[ There are layers to these sins. Aemond knows the precarious ways the Seven Pointed star is used to forgive transgressions and condemn others. It is one to lust in such ways with a married woman. It is another layer deeper to indulge lust with one of blood. Passions of flesh is one thing to be forgiven. To do with oneβs blood is another. But the Seven had turned a blind eye to his blood some time ago. A Targaryen was not the same as a common human, they were a step closer to the gods. They were allowed to mix blood with blood. While he was of her blood, she was not of his.
Iβm time, she says. It promises, it lures him in. He shifts before she does. Legs mixing and melding. Teased the edges of some pleasurable feeling before he feels her lifting. Aemond shifts to accommodate her, almost instinctively. The patch of cool satin against his back. Edges of hair tickling and itching around his shoulders. The soft sink of her weight pressing onto him as she rolls on top. His hand at her side slipping up her back as he returns her kiss.
Her touch draws his hips forward, clashing about her thighs as she settles. Enclosing him in warmth. The drag of her hips bringing him into the fold, still wet and wanting. Itβs not as though he does not already know what it feels like to be inside a woman. This isnβt it, but it draws at his pleasure all the same.
The low grind of her hips pushes a groan out of Aemondβs lungs. His head tipping up to chase her mouth down, feverish and wanting. His hands sliding down her back. Gentle callouses of his fingertips rough to the touch. Slipping over the curve of her hips, fingers turning into the plumpness and pull her deeper into the grind. His lips break and latch themselves again at her neck. He begins to find the rhythm to shift against her. Their bodies beginning to wax and wane.
The build is slow, digging out what feels a deep well. It forces him to temper into it, to submit to stoking embers instead of light a raging fire. For as tempered as he is, for as eager he feels, it feels just as good. Just as honoring and devoted as she had treated him time and time before. It coaxes from him a pleasant moan that vibrates against her throat as the gradual undulations of her body stokes the heat within him. ]
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Iβm time, she says. It promises, it lures him in. He shifts before she does. Legs mixing and melding. Teased the edges of some pleasurable feeling before he feels her lifting. Aemond shifts to accommodate her, almost instinctively. The patch of cool satin against his back. Edges of hair tickling and itching around his shoulders. The soft sink of her weight pressing onto him as she rolls on top. His hand at her side slipping up her back as he returns her kiss.
Her touch draws his hips forward, clashing about her thighs as she settles. Enclosing him in warmth. The drag of her hips bringing him into the fold, still wet and wanting. Itβs not as though he does not already know what it feels like to be inside a woman. This isnβt it, but it draws at his pleasure all the same.
The low grind of her hips pushes a groan out of Aemondβs lungs. His head tipping up to chase her mouth down, feverish and wanting. His hands sliding down her back. Gentle callouses of his fingertips rough to the touch. Slipping over the curve of her hips, fingers turning into the plumpness and pull her deeper into the grind. His lips break and latch themselves again at her neck. He begins to find the rhythm to shift against her. Their bodies beginning to wax and wane.
The build is slow, digging out what feels a deep well. It forces him to temper into it, to submit to stoking embers instead of light a raging fire. For as tempered as he is, for as eager he feels, it feels just as good. Just as honoring and devoted as she had treated him time and time before. It coaxes from him a pleasant moan that vibrates against her throat as the gradual undulations of her body stokes the heat within him. ]