between the high tables and full trays for a few minutes, shook some hands, then feigned a headache and retired to his hotel suite upstairs.
Tyrion wouldn’t hear of it, insisting Jaime play nice with his pocketbook.
The only bright spot was Brienne’s presence, icy as it was.
He’d grown used to her silent watchfulness. It was her job, after all. But tonight there was something voyeuristic to the way she savored his concealed discomfort; person after person demanding his attention while she stood inches away, almost touching, ignored by everyone but him, scrutinizing each interaction.
An ingénue slipped her room key in his pocket. Brienne’s gaze flicked from the movement to his eyes, her expression neutral.
A diplomat’s grown son did the same. Still she said nothing.
Brienne watched him with a focus that burned. Jaime felt it on his neck, in his gut.
Outside of his staff, no one knew…not his running mate or his party supporters, not the clowns in the media or the ass-kissing hangers-on or the ones funding this interminable race…none of them knew about them.
The thought made him swallow hard; it made his cock twitch in his impeccable trousers.
Tyrion had selected Brienne to guard him after the first death threat. It hadn’t sat well with some of the die-hard conservatives: his bucking the status quo, his intention to make things more fair, more tolerant, to do everything right that his family had gotten so bloody wrong for centuries.
Ms. Tarth had showed up out of the blue one day, with an impressive military record and a new Secret Service badge. A fucking mile-high pillar of muscle, honor, and fastidiousness that he’d pretended to ignore for at least three months.
But she’d stuck around–mulish at his side in chartered cars, standing behind him at breakfast, at lunch. The wench had practically tucked him in at night. He’d broken down and talked to her out of boredom, and she’d begrudgingly talked back. When Jaime had finally convinced her to relax just the tiniest amount, he’d found her shockingly optimistic for someone who’d seen so much. Her dry sense of humor had proved the perfect padding for his prickly cynicism.
The first time he’d kissed her they’d broken apart wide-eyed. She’d searched his face and seen her own honest shock reflected back…and she’d laughed.
It was impossible; it was ludicrous.
He’d kissed her again just to taste the laughter on her lips.
When he’d pulled her into bed–she’d fallen willingly, joyfully, and they’d fucked like it was all that mattered in the world–his foundation had cracked, resettled, finally hitting bedrock.
He’d been hers for over two years.
Jaime circled the room with Brienne as his shadow. He found it hilarious that no one had figured them out. They moved like a unit, like old married people, like lovers.
Through her earpiece, Brienne was fed information that she whispered to him in quick gusts, directing him through the crowd, reminding him of names. With fluid movements she collected and disposed of his barely-sipped glasses of champagne. She watched the exits with unblinking scrutiny.
It was all done with nods, with the shift of her eyes; a silent vocabulary, as practiced as his name.
He was halfway through an unremarkable conversation with a member of the Dornish Royalty, when the man looked at Brienne and said, “Your bodyguard has wonderful taste in clothing. Her suit is divine.”
Brienne touched her earpiece and scanned the crowd, clearly unaware of the compliment. Jaime found her lack of response appropriate–It wasn’t her taste the man was complimenting anyway.
After she’d shown up to their first formal event together in a shapeless black monstrosity, he’d had his stylist pick out a couple of acceptable outfits. Months later, after Jaime had had the privilege of discovering the remarkable body beneath the clothing, he’d asked the same stylist to choose more luxurious outfits for Brienne, ones in colors to suit her complexion and tailored to hug her toned shape.
Jaime had removed the labels and tags before he’d given them to her. Brienne had no idea that she was wearing a 1,500-dragon designer suit. It was his favorite one in a rich, midnight blue.
“Ms. Tarth is wonderful in many ways,” Jaime answered, wearing a tight smile and not at all appreciative of the attention the man was paying to Brienne.
The woman they were discussing remained oblivious to the conversation, having learned to tune out the specifics of what was being said and only register whether or not the general tone was friendly. When she belatedly realized that her name had been spoken, she focused on the Dornishman and blushed a lively shade of pink. “My apologies, Your Royal Highness. You’ve caught me at a disadvantage.”
“No apology necessary, Ms. Tarth.” The man extended a hand, and Brienne took it. Then he ran a thumb over her knuckles, and Jaime wanted to knock the presumptuous bastard’s teeth out. “Senator Lannister was just saying how wonderful you are, and I was about to concede the point.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Brienne replied, clearly uncomfortable.
Jaime would have let the man’s forwardness go unchecked–if the handshake hadn’t lingered far too long, and if Brienne hadn’t shot him a side-eye glance full of frustration. At least that’s how he rationalized to himself reaching out and wrapping a hand possessively around Brienne’s wrist and gently tugging it loose from the smug prick’s grasp.
Her arm fell to her side between them, his fingertips still pressed to her pulse. It was quiet enough in their little circle that he heard her quick intake of air, as did the Prince.
The other man looked directly at their hands, then at Jaime’s face. “You are a man full of surprises, Senator Lannister.” There was amusement in his voice. “I truly hope that you are elected. I bet I would enjoy working with you.”
“I wouldn’t wager much on it,” Jaime answered in a voice too low and even to give away his anger to anyone who might be listening.
The Prince, to his credit, apparently found the whole interaction funny. He barked a laugh then nodded to them both and sauntered away; it was only after he disappeared into the crowd that Brienne yanked her hand free and turned to Jaime with a terrifying frown.
She was flushed and breathing quickly, and there was something absolutely thrilling in seeing her like this in a roomful of people. He imagined her reaction once they were alone and his pulse raced.
Jaime had no sense of self-preservation. That was the only explanation for the way he provoked Brienne for the rest of the evening. He winked at her over a glass, brushed her elbow with his countless times. He drew her into conversations with corporate heads and retired generals, and through it all Brienne was poised and calm and much more elegant than she would ever credit herself as being.
By the time the last guests were leaving, she was positioned behind his shoulder, rigid as cut glass with edges twice as sharp. He shifted his stance, his simmering arousal made worse by the smallest whisper of her breath on his neck.
He smiled into his champagne.
***
The ride in the elevator was intolerable. Brienne remained silent behind him, and Jaime was flanked by two agents. On his right was a new man, some burly ginger with a missing tooth and a dirty grin; on his left was the always sullen Mr. Snow. Jaime had come to trust Snow, mostly because Brienne said he could hit an ant’s asshole at 50 yards, and he was practiced in keeping his mouth shut.
The two men escorted him down the hallway, Brienne took the rear. None of them spoke.
They reached his door, and Brienne eased in front of Jaime, removed her copy of his room key from an inner pocket and let herself in. He knew this drill, it was the same every night on the road.
After a few moments Brienne reappeared, his room secured. “I’ve got it from here,” she addressed Snow, who nodded.
“I’ll wait two hours and check in.” He tapped his earpiece, and Brienne shot him a small smile.
Jaime watched the new man. If he so much as raised a brow, he’d find himself on a different assignment next week. Everyone in this inner circle had signed an airtight NDA, but Brienne took no chances. Luckily, the rookie either didn’t notice or didn’t care what his boss did with her evenings.
There were times, like tonight, when Jaime wished for someone to leak information about them to the press. It would upset Brienne, and for that reason alone he was glad it hadn’t happened. But on lonely nights he would lie awake longing for the fallout, for the chance to fix it and move forward with her at his side rather than his back.
The two agents silently retraced their steps. Jaime knew from experience that one of them would be stationed at the elevators, and the other in the lobby. Brienne’s men were rigorously trained and professional. Jaime didn’t tell her enough how much he appreciated her hard work, or how safe she made him feel.
She opened the door for him, then closed it behind, checking the lock. He waited a few feet inside the door, the anticipation of earlier having mixed with uncertainty to make him feel off-balance.
Brienne wordlessly reached into his jacket pockets with both hands. Jaime swayed into the almost-embrace.
“Would you like me to track down the owners of these?” She held up two key cards. “I could make a call, find out which rooms they’re in.”
“Not unless you’re planning on fucking one of them.” It was supposed to be a joke, but it came off angry. He shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
She walked to the nearest bin. The sound of the cards hitting the bottom was loud in the silence.
“I wouldn’t want to spoil your plans.” Her words were clipped and Jaime was having trouble reading the emotion behind her placid eyes; whether she was as revved up with want as he was from hours of too-brief touches or if she still carried anger from earlier in the day.
If he was a smart man, or a careful one at least, he’d make light of their disagreement and do his best to fuck Brienne until she forgot all the ways he’d pushed her buttons. But he’d never been particularly careful.
So he crowded behind her, his front brushing her back, tugging at her coat sleeve like the annoying bother that he often was, until she turned to face him. “Everything I need is in this room. Everything I’m ever going to need.”
“You pull a stunt like you did at the reception, and then have the audacity to say shit like that?” Her voice was hard with reprimand but her hands landed carefully on his forearms. Even mad, her touch was gentle. “What the fuck were you thinking? Prince Martell is a notorious busybody. For the next month he’ll tell everyone he meets that Senator Lannister is banging his bodyguard.”
“So what if he does,” Jaime countered and Brienne scoffed. He hooked his fingers in her waistband, keeping her close. “We’re both single, we’re not breaking any rules–”
“I’m fairly certain that the press would portray it otherwise.” They’d had this discussion a dozen times–Brienne urging caution and careful planning–Jaime wanting to yell to anyone who’d listen that Brienne was his.
“And I don’t care.” He tightened his hold on her waist, drawing her closer, thankful that she let him. “I’ll call a press conference tonight if you want me to, right now–”
“Tyrion would have your head and mine.” Her anger was gone, replaced by fond exasperation. “Have you always been so damn impatient? Little Lannisters must be taught early that the rules don’t apply to lions, only sheep.”
“I’m not impatient.” He brushed his lips against her temple. “I was very patient at the reception tonight. You have no idea the things I wanted to do to you.” His voice was a growl. The arousal from earlier rekindled beneath his skin.
“You don’t listen.” She dodged his kisses, put a hand on his chest and pushed him far enough away to look him in the eye. “Not to your brother or your advisers…not to me.” The last came out timid, damaged in a way he didn’t expect.
He’d never meant to wound her. “I listen–”
“You didn’t today, and I was terrified.”
These quiet emotions were intolerable. Jaime could take Brienne’s raging, or her rigid anger, but this quiet disappointment was devastating.
“I can listen,” he whispered. “I can be patient.” He wasn’t sure that he could.
“Can you?” Her voice was breathy, she bit her lip. With a swooping feeling he realized that she wanted this very badly. So much promise held in two words.
“For you,” he offered, coaxing his muscles to relax as he waited for her to tell him what to do.
Brienne circled him, trailed fingertips across his shoulders and down his spine, setting off tiny sparks. Without a word, she eased off his jacket and carried it to the closet. Jaime waited. She knelt in front of him and tapped the toe of one loafer, he lifted his foot; she repeated the action on the other side and carried the pair to the closet.
His toes kneaded the carpet in an effort to calm his restlessness. He waited.
Brienne watched him with the same intensity that she always did, but it was so much more potent standing this close together, so near to his bed. There was a half-smile on her face, and she drummed her fingers expectantly on her thigh, and he could see the possibilities flickering like daydreams behind those hypnotic eyes. He was half-hard already.
“Get in bed.” She said it like she’d whisper fuck me in his ear, and it sent blood rushing between his legs, his cock going instantly from interested to aching. He reached to unbutton his waistband. “Keep your clothes on and lie still,” she ordered in that same low tone.
He eased himself onto the covers, propped his head on two pillows so that he could look down the length of his body at her. Jaime let his legs fall open, let her see his reaction to her in all its lewd glory.
There was an ottoman at the foot of the bed, one of those ridiculous concoctions of brocade and buttons that interior designers fancied. Brienne perched on it and stared at his erection. With practiced efficiency she pulled out the pins holding her bun, her hair fell in twisted clumps over her shoulders.
When they’d first met, she’d worn it brutally short. It was long now because he liked the feel of it brushing his chest.
“Do you want to know a secret?” she asked, absentmindedly combing her fingers through her hair to rid it of tangles. He followed the movement with covetous eyes. Then he caught her watching him, and realized that nothing that Brienne was doing was absent-minded at all.
His breath caught. Her smile deepened.
With meticulous care she unbuckled her gun and holster, laid them on the floor beside her and started on the buttons of her starched shirt.
“I liked all the attention at the reception, the possessiveness. I wanted it.”
“You could have said something–”
“I think you’ve talked enough for one night, haven’t you, Senator? I thought you said you were good at listening.” It was delivered in that tone she used to correct one of her agents who’d disappointed her, and something about it scratched an itch Jaime hadn’t even known he had, some buried desire to be scolded and corrected. He groaned and rubbed a palm over his throbbing cock.
“No touching either,” she added in a firm voice, staring straight at his prick, and gods, he was going to come before she’d even finished undressing.
She unclipped the wire-pack from her waist, double checked that it was turned off, then dropped it on top of her discarded gun and vest. Brienne faced him in a lacy white bra and long blue slacks, elbows on thighs. He could see down the shallow dip between her breasts.
She shifted her weight and muscles flexed over ribs, bunched across her shoulders. There were raised white scars beneath her left elbow and above her collarbone. He knew their stories, knew the feel of them beneath his lips.
The desire to touch her was overwhelming. Jaime pushed up on his elbows.
Brienne cocked her head, gave the smallest shake of reprimand. And in this weightless moment, doing what she wanted was the most important thing. He fell back onto the pillows.
“You seduced the crowd with your words and your charm, and everyone at that reception wanted a piece of you…but you’re mine.” Jaime held his breath as she kicked off her heels, then stood and unbuttoned her slacks. “And I desperately wanted them to know it.”
The admission was enough to pull a groan from his throat. Brienne glared and his cock swelled further, pressing hard against his fly. She watched it happen and her eyes blew dark.
Then she pushed down her slacks and panties and stood at the end of the bed, arms loose at her sides. He took in the long expanse of her–firm legs and firm stomach, pale hair where her thighs met. He knew the give of those thighs beneath his hands; he could taste her arousal in his memory, still the craving to touch and taste was just as strong as it had been their first time.
His hips jerked, completely beyond his control. Jaime closed his eyes and twisted wrinkles into the duvet. He wanted to tackle her to the floor and fuck her rough–to have rug burns on his knees and sore muscles in the morning. He wanted to fuck her until they both forgot how hard life seemed right now.
Jaime opened his eyes and Brienne was seated on the ottoman again. Her bra had joined the other clothes on the floor, and she was flat-footed facing him. There were freckles dotting her thighs and soft white fuzz at the base of her belly. Her nipples had puckered in the cool of the room and her legs were parted just enough for him to make out the wet line of her cunt.
She made no attempt to conceal herself. He didn’t want her to.
Need gathered in his belly like a mounting flame, it flicked out to his fingertips and down his trembling thighs. He wasn’t sure that he could speak even if she gave him permission, and holy fuck he wanted to do what Brienne wanted of him, he wanted to please her with an ache that rivaled the one in his desperate cock.
Blue eyes met his, watching his reaction.
His pupils must be as wide as hers. His stiff dick was wetting his trousers, his tongue flicking over dry lips.
“Brienne.” He whispered her name, held out a hand.
Her eyes ran the length of his body, and for a moment she shifted toward him. Then she hesitated, placed one hand behind her on the ottoman and leaned back, spreading her legs, exposing the pink folds of her sex, the wetness gathered there.
“Not yet.” Playfulness bloomed around her eyes, her smile turned coy. “Patience, Jaime. You can do that, can’t you? Be patient. You promised that you could.”
“Fuck.” He arched in a spasm of pleasure.
Brienne had never talked to him like this before, but godsdamn if it wasn’t lighting up parts of his brain that he hadn’t known that he wanted stroked. He was making a mess of himself; precome stained his trousers in a large circle, and his feet were planted on the mattress, his legs spread obscenely wide.
“You like that don’t you? Doing what I want you to do. Pleasing me.” She slid her fingers down her stomach, slipped them between her legs, parting her folds. Jaime’s breath exited as a groan. “I like it too. It’s one of the many reasons I love you.”
Some shrink would have a field-day with this, after all the time Jaime had spent wrestling with what it meant to be a Lannister and if he was seeking this nomination for himself or simply to appease his family. It was Brienne’s approval that had finally eased his doubts.
“Is this ahh…fucking therapy?” His balls were pulled tight and he shifted his hips, seeking some small friction to ease the pressure.
“Does it feel like therapy?” Her fingers started to circle, and she let out a low moan, sliding down the ottoman, relaxing into her hand.
Jaime could see it all: the way her thighs tensed and her hand glistened, the way she opened for her own touch. When she slid two long fingers in he had to bite the inside of his jaw to keep from coming.
“Feels like bloody torture,” he gasped. Watching as her body took her fingers over and over, as she made little noises of pleasure while her hips rolled in time with her thrusts.
His world narrowed to this moment as he watched Brienne touch herself; his own body wound tight with no outlet for release. She was sweat slick and lifting to take her fingers deeper, groaning low in her throat and gasping his name, and Jaime thought he might lose his damn mind if he had to watch a moment longer.
“Brienne,” he panted, trembling. “If you climax, it’s all over for me. I can’t…” There was only so much willpower in his body, and he was at the end of it. Jaime didn’t want to finish in his pants like a horny teenager, but it was looking probable.
She lifted her head to stare at him, cheeks beautifully flushed. “What do you need?”
The answer was easy.
“Just you.” He held out a hand.
With a radiant smile she stood and climbed on the bed; endless, bare legs straddling his clothed ones, scooting forward until she could reach his fly.
“Careful, it’s loaded,” he whispered, and she huffed a laugh.
“You’re lucky. I’m trained in explosives,” she whispered back and Jaime snorted, then groaned.
“Shit, don’t make me laugh.” He grabbed at the base of his cock through his trousers as she worked the button and zipper with gentle hands. Jaime couldn’t help but think about where her fingers had just been, of how they would taste.
There was no time to undress, he wouldn’t last that long. Brienne eased his boxers below his stiff prick, positioned herself so that those warm, wet folds that had been tempting him for what seemed like hours dragged across his stretched skin. It was not enough and almost too much and Jaime whined, overstimulated, grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand to his face, sucked on her fingers as she took him to the base.
Jaime was so close to the edge already, so desperate. He grabbed her hips and thrust, driving himself deeper, needing more. Brienne met his desperation, bearing down with all of her steady weight, squeezing and riding him into the mattress.
It was bound to be over in minutes, and Brienne was doing her best to undo him, rolling those perfect, wide hips and clenching her thighs until his pelvis ached. She licked a stripe along his jaw then bent until she could mouth at one of his nipples through his shirt. Jaime curled into the sensation, lifting his head to watch her teeth scrape across the wet material.
There was a circle of pale pink lip balm smeared on the white fabric, and it made his insides shake, knowing that she’d marked him, knowing that whoever laundered this shirt tomorrow would wonder whose mouth had been there.
Brienne’s hips worked in unrelenting thrusts and her lips never rested and his orgasm barreled toward him, promising the kind of high that would lead to a free-fall of release. After all the teasing, Jaime was frantic to reach it.
He pulled her fingers from his mouth, trailed his lips up her arm until he reached the scar behind her elbow. He bit the raised skin until Brienne keened.
“I’m so close, almost…almost…” he chanted. One hand holding her wrist, the other digging into her hip as he writhed beneath her.
She stilled with him deep inside her, pressed a hand over his heart. “Hold out a little longer, won’t you?” Brienne’s voice was a breathy purr, her fingers curled in his shirt. “You’re so patient, so good to me.”
“Fuck, Brienne.” Jaime jerked beneath her, his stupid forebrain too hypnotized by the stroke to his ego to do anything else. “I can’t, I can’t—“
“You can.” She reined her pace, going up on her haunches until he almost slipped free with each rise before sinking down slowly and grinding against his pelvis. Each slide of his cock igniting a delicious, sticky-slow explosion of pleasure up his spine. “You’re so good, Jaime.”
And he knew there was a part of Brienne that was playing it up now, mercilessly edging him for the fuck of it; but beneath that was the woman who craved his affection with an honesty that he’d never expected, and some feral part of him was soaking it up, hungry for her praise.
“Gods, I love you,” he groaned, mesmerized by the sight of her above him: tense and glistening, mouth open and panting.
Brienne was hanging on just as precariously as he was, and when he slid a hand between her slick thighs she cried out and shivered to a halt, too overcome with sensation to move. He circled her clit with firm fingers and she stuttered back into motion, rutting without rhythm at all, every exhale shaped into the sound of his name.
“Jaime, gods Jaime it’s so good, and I need to, I need–ahh, fuck…love you,” she groaned, hips bearing down, leaving no space between them. “I love you so fucking much.”
He reached up with his other hand, brushed her cheek. She was magical in the moments just before climax, when she was so affectionate, so vulnerable, and love connected them, thick as muscle or bone.
“Go on, sweetheart,” he whispered, soaked fingers relentlessly driving her toward release. “I’ve got you.”
Eyes the color of stormy skies met his as she cried his name, over and over, her body drawing at his stiff cock with lingering pulls.
Jaime held on, deliberately ignoring his own need, finding joy in watching pleasure wash over her in wrecking waves, until she finally stilled and sagged forward, trembling.
“You’re so good to me, Jaime Lannister.” She had both hands on his chest, holding him down. “So good.”
It was the last torch piled on an already raging bonfire. He rolled them without finesse, slipping out before mindlessly slamming back in, groaning against her neck as he buried himself in her tight heat.
His trousers were around his ass and the zipper of his fly was rubbing against his balls and he’d have sore spots between his legs that would take a week to heal. But there was strange pleasure in knowing that Brienne would have them too; that the fine wool of his suit was leaving chafed marks on her inner thighs, that she’d feel it when she sat down at some stupid meeting or another and the memory of why it hurt would make her wet.
He lasted for a few more deep thrusts and then he was spilling inside her, groaning like he was breaking and saying her name against her skin. Brienne held him through it, strong hands and strong hips an anchor through the bone deep shaking.
It felt too good to move, and Brienne could take his weight. So he laid still until he softened and slipped out of her, and even then he was reluctant to roll over and lose contact with her warm skin.
When he’d finally caught his breath he whispered, “I love you,” over and over, pressing the words into her chest, right above her heart.
***
Jaime listened as Brienne checked in with Snow and informed him that no one had tried to kill the Senator in the preceding two hours. He considered yelling in the background that Brienne herself had done a fine job of torture, thank you very much, and that death by blue balls was no way to go.
He talked himself out of it, fearing her reaction.
He did sweet-talk her into a slow, hot shower, then pulling on a pair of his boxers and a tee. It was the first time in months that he’d had the chance to crawl in bed with her for more than a romp.
“I can’t stay,” she protested, head on his shoulder.
“You can if I say you can,” he replied, then thought about how it sounded and amended, “if you want to.”
“I’m sure Tyrion has something important scheduled–”
“Tyrion can sod off. I’m spending the morning in bed with you.” He tightened his arms around her. “It’s been too long, Brienne.”
She hummed in agreement. It felt like a victory. Brienne relaxed in his arms and he really should have learned not to press his luck, but the night had been such a success so far.
“I’m going to the press about us.”
“The devil you are.” She bucked in his arms and he held on, stroked her shoulder until she settled back onto the pillows. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“You are not my dirty secret.” He looked her in the eye, no hiding. “I will not have this leaked and then listen to those know-it-all asses discuss you, as if they have any right to an opinion. We’ll announce it on our terms, before the election.”
“Oh gods, you’re serious.” She threw an arm over her face. “Fucking hell…”
“You can do this.” He tugged her arm loose and kissed her neck, her cheek; wrapped a leg over hers. “I want you to do this with me.”
“When?” she groaned, and gods that was almost an acquiescence. His heart sped up.
“I was thinking six or seven weeks, right before the national convention.” Brienne was correct in her criticism that he lacked patience and too often led with his emotions, but on this topic he’d done quite a bit of ruminating. “That way we can get all the gossip out of the way before the announcement of my candidacy.”
She exhaled, relieved. “So I have a couple of months–”
“To change your mind?” Jaime tried to make it a joke. It wasn’t.
“No.” She found his hand beneath the covers. “For more nights like tonight, where no one knows about us, and I can watch you across the room knowing you’re watching me.”
Jaime would give her a million more evenings like this one if he could–a million silent flirtations, a million stolen glances.
“I’ll always be watching you, Brienne.” He squeezed her fingers.
“But it won’t be the same,” there was melancholy in her voice, the preface to a loss.
“No. It won’t.” She knew this game well enough to know that everything would change.
Brienne was silent so long that he thought she’d fallen asleep. Then she snuggled close and whispered in his ear, “I’ll still carry a gun.”
He grinned against her forehead. “I wouldn’t expect less, Ms. Tarth.”