Game of thrones: The Lustful sellsword

The wooden door creaked shut behind us, sealing the two of us inside a candlelit chamber, thick with the scent of wine, perfume, and unspoken promises.

Ros led me toward the large, well-worn bed, her fingers still laced around mine.

She had the confidence of a woman who had seen it all before—the cocky lords, the trembling virgins, the rough warriors who thought they could take what they wanted.

I could see it in her smirk, the way her hips swayed as she walked, the way she looked over her shoulder with a teasing glint in her green eyes.

"You paid a heavy price for this night," she murmured, letting go of my hand and stepping toward the bed. "I hope you don't disappoint me."

I chuckled, shrugging off my cloak, revealing the toned, battle-hardened body beneath my shirt. "I was about to say the same to you."

She smirked, sitting on the edge of the bed, crossing her long, pale legs. "Oh, is that so?"

I took a slow step forward, letting the tension thicken between us. "You're used to controlling men, aren't you?"

Her smirk widened, and she leaned back on her elbows, completely relaxed, completely confident in herself.

"I know how to make a man beg, if that's what you mean."

She ran a hand slowly down her own chest, tracing the curve of her dress where it met the soft swell of her breasts.

Her voice turned husky, teasing. "Most men lose themselves the moment I touch them."

She lifted one foot, resting it lightly on my chest, as if testing me, as if already playing with me.

I could feel the soft press of her warm skin through my shirt, but I didn't react.

She tilted her head, her smile turning almost predatory.

"Shall I show you?"

The Game Begins

Her foot slowly dragged downward, tracing along my stomach, pressing lightly, teasing.

Her eyes were watching me carefully, expecting me to react—to groan, to lose myself, to let her take control.

But I didn't.

I stood firm, watching her with the same intensity, waiting.

Her smirk faltered just slightly.

I grabbed her ankle before she could pull away, my grip firm but not rough.

She let out a small, amused hum. "Mmm… strong hands. I like that."

I slowly ran my fingers up her calf, teasing her the way she had teased me.

Her breath hitched, but she didn't break eye contact.

Instead, she sat up, moving her leg from my grip, shifting forward until she was practically straddling my lap.

"You're different," she mused, trailing a finger along my jaw.

"How so?" I murmured, my hands sliding to rest on her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through her dress.

She smirked, tilting my chin up as if she were examining me, as if she were still in control.

"Most men are too eager. They forget that pleasure is a dance, not a battle."

She leaned in, her lips just barely grazing mine, but not quite touching.

I felt her breath, warm and teasing, her body pressing closer, her curves molding against me.

A test. A challenge.

She wanted to see if I would crack, if I would surrender to her pace.

I smirked against her lips, catching her off guard as I suddenly moved—flipping her onto her back, pinning her beneath me on the bed.

Her breath hitched, her eyes widening slightly.

"You're playing dangerous games, sellsword," she murmured, but her voice was huskier now, tinged with real anticipation.

I brushed my lips along her jaw, down to her throat, moving excruciatingly slowly.

"You started it," I whispered against her skin.

She let out a breathy laugh. "And here I thought I'd be the one teaching you a lesson."

I bit lightly at her neck, just enough to make her gasp softly, her hands instinctively clutching my shoulders.

"You can still try," I murmured, trailing kisses down her throat, to her collarbone, then lower.

Losing Herself in the Moment

Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer as I kissed her skin, tasting the slight salt of sweat, the lingering hint of wine on her lips.

I moved slowly, deliberately, my fingers tracing the laces of her dress, teasing but not rushing.

She squirmed beneath me, her breath coming quicker now.

"You're cruel," she whispered, her voice shakier than before.

I smirked, pressing a slow, deep kiss to the curve of her breast.

"And you're used to men falling apart for you too quickly," I countered.

Her cheeks were flushed now, her body reacting to every slow, torturous touch.

She had walked into this room thinking she was the one in control.

Now?

She was starting to drown in the pleasure I gave her, losing herself to my pace.

She let out a slow, shuddering breath, her hips shifting against mine, her body seeking more.

I nipped at her earlobe, whispering, "Say it."

She shivered, swallowing hard. "Say what?"

"That you want this."

She hesitated, but her body betrayed her.

Her fingers tightened around my shirt, pulling me closer, her breasts pressed against my chest, her lips hovering near mine.

"I want this," she whispered finally, her voice breathless, raw, and filled with real need.

I grinned, brushing my lips against hers.

"Good," I murmured.

Then I kissed her—deep, slow, and utterly consuming.

She melted against me, her body arching, her legs wrapping around my waist.

And this was only the beginning.