The door to their private chambers closed with a soft, definitive click, the sound sealing the outside world of politics and power away. The room was a sanctuary of deep, rich colors and soft light, dominated by a vast bed draped in crimson and black silk. And there, waiting for him, was Grayfia.
She was not in bed. She was on her knees beside it, a picture of perfect, submissive devotion. Her silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, a stark, beautiful contrast to the sheer, black lace negligee she wore—a garment that was more a suggestion of clothing than an actual cover.
Her hands rested palm-up on her thighs, her back was perfectly straight, and her head was bowed, exposing the elegant line of her neck. She did not move, did not speak, but the very air around her thrummed with a silent, powerful welcome.
Sirzechs stood by the door for a moment, his gaze unwavering. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he began to undress. His fingers, which had just commanded the fate of the Underworld, worked with practiced ease at the intricate clasps of his formal tunic.
The heavy, embroidered fabric was peeled away, revealing the fine black silk of his shirt beneath. He shrugged out of the garment, letting it fall to the floor in a pool of regal weight. Next, his hands went to the buttons of his shirt, his knuckles brushing against the hard planes of his chest as he undid them one by one.
The parting silk revealed a torso sculpted with the lean, powerful muscle of a warrior-king, his skin pale and unblemished, a stark canvas for the faint, crimson lines of demonic energy that sometimes traced across his skin when his power was high.
He discarded the shirt, the movement causing the muscles in his shoulders and biceps to flex and shift, a silent testament to the terrible strength he kept so carefully leashed.
Grayfia watched, her breath catching in her throat. She saw not just her husband, but the Satan Lucifer, the pinnacle of their race. The sheer, raw power contained in that form was breathtaking, a sight that never failed to stir a primal mix of awe and desire deep within her.
A soft, almost inaudible sigh escaped her lips, the only sign of the profound effect his mere presence had on her.
He crossed the room, his steps slow and deliberate, and stopped directly before her.
He reached down, his fingers gently tangling in the silvery strands of her hair. He didn't force her, merely guided her, and she flowed with his touch as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He tilted her head up, and her eyes, glowing with a faint, inner crimson light, met his. They were filled with an adoration so absolute it was almost worshipful.
"My Lord," she breathed, the words a reverent whisper.
He said nothing, merely stroked her cheek with his thumb, his gaze drinking in the sight of her. He could feel the new power coiled within her, a tempest held in check by a will of absolute steel and a love that transcended worlds. He let his hand drift down, tracing the delicate line of her jaw, the curve of her throat. His fingers paused at the hollow of her neck, feeling her pulse hammering beneath his touch, a frantic drumbeat betraying the calm facade she presented.
His hands moved to the fastenings of his trousers. The soft hiss of his zipper being lowered seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room. He pushed the fabric down over his powerful thighs, kicking it aside. He stood before her now, completely bare, his body a magnificent landscape of muscle and might.
His arousal was prominent, a thick, heavy testament to his desire that stood proudly against the hard, flat plane of his stomach.
Grayfia's eyes widened slightly, her tongue darting out to wet her lips as a fresh wave of her own slick heat flooded her core. The sight of him, so potent and utterly hers, was the most intoxicating thing in all of creation.
He hooked his finger into the delicate strap of her negligee, pulling it slowly down over her shoulder. The lace whispered against her skin, and he watched, mesmerized, as the fabric fell away to reveal the creamy perfection of her breast.
The rosy peak was already hardened, pebbling into a tight nub in the cool air. He repeated the action on the other side, baring her to his gaze. She shivered, a full-body tremor that she made no attempt to hide.
He knelt down before her, bringing himself to her level. His hands moved to her waist, gripping her firmly, and he lifted her as if she weighed nothing. She gasped softly as he settled her onto the edge of the bed, her knees parting instinctively to make room for him. He remained kneeling between her thighs, his hands now roaming her body with a possessive, worshipful touch.
His palms glided up her stomach, his thumbs tracing the underside of her breasts, teasing the sensitive skin. He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "My perfect Queen," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her entire being. "Mine."
A soft moan escaped her lips, the first truly unrestrained sound she had made. "Always," she gasped.
He captured one of her nipples in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak before he sucked it in deeply. He wasn't gentle; he was claiming. He bit down lightly, just enough to make her arch her back with a sharp cry of pleasure-pain.
His other hand continued its exploration, sliding down her stomach, over the lace that still covered her hips, until his fingers found the heat between her legs.
He could feel the dampness through the thin fabric, a testament to her arousal. He pressed his palm against her mound, rubbing it in slow, firm circles, and her hips began to move instinctively, grinding against his hand. He released her breast with a wet pop and looked down at her face, flushed and beautiful, her lips parted, her eyes hazy with desire.
"Please, my Lord," she whimpered, her voice thick with need.
He granted her silent plea, hooking his fingers into the side of her panties and pulling them down. She lifted her hips to help him, and the delicate lace was soon discarded.
She was bare before him, glistening and ready. He spread her thighs wider, his gaze fixed on the slick, pink folds of her sex.
He lowered his head, his breath ghosting over her most sensitive flesh. He could smell her intoxicating scent, a mix of her own unique perfume and the sharp, electric aroma of her new power.
He licked her slowly, from her entrance to her clit, a long, deliberate swipe of his tongue. Grayfia cried out, her hands flying to his hair, her fingers tangling in the strands as she held him to her.
He began to feast on her in earnest, his tongue exploring every inch of her, his lips sucking, his teeth nipping.
He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, teasing her, building the tension higher and higher until she was writhing beneath him, her breaths coming in ragged pants.
He slid one finger inside her, then another, curling them to find that special spot deep within.
He felt her inner walls clench around his fingers as he pumped them in and out, his mouth never ceasing its relentless assault on her clit.
He could feel her getting closer, her body tightening like a drawn bowstring. He looked up at her, at the woman who was his wife, his Queen, his everything, and saw the unadulterated bliss on her face.
With a final, hard suck on her clit and a deep thrust of his fingers, he sent her over the edge. Her body arched off the bed, a silent scream on her lips as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.
Her demonic power flared, bathing the room in a brilliant crimson light as her orgasm tore through her, more intense, more powerful than anything she had ever felt before.
Sirzechs held her through it, his mouth and fingers gentling as she rode out the storm.
When she finally collapsed back onto the bed, limp and trembling, he rose over her, his own need now a demanding ache.