He shifted, his knee coming to rest between her legs, parting them gently but firmly. The position was intimate, invasive, a claim staked in the most fundamental way. He leaned over her, caging her in with his arms, his face inches from hers. The scent of him—wine, and leather, and something uniquely him—filled her senses, clouding her mind.
Freya was drowning. The anger, the defiance, the fight—it was all being washed away by a tide of sensation so overwhelming she couldn't think, couldn't breathe. Her body was a traitor, arching into his touch, a soft, broken whimper escaping her throat.
He heard it.
A muscle feathered in his jaw.
He was losing control. His carefully constructed punishment was losing.
Then, he kissed her.
It was not a punishment. It was not a claim. It was a desperate, starving need. His lips crushed hers, a deep, seeking kiss that poured all of his fear and fury and relief into her. He kissed her like a man drowning, and she was the only air in the world.
And she kissed him back.
His response was immediate. One of his hands slid from her face, down her neck, over her collarbone, and cupped her breast through the thin silk. His thumb brushed against her peaked nipple, and a jolt of pure, liquid fire shot through her. She cried out.
her hips moving restlessly against his.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of approval and need. He broke the kiss, dragging his lips down her throat, nipping and sucking at her skin, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. He pushed the flimsy strap of her gown from her shoulder, then the other, baring her to him. The cool air of the room was a shock against her heated skin.
His gaze feasted on her. "Gods, Freya," he breathed, his voice hoarse.
She was so embarrassed and tried to cover her breasts with her hand.
"Soren, dont look," she pleaded. But he wouldn't listen.
"Don't," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Don't hide from me."
He gently but firmly moved her hands, pinning them above her head with one of his. The other returned to her breast, kneading, teasing, tormenting. He lowered his head, taking the aching peak into his mouth, and Freya's world shattered.
A sharp cry escaped her, and her back bowed off the bed. The sensation was too much, too intense, too good. He suckled her, his tongue swirling, his teeth scraping lightly, sending jolts of pleasure straight to the core of her. He lavished the same attention on its twin, until she was writhing beneath him, a mindless, babbling mess of need.
"Please," she whimpered, not even sure what she was begging for.
"Please what, my wife?" he murmured against her skin, his voice a dark, velvet purr. "Please stop? Or please don't ever stop?"
He released her hands, and they immediately flew to his hair, her fingers tangling in the dark strands, holding him to her. His free hand slid down her body, over the quivering plane of her stomach, to the hem of her gown.
He paused, his fingers tracing the delicate lace at her thigh. He looked up at her, his crimson eyes burning.
"My warning Freya, if you ever try to run from me again I will make sure you are not able to walk for a week, am I understood?" he said, his voice low.
Her breath caught, and a fresh wave of heat washed over her. She nodded, her words caught in her throat.
A slow, triumphant smile touched his lips. "Good girl."
And with that, he slowly, deliberately, pushed the fabric of her gown up, baring her to his hungry gaze. He lowered his mouth to her inner thigh, and Freya gasped, her entire body tensing in anticipation. He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss there, then another, higher, and another, until he was hovering at the apex of her thighs.
He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire, and then, he lowered his head and tasted her.
Freya cried out, her hips bucking off the bed as a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washed over her. His tongue was a velvet torment, stroking, circling, delving into her core, driving her wild. He held her hips down with a firm, unyielding grip, preventing her from escaping, forcing her to take everything he was giving her.
"What do you need, Freya?" he demanded, his voice rough with desire. "Tell me what you need."
"I dont know," she cried out in frustration, "this feeling, it's too much, I can't take it."
He chuckled, a low, dark sound.
"Oh, but you will, my wife. You will take everything I give you."
And with that, he plunged two fingers inside her, curling them to hit that secret spot deep within her. At the same time, he took her aching bud between his lips and sucked, hard.
And Freya shattered.
He then rose up over her, his body a hard, heavy weight that pinned her to the bed. He looked down at her, his crimson eyes burning with a possessive fire.
With a guttural groan, Freya's eyes widened as she saw how big he was and she panicked a little. She tried to move away from him, but he grabbed her hips and pulled her back. He saw the fear in her eyes and knew why.
"Don't worry, my wife, I will be gentle," he whispered.
He positioned himself at her entrance, and for a moment, he just held himself there, a silent, throbbing question. Freya looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and desire, and she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
That was all the encouragement he needed.
He pushed into her, slowly, carefully, giving her body time to adjust to his size. She was tight, so tight, and the feeling of her stretching to accommodate him was almost too much. He gritted his teeth, fighting for control, determined not to hurt her.
He finally filled her completely, and he paused, giving her a moment to get used to the feeling of being so full. She was so tight, so hot, and she felt so good wrapped around him.
He looked down at her, his eyes burning with a mixture of love and desire. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice a low.
She nodded, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"It's... it's a lot," she managed to say.
"I know," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "But you're doing so well, my wife. Taking me all in."
He started to move, slowly at first, then with increasing speed and force. With each thrust, he claimed a little more of her, until she was completely and utterly his. He was a storm, a force of nature, and she was the storm-tossed sea, yielding to his every whim.
He was pounding into her now, his hips slapping against hers with a rhythm that was both brutal and beautiful. Freya was lost in a haze of pleasure, her mind a blank slate, her only thought the exquisite feeling of him moving inside her.
He reached down between them, his fingers finding her clit, and he started to rub it in a slow, circular motion. That was all it took to send her over the edge.
"Ahhh... Soren... wait i feel werid." She moaned.
he whispered. "It's ok Freya, Let go for me."
He commanded.
her body convulsed in a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
"Freya, I am going to fill that tight little pussy," he roared, as he spilled himself deep inside her.
Freya was exhausted .
"Dont think your punishment is over," he said, a wicked smile playing on his lips. "This was just the beginning." As he continued through out the night exhausting her through pure pleasure.
***
The sunlight rose the next morning.
The first thing Freya noticed was the warmth.
Soft sheets.
A steady weight beside her.
And an arm draped firmly around her waist.
She stirred slightly, wincing as awareness returned to her body.
Every muscle ached.
Her limbs felt heavy.
Her breath caught softly.
Memories flickered—heat, closeness, the overwhelming intensity of the night—
and her face flushed instantly.
"…You're awake."
Soren's voice was low.
Rougher than usual.
Freya froze.
Slowly turned her head.
He was already watching her.
Propped slightly on one arm, his crimson eyes fixed on her with a quiet intensity that made her pulse stutter.
For once—
he didn't look entirely composed.
his gaze shifted.
And a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.
Freya's stomach dropped.
"…Why are you smiling like that?" she muttered.
His brow lifted slightly.
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to say something insufferable."
His smile widened.
"Only about ten things."
She groaned and turned her face into the pillow.
"I'm going back to sleep."
"No, you're not."
His hand slid lightly along her side, not forceful—just enough to stop her escape.
Freya stiffened.
"Soren—"
"You're avoiding me."
"I am resting."
He hummed thoughtfully.
"Strange. You didn't seem so interested in rest last night."
Her entire body went rigid.
Slowly—
she turned her head back toward him.
"…Don't."
His eyes gleamed.
"Oh?"
Her face burned.
"Do not start."
"Start?" he repeated, far too innocent. "Freya, I haven't even begun."
She grabbed the nearest pillow and shoved it into his face.
"Stop talking!"
He caught it easily, laughing under his breath.
"You're blushing."
"I am not!"
"You are."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
She glared at him.
He only looked more entertained.
"Tell me," he continued lazily,
"should I be concerned about how quickly you lost that defiance you were so proud of yesterday?"
Her jaw dropped.
"I did not—!"
His brow lifted.
"No?"
She sputtered.
Words completely failing her.
Because unfortunately—
he wasn't entirely wrong.
And he knew it.
His smirk turned downright wicked.
"I recall a certain 'I can handle anything' attitude."
Freya buried her face in the pillow again.
"…I regret everything."
His chuckle was low and warm.
"You should."
She peeked up at him just enough to glare.
"You're enjoying this way too much."
"Immensely."
Freya groaned again.
Then winced slightly.
And immediately regretted moving.
Soren noticed.
His expression shifted just a fraction.
Less teasing.
More observant.
"Sore?" he asked.
She glared at him.
"That is your fault."
"I believe we've established that."
She huffed.
Then tried to sit up—
and immediately failed.
With a soft, frustrated sound.
Before she could try again—
Soren's arm slid around her again, steadying her easily.
"Careful," he murmured.
His tone softer now.
Still teasing—
but grounded by something else.
Something more attentive.
Freya hesitated.
Then muttered,
"…Don't think this means I forgive you."
His lips brushed near her temple—not quite a kiss, but close enough to make her heart stutter.
"I wouldn't dream of it."
She went still.
His voice dropped slightly.
"But I do expect you to remember it."
Her breath caught.
Then—
just as quickly—
his tone shifted again.
His thumb brushed lightly against her side.
His eyes held hers.
"I don't think I'll be very merciful next time."
Freya's breath caught.
His lips curved again—
"In fact…"
"I'm rather looking forward to punishing you again."
Her face went bright red.
"Soren—!"
His quiet laugh followed immediately.
And entirely too satisfied.
Then—
a knock at the door.
Both of them stilled.
Soren's expression shifted instantly.
"Enter."
Clara stepped in carefully—
and immediately froze.
Her eyes flicked between them.
Freya in bed wearing her sheer thin gown.
Soren standing nearby already dressed.
The tension in the room practically visible.
"…My lord. My lady," she said, bowing quickly.
Freya groaned under her breath and dragged a pillow over her face.
"I'm never leaving this room again."
Soren's quiet chuckle followed immediately.
"Oh, you will."
Freya peeked out just enough to glare at him.
"And why is that?"
His eyes gleamed.
"Because I haven't finished with you yet."
Her face turned red again instantly.
"Clara is literally right there!"
Clara turned even redder.
"I—I can come back later—"
"No, stay!" Freya said quickly, grabbing onto her dignity like it was slipping through her fingers.
Soren looked entirely too amused.
"Relax," he said smoothly.
"I'm not collecting anything today."
Freya narrowed her eyes.
"That's not reassuring."
"It's not meant to be."
And there it was again—
that calm, dangerous certainty.
That promise.
That this wasn't over.