The first rays of dawn painted the royal bedchamber in shades of gold and crimson as Arthur Lionheart, King of Lyranth, stirred to a familiar warmth engulfing his cock. Skilled lips and an eager tongue worked along his length, pulling him from sleep with waves of building pleasure.
"Good morning, my King," Queen Isolde breathed against his shaft before taking him deeper, her technique perfected over three months of devoted practice. The crown—her crown now—glinted on the nightstand beside an overturned portrait of her former family.
Arthur's eyes focused on the woman who had once been his stepmother, watching her silver-streaked hair cascade over his thighs as she worshipped him with her mouth. She wore nothing but the sapphire necklace Gareth had given her last winter, the gems bouncing against her full breasts with each eager movement.
