fic: To Serve A Queen - Part 17/17 [FINISHED]
TITLE: To Serve A Queen - Part Seventeen
SUMMARY: There was a Queen in Gennii Territory again.
PAIRING: Liz/Ronan
RATING: NC-17 (sexual situations)
NOTES: ZOMG. 51,000 words, seventeen parts, the acclimatisation of one Warlord Prince, and we're done! Thank you to all the readers who took this journey with me, it's been a real pleasure to discover just how much I like this pairing - and also to discover and meet other people who like it, too. I hope to read your Liz/Ronan stories in future!
To Serve A Queen - Part Seventeen
In the moment before she kissed his fingertip, Ronan wondered if he'd done a stupid thing in pushing her so far.
His finger rested against the soft cushions of her lips, savouring the velvet of her skin. The seconds stretched out, marked by the pounding of blood in his veins and the song of the water running over rocks, and Ronan waited for a response - acceptance, rejection - anything!
Then her lashes dipped down and her lips moved lightly against his skin. A kiss to indicate acceptance of his interest - and more. Not content to leave it there, her lips parted and she delicately licked the pad of his index finger in a soft, sensual caress and Ronan sucked in a slow, harsh breath.
Acceptance and a lot more - the pleasure of reclaiming what he'd lost in Belka: his own right to choose a lover and be chosen by her in return.
Desire leaped, swallowing him whole and he shivered as she drew his head down to hers, sure of what she wanted now she knew he was willing.
Ronan didn't think he'd ever been more willing before in his life.
Her lips trailed his cheek, cool and fresh as they tickled his beard, but when they found his mouth, her kisses were anything but cool. She knew what she wanted, and Ronan gave in to the headier urgings of desire without a fight, drawing her in to him as their kisses grew more bold and they familiarised themselves with the territory they explored.
Ronan wasn't sure what he expected of her. Modesty? Shyness? He should have known better. This wasn't a nervous girl on her Virgin Night, but a woman who knew what she liked and wasn't ashamed to take it once she was sure of his compliance.
His jacket and shirt were shed and discarded, tossed into the rapidly-darkening shadows, but when she tried to straddle him, he turned her around so she was facing the other way. Her arched brow over one shoulder turned into a gasp when a ghostly hand pressed gently at her belly, easing her back against him.
Not so fast.
Ronan was going to make this last as long as he could.
On his thighs, her hands clenched involuntarily, but she tilted her head back when he trailed his lips along her throat and up to her mouth. Their kisses were hot and slow, and ached in Ronan's body. He ran his hands lightly up her sides, pushing up the linen of her shirt, but not yet willing to take it off.
There were other things he wanted to do.
The first touch was light against her throat, nothing more than the gentlest of caresses. It slipped down her shoulder, moving along the inside of her arm, a ghostly finger that stirred her senses, exciting her pulse. Her mouth paused on his, and he kissed her again.
Then he traced the ghost hands down her shoulders and over her breasts. She made a soft exclamation that was lost in a moan as the fingers lightly fondled her nipples. Ronan sucked in a sharp breath as she shifted against his groin, but if the look she gave him was heated, her smile was wicked. "Can't you take it, Prince?"
With a growl, he took her mouth again, and felt her pant as the ghostly hands began teasing her in earnest.
In the past, he'd used this as a means of arousing the women he'd been forced to bed without needing to touch them more than he had to.
This time, Ronan fully intended to let his hands and mouth follow everywhere that the ghost hands went. Eventually.
Before that, though, she would be quite thoroughly satisfied.
He let the 'hands' travel all over her body with exquisite tenderness and absolute care while she panted and whimpered and dug her fingers into his thighs as she strained against thin air. Up and down her flanks, he curved the hands over her hips and slid them smoothly along her inner thigh while his mouth caressed the line of her throat.
She dragged in a long, slow breath. "Tease."
"Can't take it, Elizabeth?" He used her name deliberately, letting it whisper past her ear and felt her shudder.
He wasn't expecting the hand that traced along the crotch seam of his leathers. "As long as you can," she murmured.
Ronan had the advantage of being able to see what he was doing as he gently pulled her shirt front open, buttons slipping neatly out of their holes as the edges parted. On the other hand, she had the advantage of a more direct approach.
His cock tightened as her hand slipped into his leathers, and breathing suddenly became an effort. He leaned his head against hers and swallowed hard, his lips moving in her hair as her fingers traced up and down the damp flesh.
It took more concentration than he liked to form the ghost hands on her body again, but when he achieved it, her caresses faltered. The ghostly hands smoothed across her skin, every inch of bared flesh stirring with their touch, while he nuzzled her throat and kept his hands firmly about her waist, tightening with the ebb and flow of desire.
*You don't have to hold back on my account,* she murmured in his mind.
*I know,* he replied, smiling and letting her feel his amusement. He wasn't holding back, he was waiting for the right moment.
Then, as two ghostly hands traced up her calves to her thighs and slid along her inner thigh with exquisite slowness, Ronan let the hands caressing her breasts drift down the length of her body. Linked as they were through the Red web, he could feel her anticipation like spice on his tongue as the two hands melded into a single tender touch, arrowing down past her waist and stirring the curls between her thighs...
But the finger that touched her core was real.
Her moan and the writhe of her hips was intoxicating as any drug they'd given him as a slave. High on the sense of both power and submission, Ronan traced his finger over her with darker intent, felt the nails of her left hand prick his thigh through his leathers as she was driven higher, higher...but the fingers wrapped around his cock only flexed slightly, teasing him, keeping him hot.
Tenderness, gentleness, consideration for what he was - a Red-Jewelled Warlord Prince of the Blood - with all that it implied...
In the psychic plane, she wrapped her mind around him, Red to Red, distaff to spear, witch to male, Queen to Warlord Prince. In the shadows of the garden, their mouths locked as her body splintered, shattered, melted in the furnace of desire offered and desire satiated, and she shared the experience with the man who'd taken her there.
He'd never shared a sexual experience like this: he'd never had a witch who was willing to open her mind to him in orgasm. It was like fire in his veins, like the first flush of strong wine, heady and exquisite with her pleasure - and his pleasure in her release.
Dimly, he was aware of his hand stroking her clit, of his hand cupping her breast, the pliant mischief of her mouth, the curls that tickled his neck as she rode out the waves of pleasure that surged through them both, leaving them replete on the bench in the garden.
Finally she shifted, gently easing away from him. Ronan pressed his hand against her lower belly, refusing to let her leave. Elizabeth turned her head to look at him, and her fingers flexed around him. Ronan sucked in a slow breath and bit back a protest as those fingers trailed the length of his cock then slipped out of his leathers entirely.
Witchfire bloomed in a lantern hanging in the tree and in the niches along the wall of crumbling brick, illuminating the smile that touched her lips as she turned and offered him her hand.
He followed her over to the small lawn and let her draw him down. The grass prickled a little against his palms as he bent to kiss her. He soon forgot that in the thrill of tracing his tongue down her body, listening to her moan a little as he rubbed the edge of his beard against her nipple before taking it in his mouth. The other nipple was attended to by a ghost mouth, suckling sweetly on the nub while her fingers splayed on his shoulder, flexing in rhythm with his kisses until she couldn't take it any longer.
Unprepared for her revenge, Ronan felt the world turn and found her straddling his legs, leaning forward with her hands resting lightly on the muscles of his belly. Her grin was wide and wicked. "Trousers off, Prince."
Obligingly, he vanished them and his boots, then inhaled sharply when her fingers began exploring the exposed flesh with light, lilting strokes. His voice wasn't entirely steady as he told her, "Yours, too, Lady."
Green eyes gleamed at him in mischievous laughter as Elizabeth bent over him, and his buttocks tightened and the world pulsed red and white as her lips traced down his cock, then up again, limning the head with her tongue.
When she sat up again, she'd vanished her trousers, but not the slip of her panties. So Ronan caught her arms, pulling her down to him and rolling them over again until she was on her back on the grass, and his fingers were tugging at the silken edge of her panties, easing them off. When they were down to her knees, he simply vanished them and slid his fingers back up the inside of her leg, until his fingers rested delicately at the juncture of her thighs.
She shifted a little, slicking his fingertips with her wetness.
Ronan hesitated.
He wanted to bring his fingers to his mouth and lick the taste of her from them... He wanted to plunge deep into her body and feel her surround him... He wanted to surrender completely to her in service: mind, body, soul, and Jewels.
The attraction and danger of a dark-Jewelled Queen to a dark-Jewelled Warlord Prince.
Elizabeth hadn't asked for his service yet, but if - when she did, Ronan wouldn't just give her service, he'd give her everything.
And if he did, he'd belong to her - no going back, no walking away.
Once again, as he had with Sora, he hesitated. Seven years of wariness weighed up against seven days of freedom and the scales were balanced, his fear against his hope.
She was no Sora of the Gennii, but did he know enough about Elizabeth of Atlantis?
Elizabeth tipped the balance. One hand touched his cheek and he looked into eyes as dark and lambent as the falling shadows of the evening around them. "Trust me," she murmured, propping herself up on one elbow. Her lips traced the line of his cheekbone to his ear where she breathed, "Do it."
Was she aware of his thoughts, of his reservations?
Ronan didn't know. But he wanted her. He trusted her.
He thrust into her and gave himself in surrender.
--
Cool grass beneath him, warm body sprawled on top of him, the thud of their heartbearts, the hot rasp of their breath... Ronan wanted to savour this moment.
He liked the feel of her lying on him, breathless and languid in the aftermath of sex. It stirred his possessive instincts, and not just his protective ones.
In the last seven years, he'd been forced to bed often enough. After each encounter, he'd felt dirty, used.
This time had been his choice - his choice and hers.
And Ronan didn't regret it at all.
"We should go in," Elizabeth murmured against his chest, the curls of her hair tickling his throat.
"We should," he agreed, but made no movement to shift her.
She moved after a moment, but only to settle herself against him more comfortably. Still, Ronan felt the change in her mood, a subtle shift from contentment to reticence and waited for her to speak.
At length she murmured, "You're still welcome to seek out any service you want..."
He tensed without thinking, then forced himself not to give in to the anger he felt at her words. "I don't want just any service," he said.
Now that it was out, she was tense. "You haven't seen anything other than this court," she said and he shivered with the faint brush of her breath past his skin. Sensual and distracting - and aching in his loins. "There are other Queens in Atlantis..."
After this evening? Not for him.
Ronan shifted, wanting away from the warmth of her. Obligingly - or maybe relieved? - Elizabeth slid off him, reaching for the shirt she'd discarded. Without a further word, he went hunting for the shirt and jacket she'd tossed into the darkness, a small witchlight accompanying him into the depths of the garden.
Besides, he needed a few seconds to ask himself if she was honestly offering him the choice, or if she just wanted to be rid of him. His gut cramped at the thought of being sent away.
You don't owe me anything.
He'd offered anyway - not because of a debt, but because of desire. Use me. He'd assumed that meant service.
Maybe not.
When he returned, leathers back on his legs and shirt on his back, she'd put on her own shirt and pants and was scraping her hands through her hair. Belatedly, Ronan recalled that he still had her underwear and called in the dark blue silk scrap. But as she took it, the faintest of pink shades tinting her face by witchlight, he caught her wrist.
"I want to serve you."
She looked at him, and he saw the tenderness in her expression - and the hunger, swiftly veiled. "I... Ronan, you need to see the other courts. You've only been here a week..."
"You didn't hear me."
"I am hearing you," Elizabeth said. "But I don't think you understand what--" She caught herself.
"What?"
Her eyes met his, dark by night and witchflame. "I don't think you understand what I'll ask of you."
"Service," he said. "Surrender. My will to yours, my life to yours."
"But you don't even know what that means!"
"No," he told her, tense with need and anguish. "I've served in a Queen's court. I know."
She didn't look convinced, and fear made him reckless.
He slid his hand up her arm, felt the shiver of her response and leaned in to close his mouth about the edge of her jaw. At the same time, he dropped his psychic barriers, allowing her to sense his vulnerability in this matter. He wanted to serve her. He needed to serve her. "Please," he murmured.
Beneath his hand, her arm twisted, and her fingers closed about his forearm. "Ronan..." His name was like a sigh. "Very well," she said, and her voice was stronger now. "If you want to serve me, then I have two conditions."
Elation filled him at her words, and she gasped as she felt the surge of his pleasure through their contact. He grinned at her. "Name them."
She drew back from him, putting distance between them, letting him raise his barriers again. Ronan tried not to resent the distance.
"You come on the tour through Atlantis."
"As one of your court?"
"As a guest of my court," she said firmly. "Wait," she added when he began to protest. "If, at the end of the tour, you haven't found a Queen you'd rather serve, then I'll accept you in my court--"
"Done."
"--but only as my Consort, with all the duties of the position." Her eyes clung to his face. "That's the second condition."
The words sent a shock through him.
As my Consort, with all the duties of the position.
Not just a male, or a warrior, or a sometime lover, but as her Consort.
Desire quivered through every nerve in his body, unstoppable hunger.
She was watching him, apprehensive of his answer. "Ronan, I know they used you as a pleasure slave in Belka. I understand if you don't want to--"
"That's your condition?" Ronan interrupted, keeping the disbelief from his words.
He knew his voice sounded flat in the small space of the garden, but he had no energy to spare to ask gently. As it was, he was trying very hard not to sound exultant.
Elizabeth took a deep breath and let it out, then lifted her chin. "Yes."
He would have claimed a place in her court. Anywhere: First Circle, Thirteenth Circle - it didn't matter to him. What mattered was the service. A Queen was entitled to any pleasure the males of her court could give her and Ronan had been prepared to seduce her if she hadn't been willing to use him for pleasure.
After this evening, he would have used anything - any tricks, wiles or skills - that might allow him to share her bed once in a while.
With the Consort's ring, he wasn't only invited to share her bed, he had rights and privileges that were only available to him as the Consort. Power and influence within the court - if he wanted them.
What Ronan wanted was the Queen who stood before him, expecting his rejection.
Maybe she expected him to recoil at the thought of serving in her bed. If she thought the idea of being her Consort repulsed him, she was going to be surprised.
"Fine," he said evenly, and held out his hand to her. "I'll go on the tour. If there's no Queen I'd rather serve, I'll take the Consort's ring."
Ronan watched her expression turn wary. "You'll go on the tour?"
"I said I would," he answered mildly. And he would hold her to it, no reneging.
Elizabeth studied him for a long moment, still trying to gauge his reaction. Someday - after she'd accepted him into her service and her bed - Ronan would explain to her the difference between being a pleasure slave and being a Consort. No, she didn't understand now, but she would.
In the meantime... He held out his hand. "Are we going in, or are we staying out?" The gentle lean on the last words indicated more than just remaining in the garden.
Yes, the situation with Gennii Territory was still precarious, Ford was still broken, and she had a million and one concerns in her court, but he could make her forget that, if only for a few hours. And he would if she wanted it.
This time, her flush was more than just a faint pink tinge in her cheeks. "Ronan, I'm sorry for using you--" She stopped as she saw his expression change.
"I'm not," he said, simply. And when you understand what you've offered me, you won't be, either. "I offered to serve," he reminded her. "I still do."
Maybe she caught a hint of his feelings on the matter, because the flush faded and she looked at him...differently. With a more thoughtful look instead of the guilt and pity of before. And even though she didn't mean it as anything more than a consideration of what he was offering, he still felt his blood heat.
Warlord Prince to Queen, man to woman, it was too late for her to offer him another Queen to serve - he was hers: body, soul, heart, and Jewels. All of him. And she'd know that sooner or later: in seven days, seven moons, seven years.
Elizabeth knew he was trustworthy, but she didn't know him. Not yet.
She would.
Ronan had time to show her.
He waited as Elizabeth stepped up to him, took his hand, and led him out of the garden. And when she would have relinquished his hand, he curled his fingers around hers, keeping her hand in his as they walked back through the overgrown gardens and headed back to the house.
He claimed her as his Queen, just as she would claim him as a Warlord Prince of her court.
He'd spent seven years in slavery.
Seven days ago, he'd been freed by a Queen worth serving.
In another seven days he'd be allowed to take service in her court, and he'd offer everything he had and everything he was in her service
He was Ronan Dex, Red-Jewelled Warlord Prince of the Blood. And he would serve with honour.
- fin -
FINAL NOTES: A thousand, thousand thanks to those of you who followed this from go-to-whoa. I would never, ever have gotten past the first chapter if you hadn't kept telling me that you liked this. Feedback really does make the muse go 'round. (ps. Feel free to leave some now!)
Some special dedications should go out for this: firstly to Alli, who shamelessly feeds my Liz/Ronan addiction. Then to Jamie, who beta'd this for me and keeps the ideas bouncing back and forth. Many thanks to the gang who supported and encouraged during a tough time I went through while writing this; you picked me up, dusted me off, and occasionally kicked me in the pants to get me moving again. I appreciate that.
Finally, to all my friends who read this in spite of the weird-ass (Weir-Dex!) pairing, purely on trust of my writing ability: thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. There are no words for how much your trust rocks my world.
SUMMARY: There was a Queen in Gennii Territory again.
PAIRING: Liz/Ronan
RATING: NC-17 (sexual situations)
NOTES: ZOMG. 51,000 words, seventeen parts, the acclimatisation of one Warlord Prince, and we're done! Thank you to all the readers who took this journey with me, it's been a real pleasure to discover just how much I like this pairing - and also to discover and meet other people who like it, too. I hope to read your Liz/Ronan stories in future!
To Serve A Queen - Part Seventeen
In the moment before she kissed his fingertip, Ronan wondered if he'd done a stupid thing in pushing her so far.
His finger rested against the soft cushions of her lips, savouring the velvet of her skin. The seconds stretched out, marked by the pounding of blood in his veins and the song of the water running over rocks, and Ronan waited for a response - acceptance, rejection - anything!
Then her lashes dipped down and her lips moved lightly against his skin. A kiss to indicate acceptance of his interest - and more. Not content to leave it there, her lips parted and she delicately licked the pad of his index finger in a soft, sensual caress and Ronan sucked in a slow, harsh breath.
Acceptance and a lot more - the pleasure of reclaiming what he'd lost in Belka: his own right to choose a lover and be chosen by her in return.
Desire leaped, swallowing him whole and he shivered as she drew his head down to hers, sure of what she wanted now she knew he was willing.
Ronan didn't think he'd ever been more willing before in his life.
Her lips trailed his cheek, cool and fresh as they tickled his beard, but when they found his mouth, her kisses were anything but cool. She knew what she wanted, and Ronan gave in to the headier urgings of desire without a fight, drawing her in to him as their kisses grew more bold and they familiarised themselves with the territory they explored.
Ronan wasn't sure what he expected of her. Modesty? Shyness? He should have known better. This wasn't a nervous girl on her Virgin Night, but a woman who knew what she liked and wasn't ashamed to take it once she was sure of his compliance.
His jacket and shirt were shed and discarded, tossed into the rapidly-darkening shadows, but when she tried to straddle him, he turned her around so she was facing the other way. Her arched brow over one shoulder turned into a gasp when a ghostly hand pressed gently at her belly, easing her back against him.
Not so fast.
Ronan was going to make this last as long as he could.
On his thighs, her hands clenched involuntarily, but she tilted her head back when he trailed his lips along her throat and up to her mouth. Their kisses were hot and slow, and ached in Ronan's body. He ran his hands lightly up her sides, pushing up the linen of her shirt, but not yet willing to take it off.
There were other things he wanted to do.
The first touch was light against her throat, nothing more than the gentlest of caresses. It slipped down her shoulder, moving along the inside of her arm, a ghostly finger that stirred her senses, exciting her pulse. Her mouth paused on his, and he kissed her again.
Then he traced the ghost hands down her shoulders and over her breasts. She made a soft exclamation that was lost in a moan as the fingers lightly fondled her nipples. Ronan sucked in a sharp breath as she shifted against his groin, but if the look she gave him was heated, her smile was wicked. "Can't you take it, Prince?"
With a growl, he took her mouth again, and felt her pant as the ghostly hands began teasing her in earnest.
In the past, he'd used this as a means of arousing the women he'd been forced to bed without needing to touch them more than he had to.
This time, Ronan fully intended to let his hands and mouth follow everywhere that the ghost hands went. Eventually.
Before that, though, she would be quite thoroughly satisfied.
He let the 'hands' travel all over her body with exquisite tenderness and absolute care while she panted and whimpered and dug her fingers into his thighs as she strained against thin air. Up and down her flanks, he curved the hands over her hips and slid them smoothly along her inner thigh while his mouth caressed the line of her throat.
She dragged in a long, slow breath. "Tease."
"Can't take it, Elizabeth?" He used her name deliberately, letting it whisper past her ear and felt her shudder.
He wasn't expecting the hand that traced along the crotch seam of his leathers. "As long as you can," she murmured.
Ronan had the advantage of being able to see what he was doing as he gently pulled her shirt front open, buttons slipping neatly out of their holes as the edges parted. On the other hand, she had the advantage of a more direct approach.
His cock tightened as her hand slipped into his leathers, and breathing suddenly became an effort. He leaned his head against hers and swallowed hard, his lips moving in her hair as her fingers traced up and down the damp flesh.
It took more concentration than he liked to form the ghost hands on her body again, but when he achieved it, her caresses faltered. The ghostly hands smoothed across her skin, every inch of bared flesh stirring with their touch, while he nuzzled her throat and kept his hands firmly about her waist, tightening with the ebb and flow of desire.
*You don't have to hold back on my account,* she murmured in his mind.
*I know,* he replied, smiling and letting her feel his amusement. He wasn't holding back, he was waiting for the right moment.
Then, as two ghostly hands traced up her calves to her thighs and slid along her inner thigh with exquisite slowness, Ronan let the hands caressing her breasts drift down the length of her body. Linked as they were through the Red web, he could feel her anticipation like spice on his tongue as the two hands melded into a single tender touch, arrowing down past her waist and stirring the curls between her thighs...
But the finger that touched her core was real.
Her moan and the writhe of her hips was intoxicating as any drug they'd given him as a slave. High on the sense of both power and submission, Ronan traced his finger over her with darker intent, felt the nails of her left hand prick his thigh through his leathers as she was driven higher, higher...but the fingers wrapped around his cock only flexed slightly, teasing him, keeping him hot.
Tenderness, gentleness, consideration for what he was - a Red-Jewelled Warlord Prince of the Blood - with all that it implied...
In the psychic plane, she wrapped her mind around him, Red to Red, distaff to spear, witch to male, Queen to Warlord Prince. In the shadows of the garden, their mouths locked as her body splintered, shattered, melted in the furnace of desire offered and desire satiated, and she shared the experience with the man who'd taken her there.
He'd never shared a sexual experience like this: he'd never had a witch who was willing to open her mind to him in orgasm. It was like fire in his veins, like the first flush of strong wine, heady and exquisite with her pleasure - and his pleasure in her release.
Dimly, he was aware of his hand stroking her clit, of his hand cupping her breast, the pliant mischief of her mouth, the curls that tickled his neck as she rode out the waves of pleasure that surged through them both, leaving them replete on the bench in the garden.
Finally she shifted, gently easing away from him. Ronan pressed his hand against her lower belly, refusing to let her leave. Elizabeth turned her head to look at him, and her fingers flexed around him. Ronan sucked in a slow breath and bit back a protest as those fingers trailed the length of his cock then slipped out of his leathers entirely.
Witchfire bloomed in a lantern hanging in the tree and in the niches along the wall of crumbling brick, illuminating the smile that touched her lips as she turned and offered him her hand.
He followed her over to the small lawn and let her draw him down. The grass prickled a little against his palms as he bent to kiss her. He soon forgot that in the thrill of tracing his tongue down her body, listening to her moan a little as he rubbed the edge of his beard against her nipple before taking it in his mouth. The other nipple was attended to by a ghost mouth, suckling sweetly on the nub while her fingers splayed on his shoulder, flexing in rhythm with his kisses until she couldn't take it any longer.
Unprepared for her revenge, Ronan felt the world turn and found her straddling his legs, leaning forward with her hands resting lightly on the muscles of his belly. Her grin was wide and wicked. "Trousers off, Prince."
Obligingly, he vanished them and his boots, then inhaled sharply when her fingers began exploring the exposed flesh with light, lilting strokes. His voice wasn't entirely steady as he told her, "Yours, too, Lady."
Green eyes gleamed at him in mischievous laughter as Elizabeth bent over him, and his buttocks tightened and the world pulsed red and white as her lips traced down his cock, then up again, limning the head with her tongue.
When she sat up again, she'd vanished her trousers, but not the slip of her panties. So Ronan caught her arms, pulling her down to him and rolling them over again until she was on her back on the grass, and his fingers were tugging at the silken edge of her panties, easing them off. When they were down to her knees, he simply vanished them and slid his fingers back up the inside of her leg, until his fingers rested delicately at the juncture of her thighs.
She shifted a little, slicking his fingertips with her wetness.
Ronan hesitated.
He wanted to bring his fingers to his mouth and lick the taste of her from them... He wanted to plunge deep into her body and feel her surround him... He wanted to surrender completely to her in service: mind, body, soul, and Jewels.
The attraction and danger of a dark-Jewelled Queen to a dark-Jewelled Warlord Prince.
Elizabeth hadn't asked for his service yet, but if - when she did, Ronan wouldn't just give her service, he'd give her everything.
And if he did, he'd belong to her - no going back, no walking away.
Once again, as he had with Sora, he hesitated. Seven years of wariness weighed up against seven days of freedom and the scales were balanced, his fear against his hope.
She was no Sora of the Gennii, but did he know enough about Elizabeth of Atlantis?
Elizabeth tipped the balance. One hand touched his cheek and he looked into eyes as dark and lambent as the falling shadows of the evening around them. "Trust me," she murmured, propping herself up on one elbow. Her lips traced the line of his cheekbone to his ear where she breathed, "Do it."
Was she aware of his thoughts, of his reservations?
Ronan didn't know. But he wanted her. He trusted her.
He thrust into her and gave himself in surrender.
--
Cool grass beneath him, warm body sprawled on top of him, the thud of their heartbearts, the hot rasp of their breath... Ronan wanted to savour this moment.
He liked the feel of her lying on him, breathless and languid in the aftermath of sex. It stirred his possessive instincts, and not just his protective ones.
In the last seven years, he'd been forced to bed often enough. After each encounter, he'd felt dirty, used.
This time had been his choice - his choice and hers.
And Ronan didn't regret it at all.
"We should go in," Elizabeth murmured against his chest, the curls of her hair tickling his throat.
"We should," he agreed, but made no movement to shift her.
She moved after a moment, but only to settle herself against him more comfortably. Still, Ronan felt the change in her mood, a subtle shift from contentment to reticence and waited for her to speak.
At length she murmured, "You're still welcome to seek out any service you want..."
He tensed without thinking, then forced himself not to give in to the anger he felt at her words. "I don't want just any service," he said.
Now that it was out, she was tense. "You haven't seen anything other than this court," she said and he shivered with the faint brush of her breath past his skin. Sensual and distracting - and aching in his loins. "There are other Queens in Atlantis..."
After this evening? Not for him.
Ronan shifted, wanting away from the warmth of her. Obligingly - or maybe relieved? - Elizabeth slid off him, reaching for the shirt she'd discarded. Without a further word, he went hunting for the shirt and jacket she'd tossed into the darkness, a small witchlight accompanying him into the depths of the garden.
Besides, he needed a few seconds to ask himself if she was honestly offering him the choice, or if she just wanted to be rid of him. His gut cramped at the thought of being sent away.
You don't owe me anything.
He'd offered anyway - not because of a debt, but because of desire. Use me. He'd assumed that meant service.
Maybe not.
When he returned, leathers back on his legs and shirt on his back, she'd put on her own shirt and pants and was scraping her hands through her hair. Belatedly, Ronan recalled that he still had her underwear and called in the dark blue silk scrap. But as she took it, the faintest of pink shades tinting her face by witchlight, he caught her wrist.
"I want to serve you."
She looked at him, and he saw the tenderness in her expression - and the hunger, swiftly veiled. "I... Ronan, you need to see the other courts. You've only been here a week..."
"You didn't hear me."
"I am hearing you," Elizabeth said. "But I don't think you understand what--" She caught herself.
"What?"
Her eyes met his, dark by night and witchflame. "I don't think you understand what I'll ask of you."
"Service," he said. "Surrender. My will to yours, my life to yours."
"But you don't even know what that means!"
"No," he told her, tense with need and anguish. "I've served in a Queen's court. I know."
She didn't look convinced, and fear made him reckless.
He slid his hand up her arm, felt the shiver of her response and leaned in to close his mouth about the edge of her jaw. At the same time, he dropped his psychic barriers, allowing her to sense his vulnerability in this matter. He wanted to serve her. He needed to serve her. "Please," he murmured.
Beneath his hand, her arm twisted, and her fingers closed about his forearm. "Ronan..." His name was like a sigh. "Very well," she said, and her voice was stronger now. "If you want to serve me, then I have two conditions."
Elation filled him at her words, and she gasped as she felt the surge of his pleasure through their contact. He grinned at her. "Name them."
She drew back from him, putting distance between them, letting him raise his barriers again. Ronan tried not to resent the distance.
"You come on the tour through Atlantis."
"As one of your court?"
"As a guest of my court," she said firmly. "Wait," she added when he began to protest. "If, at the end of the tour, you haven't found a Queen you'd rather serve, then I'll accept you in my court--"
"Done."
"--but only as my Consort, with all the duties of the position." Her eyes clung to his face. "That's the second condition."
The words sent a shock through him.
As my Consort, with all the duties of the position.
Not just a male, or a warrior, or a sometime lover, but as her Consort.
Desire quivered through every nerve in his body, unstoppable hunger.
She was watching him, apprehensive of his answer. "Ronan, I know they used you as a pleasure slave in Belka. I understand if you don't want to--"
"That's your condition?" Ronan interrupted, keeping the disbelief from his words.
He knew his voice sounded flat in the small space of the garden, but he had no energy to spare to ask gently. As it was, he was trying very hard not to sound exultant.
Elizabeth took a deep breath and let it out, then lifted her chin. "Yes."
He would have claimed a place in her court. Anywhere: First Circle, Thirteenth Circle - it didn't matter to him. What mattered was the service. A Queen was entitled to any pleasure the males of her court could give her and Ronan had been prepared to seduce her if she hadn't been willing to use him for pleasure.
After this evening, he would have used anything - any tricks, wiles or skills - that might allow him to share her bed once in a while.
With the Consort's ring, he wasn't only invited to share her bed, he had rights and privileges that were only available to him as the Consort. Power and influence within the court - if he wanted them.
What Ronan wanted was the Queen who stood before him, expecting his rejection.
Maybe she expected him to recoil at the thought of serving in her bed. If she thought the idea of being her Consort repulsed him, she was going to be surprised.
"Fine," he said evenly, and held out his hand to her. "I'll go on the tour. If there's no Queen I'd rather serve, I'll take the Consort's ring."
Ronan watched her expression turn wary. "You'll go on the tour?"
"I said I would," he answered mildly. And he would hold her to it, no reneging.
Elizabeth studied him for a long moment, still trying to gauge his reaction. Someday - after she'd accepted him into her service and her bed - Ronan would explain to her the difference between being a pleasure slave and being a Consort. No, she didn't understand now, but she would.
In the meantime... He held out his hand. "Are we going in, or are we staying out?" The gentle lean on the last words indicated more than just remaining in the garden.
Yes, the situation with Gennii Territory was still precarious, Ford was still broken, and she had a million and one concerns in her court, but he could make her forget that, if only for a few hours. And he would if she wanted it.
This time, her flush was more than just a faint pink tinge in her cheeks. "Ronan, I'm sorry for using you--" She stopped as she saw his expression change.
"I'm not," he said, simply. And when you understand what you've offered me, you won't be, either. "I offered to serve," he reminded her. "I still do."
Maybe she caught a hint of his feelings on the matter, because the flush faded and she looked at him...differently. With a more thoughtful look instead of the guilt and pity of before. And even though she didn't mean it as anything more than a consideration of what he was offering, he still felt his blood heat.
Warlord Prince to Queen, man to woman, it was too late for her to offer him another Queen to serve - he was hers: body, soul, heart, and Jewels. All of him. And she'd know that sooner or later: in seven days, seven moons, seven years.
Elizabeth knew he was trustworthy, but she didn't know him. Not yet.
She would.
Ronan had time to show her.
He waited as Elizabeth stepped up to him, took his hand, and led him out of the garden. And when she would have relinquished his hand, he curled his fingers around hers, keeping her hand in his as they walked back through the overgrown gardens and headed back to the house.
He claimed her as his Queen, just as she would claim him as a Warlord Prince of her court.
He'd spent seven years in slavery.
Seven days ago, he'd been freed by a Queen worth serving.
In another seven days he'd be allowed to take service in her court, and he'd offer everything he had and everything he was in her service
He was Ronan Dex, Red-Jewelled Warlord Prince of the Blood. And he would serve with honour.
- fin -
FINAL NOTES: A thousand, thousand thanks to those of you who followed this from go-to-whoa. I would never, ever have gotten past the first chapter if you hadn't kept telling me that you liked this. Feedback really does make the muse go 'round. (ps. Feel free to leave some now!)
Some special dedications should go out for this: firstly to Alli, who shamelessly feeds my Liz/Ronan addiction. Then to Jamie, who beta'd this for me and keeps the ideas bouncing back and forth. Many thanks to the gang who supported and encouraged during a tough time I went through while writing this; you picked me up, dusted me off, and occasionally kicked me in the pants to get me moving again. I appreciate that.
Finally, to all my friends who read this in spite of the weird-ass (Weir-Dex!) pairing, purely on trust of my writing ability: thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. There are no words for how much your trust rocks my world.