Work Text:
Neria finishes her signature with a flourish, signing off on a bill that’s likely to have the King so frustrated with her that he’ll bar her from any noble events for the next year. And truly that is its own reward.
The Arl of Redcliffe takes a moment to add his in a careful but blocky script. Still, it looks positively perfect next to her own nearly illegible scrawl. Oh, well. That’s why she has Nathaniel write all her professional missives.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks again. It can’t hurt.
Teagan shoots her a tired look from the other side of her wide desk. “My answer has not changed, dear lady.”
The epithet is appreciated. He always refers to her that way. Or as my lady or my dear friend. It’s a mite different than Warden-Commander or even Arlessa. But it’s so rare that anyone deigns to speak to her like a person. Still, Neria wishes he would use her name for once.
“This could reflect badly on you,” she says, ever practical. It’s true. She had already tried her luck by asking the Circle to be made independent, even if it was a year ago. Pushing for the Alienage to have a Bann might be too far… even if it was the least Ferelden could do.
“What? The fact that we would be rectifying some long-held wrongs?” He raises an arched eyebrow. “What is the point of the power we hold if we cannot use it to fix things?”
“Noblesse oblige?” Neria tilts her head, a sly grin tugging at her mouth.
He laughs, standing up from his hunched-over position. At his full height, Teagan is taller than her by at least a head. A consequence of his human heritage. He smiles down at her, unabashedly prideful. “An Orlesian term but not one they ever seem to hold in any regard.”
“How fitting that we might use it instead.” Neria sighs, leaning back into her oversized chair.
Much to the chagrin of both their seneschals, Teagan and Neria are staunch allies in most political matters. Seneschal Garevel—Maker watch over Varel—insists that it diminishes her own power to be so reliant on outside influences while Redcliffe’s steward prattles on about how damaging it is for the historic Guerrin family to rally behind such a controversial figure as an elven mage.
They don’t even know that Teagan and Neria are meeting as of right now. Neria told Garevel she would be writing letters and Teagan had made quite a show of having such a debilitating headache that he had to go to bed as soon as he could.
It’s quite fortunate that neither of them are in the habit of listening to others. It’s probably troublesome that he defers to her as much as he does. But it’s equally as bad that she trusts his advice without hesitation. After all, Teagan seems to be one of the few people happy to see her wield any influence.
Though the King granted her the title of Arlessa, he doesn’t seem to be very pleased whenever she takes it seriously. Likely he thought the matters on her plate as Warden-Commander would take up enough of her time to render her innocuous. Alas, she is not so simple. Or so kind.
It’s a little petty that she took the dissolution of their little arrangement—for she cannot stand to think of it as a relationship, as anything like love—so badly. But considering she limits herself to staunchly refusing to step foot in Denerim and advocating for aggressively humane policies Neria believes there are worse ways to go about it.
If it was at all vindictive then Teagan would have said something by now. For he takes his sort-of-nephew’s happiness nearly as seriously as his own. He is her friend but family takes priority.
“I do not suppose the rest of us will get to hear what’s going on in that head of yours?”
Neria blinks, returning to herself.
Teagan is closer now, having skirted the edge of the desk to get to her side. Leaning against it, arms crossed and emphasizing his broad shoulders, he seems nearly entirely at ease. Her heart can’t even manage to slow its rapid beating.
Foolish. She tells herself. How typical that her more juvenile emotions recenter themselves on someone so out of reach.
“Oh, only very few have that privilege,” Neria jests, tapping her fingers on the wooden arm of her chair as she mentally lists the reasons she can’t simply ask him to spend the night in her room.
He’s your friend. But she’s bedded friends before. He’s older than you by a not-insignificant amount. But Neria is not some wayward girl, no, she is a grown woman well into her twenties. Duty calls him to seek someone more appropriate for his standing. Is she not a noble just as he is? He is Alistair’s uncle. Her hand stops.
“So you have yet to find it in your generous heart to grant me that privilege?” The grin Teagan gives her makes her blood burn something terrible. In the low light, his blue eyes run dark, not unlike the surging waves on the coast of her arling when it storms. “How very cold of you, my lady.”
How saccharine is it that she wants to let herself drown in that turgid gaze? She hates herself for wanting it so badly. She wants to hate him for it as well. But it’s hard when he looks at her with such warmth. And Neria wonders if he wants her, even if just physically.
She could give him that. But she wouldn’t know how to stop herself from giving more.
How troublesome. Neria sighs.
At that, he falters, gentle visage breaking. Just as devastating as the grey sky swooping in to steal the last rays of light. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” Neria waves him off. “Just tired.”
“If you’re having trouble sleeping—”
“I sleep just fine.” She cuts him off. It’s a lie and they both know it. More than a few of his servants have babbled their Arl about the Warden-Commanders nightmares when she visits Redcliffe. Half the time she thinks he can hear her screams and that he’s just staying quiet to salvage her dignity.
At that, Teagan looks at her, utterly unimpressed. “As Warden-Commander, you should take better care of yourself.”
She scowls. Neria hates it when he frames his arguments like that. It calls to her sense of duty, sure, but it rankles. Is she no more than a simple Warden to him? “Yes, because the darkspawn care so deeply that Ferelden’s Commander of the Grey sleeps eight hours a night.”
Finally, Teagan seems to be at a loss. She’s prepared for him to nod and take his leave, for him to say nothing else.
“I care that you’re doing well.”
Neria freezes. A shiver creeps over her flesh. It licks down her spine, raising the hair on her arms. The sense of satisfaction makes her delirious.
She can’t tell if he sees it or not.
Neria pastes on a smug grin, propping her hand up to rest her head on it, looking at him through tilted lashes. “Careful now. You can’t let your seneschal hear you say that.”
It’s a somewhat running joke that his steward is half out of his mind quelling rumors of an affair between them. They’re not true, of course. But it doesn’t help that they meet so often and treat each other so casually.
“You know I could not care less what he thinks,” Teagan says. The tone of his voice is off. It’s insistent.
“Of course I do.” Neria smiles all the same. “But still, it must be tiring to hear that awful diatribe about the damage I do to your reputation.”
Not that it was pristine in the first place. The Free-Marcher Bann has many offenses under his belt, the least of which is the fact he isn’t picky about who warms his bed. That’s what rumor suggests, anyhow.
Rumor also suggests he hasn’t taken interest in anyone for the past few months, an apparent oddity to the noble world. And also a shame to the people familiar with his supposedly admirable skills. It’s petty, perhaps, but Neria takes vindictive pleasure in the idea that her suffering is also theirs.
“You could never do anything of the sort.” Neria looks up and finds herself without words. His gaze is deliberate and he’s staring at her like—like— “If anything, you are the one suffering the most from such gossip.”
“Hardly,” Neria scoffs, turning away so she can have an excuse not to look at him. It’s hard to be anything but honest when she sees the gentle set of his eyes.
They say awful things, sure. But nothing she hasn’t heard before. That she’s used her magicks to turn so many to her side. That her success is because she’ll spread her legs for any person with an ounce of power. That she’s nothing but an elf who doesn’t know her place.
Frustrating but she can weather it just fine.
“Neria,” Oh. Her name. That gives her pause. He’s never— “I would… I would not want to hurt you. In any way.”
The words suck her in like honey. And she thinks she might be a fly, already caught in the trap. However uselessly, she still struggles. “It’s nothing. Their rumors do not matter to me so long as I have your company.”
“Even when my company gives them cause to slander you?” And this time Teagan sounds self-loathing. Angry.
“You’re my friend,” she says, perhaps too quickly. “I would have you as you are. Irregardless of what people might say.” Neria does not let herself think too deeply about that. “Oh, definitely don’t tell your seneschal I said that.”
“It’s not funny,” he says quietly. “Neria, I…”
She stands before she can think to stop herself. Every bit of sense begs her to reconsider as Neria bridges the gap between them in a few short steps. Her skin feels flushed, abuzz with something like threatens to steal away what little reason she has left.
It’s easy to see his eyes trail down her form, lingering on the open neck of her thin shirt. It could be innocent. It could also be more.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Neria says in a low voice. “I pay no mind to anything my detractors might discuss except for when it reflects badly on the people I care for.”
“My reputation should not be your concern,” Teagan replies, now firmly keeping his eyes from drifting below her chin.
She is dressed more casually than usual. Her silvery hair is loose, hanging down to her waist in waves. A silky nightshirt and a thin pair of trousers are all that keep her covered. But her neckline is dangerously low and anyone taking close notice would see that there is nothing like a breastband binding her.
“And yet it is,” Neria admits.
“Despite evidence to the contrary, I can hold my own at times,” Teagan scolds and it's lighter, something closer to a joke.
Neria huffs, happy to be in familiar territory. “In case you have forgotten, this whole relationship is founded on me saving you.”
“I assure you I have not.” And Teagan sounds positively fond.
That astounds her so much that she isn’t sure what to say next. She’s been choked before but never by her own indecision. It’s a horrible feeling.
She’s racking her brain to think of something to say when something brushes her wrist, trailing down to the harsh peaks of her knuckles. Neria doesn’t need to look to know it's his hand, his fingertips resting on her closed fist.
It's light enough to be ignorable. She could shrug it off and that would be it. Instead, Neria flexes her hand, slowly unclenching it, turning it over so his touch skims over the sensitive skin of her palm. His breath hitches.
She tilts her head, skewing a sideways look that is nothing short of sultry. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else you wish to say?”
The look on his face is one of pure astonishment. A slow shock that melts into something sweeter. More playful. “Are you truly asking for more talk?”
“No,” Neria admits, leaning forward. Her eyes drop to his mouth.
He grins, perhaps a tad smug, and meets her in the middle.
It’s gentle when his lips brush hers, a hesitancy that seems at odds with his usual demeanor. But Neria understands. Beneath the thrill of their contact lies stagnant fear. There are so many reasons this is a terrible idea.
But his hand finally tangles with hers, fingers locking together, and then fear seems like nothing. She has always faced doom with a level head, after all.
“Are you sure?” he asks in a quiet voice, eyes dragging over her face for any sign of hesitancy.
Neria shoots him an unimpressed glare. “If I wasn’t sure I would have hit you with a spell.”
At that, Teagan relaxes, laughing a bit as his other hand catches her waist, tugging her forward. And the heat of his body so close to hers, his chest against her own, is terribly distracting. And yet there are still too many layers separating them.
Patience. Neria tells herself. But it’s difficult to keep a cool head.
“You honor me with your mercy,” he teases, mouth ghosting the edge of her ear.
She curses her sensitivity as she shudders. “See how merciful I feel if you keep doing that.”
He smiles once before kissing her again and pleasure curls through her, twisting her heart, her pulse. Neria responds in kind when he opens his mouth against hers, cupping his face with her free hand. She traces her thumb against the hard edge of his jaw and stubble prickles against it. There’s no alien curiosity, no hint of inexperience as his tongue meets hers, and she eases into it, happy to not have to guide him.
A rhythm builds, steady and heated. Neria can only get so close without it turning into more. His body rocks against hers, leg slotting between her thighs, and he gets exactly the reaction he wants. Neria moans, friction a wondrous thing, and the hand on her waist gets progressively bolder, sliding under her shirt.
She should do something in turn, she thinks. She wants to touch him, wants to shred those stupid linen trappings, that thrice-damned doublet. So she ignores the throbbing heat between her legs and tries to sink to her knees.
Teagan catches her. “Not yet,” he says, insistent. And his hand teases the hem of her shirt, pushing it higher and higher until frigid air hits her bare chest, breasts on display. The effect is immediate, tight peaks budding as he abandons the shirt at the start of her generous cleavage. Neria shivers but his attention is intoxicating and it shoots warmth straight down her spine. “I haven’t even gotten to touch you.”
Teagan sweeps her into another open-mouthed, desperate kiss, one that spirals within her until there’s nothing but frantic need. The sheer depth of it is overwhelming, threatening to consume her. And she’s never felt closer to surrender.
He palms her, careful at first, like he’s testing how she fits in his hands. But he’s a quick study and his touch turns ragged, thumb dragging roughly over a pert nipple. Neria sighs against him.
Teagan buries his face against her neck, kissing her bared throat, lips skimming the sensitive skin of her collarbone. She arches into it. “Maker help me, Neria, you’re beautiful,” he whispers it against her heated flesh as if half-expecting it to be lost against the planes of her shifting body. “I could do this for the rest of my life and it still wouldn’t be enough.”
Beautiful. She hates the word sometimes. There are days when it does nothing but remind her of the King. But it sounds so good coming from him instead. She urges him closer, a breathy moan her encouragement.
“So good, so wonderful,” Teagan says, half dreamily as his mouth drifts lower until his lips close around one of her dark nipples.
He kneads her with both of his hands as she squirms in his grasp, tongue circling and flicking with a measured sort of torture. Between the feel of his warm mouth and the harsher scratch of his beard, she isn’t sure what to focus on.
The edge of her desk cuts a hard line against her back when he pushes her close to it, lifting her just enough so that she can sit precariously on the edge. Neria is only vaguely disappointed when he finally pulls away, hands still cupping her, gently rolling her nipples between calloused fingers.
Each touch builds and builds, and she closes her eyes to keep some semblance of focus, of restraint.
“Do you really want to do this here?” he asks her, so breathlessly low it gives his usually careful voice a husky edge.
Maker, she could not be arsed to move this even if it was in the middle of the Chantry. “Yes.”
His hands finally abandon her chest and she huffs, annoyed for a moment, until Neria realizes it's only because his fingers are drifting over the line of her trousers. Oh.
Teagan undoes the cord quickly enough that it betrays familiarity and Neria grins, amused. Her own hands drift over to his hips, to the buttons that keep his breeches up. She has more than enough tricks to entertain him as well.
“Not yet,” he tells her again, tugging her trousers down to mid-thigh, and gently pushing her hands aside. “I still want to touch you.”
“And I can’t return the favor?” she asks, somewhere between teasing and genuinely curious.
“Neria, you cannot fathom how terribly I’ve wanted you,” he says it with such severity that it stuns her. Teagan takes the opportunity to lean close, to brush his mouth against the high curve of her cheek, to tilt her chin up with a single touch. “But I can wait a little bit longer for that particular satisfaction.”
Oh, he is insufferable. But delightful. Utterly delightful. “Do as you like. For now.”
“For now,” he repeats, hand drifting to her smalls, slipping them down her legs.
Neria clutches at his shoulders when he finally decides to stroke her. She’s surprised at the soft noises he manages to pull from her. The sudden little whimpers that she tries—and fails—to choke down. She hasn’t done that since she was in the Circle, where sex was a revolution and not just another way to burn off frustration.
Neria knows she’s wet, more sensitive than she wants to admit, but the brush of his thumb over her clit makes her quiver. Makes her breath stutter. Her skin is warm, sticky with sweat, and the wave of lust that consumes her is feverish. She hasn’t felt desire this potent for a long time.
His face rests against hers, the high cut of his cheekbone brushing against hers. “Careful. Too loud and someone might hear.”
And it is utter bastardry that he slips in a finger at that moment. Neria whines, aching for anything to fill that horrible emptiness. Maker, the way her cunt clenches is nothing short of desperate.
Logically, she knows it's late, and the residents of Vigil’s Keep tend to keep a wide berth when it comes to her office. Still, it’s not a guarantee. And now it all seems so much more risqué.
“Too much, Warden-Commander?” Teagan whispers. And it's a terrible discovery that he seems to enjoy needling her. Seeing her react. But the rush of pleasure that rolls along her back, her body as tight as a bowstring, is so addicting that she refuses to hate it.
A second finger curls into her and Neria has to drop her head against his chest, needing something solid to ground herself. It’s never like this whenever she touches herself. It’s always mechanical, sating but not satisfying. Maybe it’s just because nobody of any decent skill has been with her recently but she doubts it.
Another swipe against her clit has her trying to sink down on him, her need for more outweighing reason or dignity.
“Neria,” Teagan mutters her name like a prayer. “Neria.”
The way he says her name, the motion of his fingers, in and out, it’s all too much and not nearly enough.
“You look so wonderful like this,” he says, hand drifting up to her chest, roughly squeezing one of her breasts. Neria moans, drinking in his praise like honey, so sweet it rages like a fire. “Neria, I want you to feel good.”
“I am feeling good,” she mutters between sharp little gasps.
“Then I shall try to make it even better.”
And it confuses her for a moment until Teagan sinks between her spread legs, kissing the inside of her thigh. A thrill pierces her so swiftly that she shivers. The dual sensation of his mouth and the coarse hair of his beard dragging along her downy flesh enraptures her. But she is so far beyond patience. As is he.
He takes one moment to look up at her, to meet her flushed gaze, and then he buries himself against her cunt.
Neria has known since the moment she met him that Teagan is not a man do things in half-measures. And evidently, this applies to all aspects of his life.
The hand not currently fucking her immediately clamps down on one of her thighs, pinning it in place as she strains in his grip. It’s hard not to, with the unrelenting manner in which he takes her.
His tongue spreads her, again and again, tracing over every inch it can reach. Neria tilts her head back, breath strangled, pulse drumming in the very tips of her fingers. She can’t cry out. She can’t.
His fingers thrust into her, pressing deep as Neria tightens around him, greedy and needful. A whine escapes. And another. And then his mouth recenters on her aching clit, open and suckling.
Neria can’t help rocking against his face, can’t help the rising flood in her chest, can’t help moaning his name, over and over again. Oh, she’s close, and latent magic pools under her skin, shivery static dancing between her fingers.
He reangles himself just so, and all it takes is the strong arch of his nose pressing against her for Neria to crumble. Shuddering, an aching, brutal release tearing through her, Neria comes.
And he doesn’t let up until she finishes shaking, lapping her through it until every last bit of pleasure has been wrung from her.
The hazy delirium of her satisfaction has her dizzy, smiling like an idiot as he pulls away, standing back up to full height. He crowds close, hands settling on her waist, broad and warm. Entirely comforting as Teagan leans in to kiss her neck, nuzzling the spot between her shoulder and her throat.
It takes Neria a minute to come back to herself, to notice the hard line of his arousal brushing against her thigh.
“How do you want me?” she asks, probably more excited than is proper. But she can’t bring herself to care. She wants him to feel good, wants to be the cause of it.
The idea sends a rush that makes her shoulders straighten and her toes curl. Neria’s entire body is a live current, energy just waiting to be put to use. And Maker, how she wants him to use her.
The interest that flashes in his eyes is quickly smothered by forced calm, a light brand of mischief. Almost gently, Teagan guides her to stand, to slide off the edge of her desk. Neria complies, half expecting him to push her to her knees.
Instead, he turns her around, hand right between her shoulders, and carefully encourages her to bend over her desk. Never forceful, never anything more than a suggestion. Teagan well knows she is stronger than he is, that she can more than handle a little roughhousing, and even so remains gracious. It’s unfortunately endearing.
Neria doesn’t stop until her chest is pressed firmly against the surface, lacquered wood dragging against the bare skin of her stomach, her breasts. Teagan pushes her forward until the edge of the desk hits the top of her thighs, digging in just enough so that she can feel the pressure.
The angle is limiting, and with her arms laying next to her head, she has just enough leverage to see the door directly facing her on the other side of the room. The door which neither of them have properly locked. She shivers.
“I want you like this,” he says, quiet enough that Neria barely catches it. “Is that alright?”
Neria turns her head enough to look at him from the corner of her eye. Any more and it’ll be uncomfortable. She raises an eyebrow. “I’m not going to stop you.”
He huffs something like a laugh and brushes away the strands of silver hair falling over her cheek, finger trailing to the base of her neck. “I would like a bit more than that.”
“You want me to beg?” It’s half in jest but still a legitimate question.
“No, not that.” Teagan shakes his head, a smile slipping through. “But it would… assure me to know you would enjoy this as well.”
Neria grins, never one to shy away from teasing. “I have always been curious about what it would be like to be fucked over my own desk. Consider it helping me to fulfill a fantasy.”
He makes a strangled noise, the first break in his composure so far.
“Does that assure you?” she asks again, false innocence lacing her voice.
Teagan takes a moment to answer, swallowing once. “Yes, yes it does.”
And Neria rests her head on the table as his hands leave her, briefly, to undo his breeches. She can’t see him, not properly, and the anticipation burns. She’s already aching and the terrible emptiness of her cunt is nearly painful. She can hear fabric rustling, hear it slide against skin. Neria bites her lip.
She doesn’t know what to expect or how to prepare. If she’ll need to work through any discomfort. The idea that she won’t have any idea until he’s inside her sends a thrill racing down her spine.
Neria turns so she can thump her forehead against the desk, taking a trembling breath. The heat spiking between her thighs is terrible enough that she wants to press them together, to find some sort of relief.
When his hands settle on her hips, taking a firm hold, she jolts, rocking forward a bit. His grip tightens, pulling her back just far enough that his erection brushes against the cleft of her backside. Neria’s hands curl into fists.
For a moment, he stops, just keeping her there. And then, in a low-pitched voice so careful it makes her tremble, he asks, “How do you want me to finish?”
Now? When she wants him so badly she can barely think? Frustration and lust bleed together into a violent tumble. But Neria is thankful enough that she doesn’t have to look him in the eyes when she answers. “Inside.”
She usually wouldn’t indulge in such a thing. Most of her one-off lovers need that distance. It’s rather possessive, after all. But with him, the thought of it only excites her.
Teagan pauses and she can almost picture the particular brand of hesitance flashing over his features. “Is that not…”
“There’s no risk,” she says quickly. “A Grey Warden thing.” Darkspawn blood tends to wreak havoc on the body, after all. “And unless you have something you’d like to tell me about any previous bed partners…”
“No, I… I have nothing of the sort.” And Teagan is the honest sort so she believes him. And even if she didn’t, the Circle has taught her more than a few necessary spells.
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”
And Teagan doesn’t reply. Instead, he shifts, one hand abandoning her hip to find one of hers, uncurling her fist so his hand can fit over it, pinning it to the desk. His fingers slide between hers, curling into the palm pressed flat against the surface. It’s… nice.
His other hand slides away from her side, trailing over her until it settles at the small of her back, holding her still. “Ignore what I said before. Don’t stay quiet.”
She can’t resist. “That depends on how good you are.”
His laugh is quiet. “I suppose you’ll find out.”
And then, before Neria can even think to reply, he nudges her legs apart. And she can’t see it but knows his eyes are on her, burning against her skin. She’s never felt so exposed.
But she’s fucking dripping with how badly she wants him. And she’s sure it shows.
He pushes forward, slowly, and his cock slides between her slick thighs. Neria closes her eyes and relishes the feeling of him lining up with her cunt. A second passes. And another. And she wonders if this is supposed to be some form of torture. The harsh swell of him brushing against her, a thought she’s agonized over for some time now, but never going further.
Neria feels him twitch against her sensitive flesh, and she thinks of goading him, even just a little. There’s no need. Teagan urges himself onward.
Neria’s breath shudders as he first enters her, a frisson of desperate excitement shooting up her spine. He moves slowly, measured but not dispassionate, as if he wants to memorize the feel of her stretching around him, inch by inch. Neria swallows, a whine working up her throat as he fills her, challenges her.
Her cunt throbs around him, clenching as he buries himself in her as deeply as he can. And the nonsensical mantra of yes, yes, yes surges through her mind as her free hand scrabbles against the desk, desperate to take hold of something.
Maker, he’s more than she ever thought, more than she ever wanted to imagine. Better than any fantasy, any half-remembered rumor whispered in the corners of the royal palace. Neria tries to drive herself onto him, to take more if that’s even possible, but the hand on her back doesn’t waver in the slightest.
Neria feels such an intense wave of lust-driven frustration when Teagan slides out of her that she grits her teeth, biting back curses. It’s only for a moment, after all.
The next thrust is rougher, quicker, and the force of it knocks her against the desk, pinning her to its solid frame. But the delirious feeling of him inside her, his cock dragging along her inner walls, is so strong that she can barely choke off a wanton moan.
Staying quiet is going to be a problem.
But it’s hard to care about that when his pace picks up, when each harsh push of his hips has her whimpering, pleading for more. Teagan isn’t even touching her, teasing her, just relentlessly driving into her.
Neria knows better than to expect an orgasm from just this but it doesn’t stop her from feeling good, from drifting into mindless, filling bliss. Besides, there’s a certain perverse enjoyment in the knowledge that the Warden-Commander would be so base as to let someone bend her over in her own office.
Not that I can complain, Neria thinks. He’s more than decent, angling himself just a little differently each time to see what noise she’ll make, settling on the one that’ll have her crying out before she can stop herself.
It speaks to experience. And she can appreciate it, even if she feels more than a little unfairly jealous. Neria groans, bracing her free arm in front of her so she can rest her forehead against it, wrenching her eyes shut. And through it all, Teagan doesn’t even falter, never even comes close to stopping.
It drives her insane and she curses his stamina as much as she loves it. He is a warrior after all, one of many years.
It’s only when she can feel his hand tightening with hers that she knows he’s close. His thrusts turn harsh, more erratic, and it’s all she can do to hang on. A familiar heat coils at the base of her spine, a tension that draws her taut, and Neria pleads for just a few seconds more.
He buries himself one final time, groaning her name, and the head of his cock twitches deep within her. A second later he comes.
It’s long, drawn out by the way his breath shudders, and his fingers dig harshly into hers. But Neria is so close, and she slips her free hand into the space between her body and the edge of the desk. Her fingers are shaking and she slips, making a miserable noise when she misses her clit, but the sensation of him filling her, spilling inside her, and the lightest bit of her own touch are more than enough to send her over the edge.
Neria heaves, relieved as every bit of frustration bleeds out of her, thumping her head against the table. She’s panting, sweat beading along her forehead, but she feels… satisfied. Exhausted but satisfied.
Teagan lingers for a moment, murmuring something she can’t hear before he pulls away, releasing her. Neria takes a moment to gather herself before pushing off the desk, rolling her head back as she stretches her neck.
She’s a wreck, hair sticking to her damp skin, flushed and dizzy. Neria turns, pulling her shirt down and her trousers up, trying not to make a face at the mess between her thighs. She asked but it’s still distracting, though not in a terrible way.
Teagan had done little more than unbutton himself so he looks much less disheveled than she is, fixing himself with little effort. And Neria can’t help but rue that. She wanted… well, perhaps she can still get what she wants.
“That was…” She hesitates for a moment, finding the right words.
“Better than you thought?” he answers for her, lifting his eyebrow.
“If I say that your ego will be unmanageable,” Neria mutters, still smiling. “But, in the interest of fairness, I was wondering if you would take an invitation back to my room. A proper bed would do us well, I think.”
“In the interest of fairness,” he repeats. “What do you mean by that?”
Neria tilts her head, coquettish in a way she usually doesn’t attempt. “You had me crying out over my own desk. I can’t exactly return the favor here but it’s the spirit of the matter, isn’t it?”
“Oh?”
Neria’s hand shoots out, grabbing him by the collar and reeling him close. Her voice drops, low and without a hint of sweetness. “I want to take you apart until you beg me to stop.”
And for a moment, she thinks that might have been too much, but—
He laughs. “Is it gauche of me to say ‘yes, please’?”
Neria tilts her head. “Not at all.”
“Well, then,” Teagan says, leaning close enough to brush the hair off of her shoulder. “Yes. Please.”
Neria smiles with the knowledge that her nights will be much more exciting.