You know it's wrong for you to seek her out this way. You tell yourself that you should turn around, go home, wherever it is that may be at the moment, but you're more than halfway there and the pull is so strong that you're afraid you couldn't turn back now even if you tried.
So you continue on. Make your journey through the dense trees, your aching legs working seemingly of their own accord because you're much too tired to make them move on your own. Your boots scuff at the dirt, and you stumble a few times, catching yourself against a tree, breathing in deep until you find the strength to push forward.
It's preposterously easy to sneak your way into the castle, not nearly as much of a fortress as your queen would make it out to be. You slip in unnoticed by the guards. A few muttered words and a little concentration is all it takes to mask yourself.
You quickly make your way up to her chambers, where you hope she'll be. It's late, the moon having risen hours ago, and for a moment you wonder if she's already asleep, if she'll even welcome your presence on this night. You quickly push those thoughts away though because they are simply too much to bear.
Push on. Legs straining to carry you up the winding stone steps. Breath quickening, heart hammering wildly in your chest. Blood rushing in your ears. Magic tingling just below the surface of your skin. Hers, not your own. You can feel her. Conscious, waiting, just on the other side of the heavy wooden door.
Grip the handle and push. Make your presence known, hear her gasp when she realizes that you're standing there, suddenly materializing from the aether and shadows into something real and tangible. Flesh and bones and hot, hot blood.
She's out of her chair and crossing the room in seconds, pulling your body flush against her own, tasting your lips, and you're powerless to stop her. You wouldn't want to, even if you did have the power to push her away. You're too busy marveling at how good she feels in your arms to even notice when she pulls away. Her gentle voice brings you from your reverie, warm brown eyes searching your face, catching your gaze and holding it.
"Morgana," she whispers, and the sound of your name falling from her lips sends a shiver throughout your entire body.
"My Queen," you whisper back, leaning in to capture her lips again.
Her body bends and sways to your will with little fight. She clutches at your dark cloak as you back her toward the bed, delicate fingers making quick work of the knot and divesting you of the thick, heavy material. She runs her hands down your back, desperately seeking out the ties on your emerald dress, pulling at them until they come undone. You break away just long enough to let her finish undressing you, to let green silk slide down your body, until it pools at your feet. You toe off your boots and kick them aside as you step out of your dress, and then you're on her again, pulling her close, attacking the soft skin of her neck with lips and teeth and tongue.
She moans into your mouth as you push her up onto the edge of the bed, fitting yourself snugly between her open legs. You roughly shove her nightgown up, until it bunches at her hips, and then slide your hands along the warm skin of her thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in the wake of your cold fingertips. She pushes into you, leaning back on her hands and arching her body into yours, beckoning you closer, and you give in because if there's one thing you aren't good at, it's denying her of anything she wants.
Her heels dig into your backside and she expels a shaky breath when you dip your head, taking an already taut nipple into your mouth and swirling your tongue around it teasingly. Even through the thin fabric of her nightdress, the action sets every nerve ending on fire, sends white-hot arousal pulsing through her. She shudders and bucks and curses, and you smile, wicked and sinful as you are with your fingers sliding into the slick wetness between her thighs.
She hisses your name into the darkness, grinds her teeth as you press into her, stilling your fingers and just gently exploring inside her for a moment with your fingertips. She feels exquisite, more wonderful than anything else you've ever felt, and you can't resist the urge to move for very long. You've never known anything stronger than the pull you feel to her, the urge to satisfy her every fantasy, to bring her such pleasure that it leaves her trembling and breathless beneath you.
On these nights, you make it your mission to do just that, and you always succeed. She's only this open, this willing to give up control, with you. You know it because she tells you, and you believe her, of course. With everything you have, you believe her.
You show her just how willing you are to please her, and she begs for more. She rocks up on her hands, fingers gripping the blankets tightly, grinds shamelessly down on your fingers, closes her eyes and catches her lower lip between sharp white teeth to keep from moaning too loudly and alerting the guards. You kiss her messily and push your fingers into warm, wet heat, let the pad of your thumb ghost over the tiny sensitive bud of her clit. Her hips jerk and she pulls away from your lips to let out a cry, unable to contain it, face contorting in ecstasy as her orgasm overtakes her.
It's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, when she comes apart under you, shaking, sweat glistening on her skin, the blissful look on her face as she rides out wave after wave of blinding pleasure. It's all you can do to simply sit back and stare at her in awe, fingers still moving slowly inside her, coaxing her down easily, little by little until she collapses back onto the bed, body going lax and sinking into the ruffled blankets.
She reaches out blindly, until her hands find purchase on your skin, fingers wrapping around your arms to pull you up. You lie on top of her, kiss her tenderly, chase away the last of her tremors with gentle hands tracing soothing patterns into her skin. She gasps for breaths that don't quite fill her lungs, chest rising and falling in rapid succession, until finally she calms.
There's a brief moment where you're afraid she's fallen asleep, but when you pull back to look at her, she's gazing up at you, dark eyes warm and heavy-lidded. You smile down at her, press your lips together in a kiss that is much too chaste considering what you've just done.
"Morgana," she whispers your name again now, with all the reverence reserved for a queen or noblewoman, something you're so very far from being. That doesn't seem to bother her in the least though. She worships you for everything that you are.
And she shows you. Spends what remains of the night admiring you with hands and fingers and a warm, exploring mouth, mapping the curves and planes of your body, committing everything to memory. Every scar, every freckle, every inch of your pale skin. You yield to her touch, surrender yourself completely to the sensations that threaten to overcome you, and when she finally breaks you, you understand.
With all the clarity that a dying man knows the end is near, you know that she is the only one who will ever be able to bring your heart to its knees, and for that very reason, you will never be strong enough to stay away from her.