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Maybe this wasn’t the way to start a marriage, especially when he was well-acquainted with her highness’s attitude toward shenanigans. Yet as in most things, Dastan could not restrain himself. That singular clasp holding her priestess robes in place was simply too tempting. And they were alone. It wasn’t as if he meant to expose her in front of the entire court and their subjects.
So he came up behind her, laid a hand against the small of her back so gently that he doubted she noticed the touch at all, then watched her simply walk out of her robes. Tamina skipped a step and tried to catch the material as it pooled around her ankles, but her hands were not quite as quick as Dastan’s, especially when she was caught so very much off guard.
“What!?” Her voice was like the shrill cry of a bird, and she turned on him with wide, dark eyes. “What!?”
He bit his lips together and shrugged, the clasp having been swiftly tossed at his feet. “It fell off,” he offered, pointing. “You must have you handmaidens fasten it more carefully next time.”
“You touched me,” she countered, bending to pull her robes up and attempt to wrap them about herself, while Dastan admired the way her breasts swayed when she bent thusly. “I felt your hand on my back.”
He cursed inwardly, that she had caught him, but kept his face impassive. “Imagining things, princess. I may have brushed you, maybe accidentally, but I was moving for the wine… there.” He pointed to the table where the wine bottle stood, but Tamina remained unconvinced.
“I heard you are a rogue,” she spat at him as she tried desperately to wind herself back into some semblance of clothing. “You fooled me with your charming words and your… your… You were far too familiar with me from the start, and I see now--”
Dastan’s head was starting to ring. “Please. Please don’t.”
One thing he had not been so honest about was the dagger, how he had used it. She was strong, and he knew that about her quite well, but all the same it was not his intention to frighten her with the risk he’d taken traveling so far back in time. And even with how she ranted at him now, lost in a moment of rage, he felt she knew better than she let on.
“What does it matter?” he was asking her now, running a hand along her arm and wincing when she jerked away. “It would have come off one way or another.”
She smirked at him then, appearing unconvinced. “By sleight of hand or by wicked tongue, is that it?”
“You have no idea just how wicked,” he grinned, the very grin that dropped a woman’s layers, those on her skin and those guarding her heart, so easily.
Her own tongue stole across her lips, the look on her feline face seeming to give away the fact that she was intrigued by such talk. “I take that as a challenge,” she told him, her voice a purr now. “That you should prove yourself.”
That was all the permission he’d needed. He took the robe, with its complicated folds she’d come nowhere near to duplicating, and tore it from her shoulders. It went easily without the clasp, falling to the floor a second time. She had been painted in intricate, gold patterns on her hands and feet, up her arms and legs, not quite reaching those intimate places but straining for them as if in longing. He smirked when he realized this meant he truly was about to make a mess of her.
He swept his arms under her, eliciting an attractive little gasp from her, and carried her to a pile of cushions she sank into at once. Her eyes were nearly wild with watching him as he removed his armor, revealing dark, sculpted skin for her hands to wander. She was annoyed with herself for appearing so eager, giving away her own game a bit, but her desire was guiding her now.
He earned a pouty look from her when he put a finger to her lips before she could kiss him. Instead, he traveled the length of her body, letting that wicked tongue do its work over her nipples, down into her navel, then against the sweltering heat between her thighs. One arm hooked under the small of her back and forced her harder against his devouring mouth, and he moaned softly when her breath hitched.
Tamina’s shapely legs found a comfortable position over his shoulders, her fingers tangling in the hair of his bowed head. It was almost sacrilegious, this worshipful way he tasted her, the way he knelt as if to a shrine. Yet she wouldn’t stop it, not for all the world. Not until she was shaking and arching to feel more of his lips covering her, and soon she was. He drank her deeply, as if at an oasis, then raised his face, ready to smile and question if he’d proven his quality as she’d like. But his words remained caged in his chest as she besieged him and pushed him onto his back.
Still she shook, trying to ride the aftershocks of her climax, but she didn’t let this stop her momentum as she wrenched his breeches down to his knees and mounted him. He was appreciably hard, having enjoyed his meal with a different sort of appetite that swelled inside her now.
The joke appeared over, and Dastan was not so dense that he didn’t know when it was time to set pettiness aside. His hands became demanding, running along the curves of her body and over her breasts, working her toward a second orgasm before he allowed himself to follow.
Her lips made a lovely “O”, her hips snapping as she let out a ragged cry and finished atop him. He pulled her down against his chest, gripping her waist and pounding his last thrusts into her. She felt the warm rush of his seed and shuddered with a short laugh against his shoulder.
They lay this way until they were sure to fall asleep, then Tamina said softly, “you’ve gotten my paint on you.”
“I think you’ve stained me with more than paint,” he told her with a tired groan.
“I’ll pretend that was a compliment,” she teased, kissing his temple as he drifted off.