Page 32 of The Kingdom of Flames

They watched another bout together. She felt a strange kinship with the woman who had challenged her, who had helped bring forth something she didn’t know was in her to do.

“Your prize,” the old woman came to her as she watched another bout. A key was placed in her hand. Celestine stared at it, closing her hand around it. She handed her ale to Dritha and marched drunkenly to her Lord’s chambers.

Up and up the steps, she limped.

She slid the key into the lock at his chambers and unlocked her prize. Inside, he waited for her, standing, his circlet on. Celestine walked forward, right at him.

“Leave it on,” she demanded as his hands rose to remove his circlet.

Glowing red eyes regarded her.

Celestine walked up to him. He was so tall, so large, and powerful. But he was hers. Her hands went over his armor to his powerful chest. A face of coarse beauty stared at her. She withdrew a torn ribbon from his banner and handed it to him.

Encarmine took it in his hand, kissing it.

“Kiss me,” she demanded, stripping her leather shirt away, tossing it with the carefree of the drunken. She reached out, as if in combat, and grabbed a buckle on his breastplate, but his fierce hands were upon her. Nothing was stronger than him. She heard the clamor of a distant battlefield, red haze, and black mist circling an enchanted crown.

Encarmine kissed her. It felt like a siege she had been defending for a thousand years finally fell. She was a castle, crumbling in his arms. His lips were fire and death. His tongue slid upon hers, and their mouths locked like a duel.

A flood of sensation washed over her. She kissed him again and again.

I could kiss him forever.

Maybe she would. The idea tasted good.

They broke, staring at each other, arms around one another. Celestine ripped at his armor, and he stepped back, unbuckling it. She grinned and pulled her leather leggings down, no longer shy, until they both were unclothed.

Encarmine’s eyes fell upon the bruises, the scratches, the cuts on her combat-riddled body. He fell to his knees and kissed her leg where she was battered. Her hands went into his thick dark hair, the black and red gold of his circlet burning her hands in such a good way. He kissed the front of her thigh.

Celestine’s cunt ached for him. She knew even now, in the lustful exchange, he would not give her what she truly wanted. It wasn’t earned. It made more sense to her now, and she respected it more.

She had won him. This night, his face, his taste, was hers. No one would kiss him before her.

Celestine gripped his hair and forced his head lower. She stepped her legs apart and brought his massive frame against the bed.

“Woe to the vanquished,” Celestine said and filled his mouth with the lips of her quim.

His hot tongue danced across her folds, spreading, eating, and feasting until he found her clit. His mouth locked onto her in suction, and she groaned, pleasure dancing up her body like a lightning strike. Fever and bloodlust came upon her. His tongue and lips were such agonizing pleasure that she gripped the horns of his circlet like a demon of war trapped between her legs. His hands toyed at her cleft, another upon her buttock, spreading it, a thick finger coaxing the edge of her rear.

She held Encarmine’s hair like a conqueror. In a moment, they were on the bed, and she climbed over his muscled chest, filling her fists with his hair as she climbed forward.

“I know you want this.” Celestine whispered and sat on his face. Encarmine groaned, the sound and vibration dancing up her loins as his tongue and mouth and lips became her saddle, and she fucked his mouth with furious need. Celestine groaned, taking him. He was her prize.

When she came, it was from his tongue and lips and how he sucked mercilessly on her clit. She spasmed on his face, grinding him into the bed.

The Lord of Summer and War, tasted her all night.

Chapter 7

The First Embrace of Summer

They dined in his hall each night, surrounded by soldiers and his bannermen. To be a warrior of great renown brought honor, but Lord Encarmine was the patron of men who marched to war, and the farmer, the fieldman, and the mother earned his greatest respect. All people in his realm knew their way around weaponry, but more than that, they knew how to work together. The field filled the belly. The trees made the wagons of war.

Time moved differently in his realm. Her own body’s ministrations proved that to her. Each morning, she woke in his arms, and Encarmine’s lust was ravenous. His hands on her body, his mouth as her saddle; her anvil of torment. His manhood was so hard and throbbing that she felt drunk with it at times, loving to see his rigid flesh coated in the slop of her throat by the fireside. He fed his seed to her constantly.

To taste his essence was to know strength. It was like drinking power. He was too tall, too large for them both to serve one another simultaneously, but when she was laying on top of him, her legs on either side of his chest and sucking and worshipping him, she felt divine.

Celestine caught herself looking at him often. In desire. In need. Her crest throbbed within her, crying out to be broken by his furious devastation. She had tried that night prior when his massive tip had slid across her quim. She had eased upon him for a moment, but he steadied her and denied her.

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