"Tell me, my lion… do you ever tire of being worshiped?"
The words were a purr, thick with heat and mischief, curling through the air like incense. Serenya leaned forward from her silk-draped couch, the amber glow of the candles catching the gold dust in her hair. Her bare shoulders glimmered with oil, and when she spoke again, her lips barely moved — as if every word was a secret meant for only one man.
"You walk into a room, and the world stops breathing. You look at me, and I forget my own name."
From the balcony above, the sound of soft laughter floated down — the other women, watching, waiting. Some draped in sheer fabrics, some in nothing at all, all of them shimmering in the firelight like living jewels.
Derius Rhaegar leaned back in his chair, a glass of deep red wine turning lazily in his hand. His smile — slow, almost dangerous — answered Serenya's question without a word.
From the corner, Liora rose, her gown falling open just enough to hint at more than it hid. "He doesn't tire," she said, her voice a silken whisper. "Men like him… they feed on it." She moved to his side, her fingers trailing the arm of his chair like a promise.
On the balcony, Cassiane reclined on a heap of velvet cushions, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder as she toyed with a gold anklet. "And yet," she murmured, "he always comes back to us."
One by one, they began to move — drawn toward him as if the air itself bent to his pull.
Serenya — the golden-haired courtesan whose smile could unmake kings.
Liora — fire-eyed and dangerous, a duelist's daughter who preferred silk to steel.
Cassiane — quiet, calculating, her beauty edged with mystery.
Velinne — a dancer from the Isles, her every movement a lure.
Isolde — pale as moonlight, with lips the color of wine and a voice that could break hearts.
Nyra — short-haired and sly, always with a secret to whisper.
Thessaly — laughter like warm honey, touch like quicksilver.
Mirelle — the poet, her words as intoxicating as the scent of her skin.
Astrae — draped in midnight silk, eyes bright with unspoken challenges.
Fayenne — mischievous and restless, fingers always seeking his.
Oriana — regal even in the soft glow, a princess far from her fallen court.
Calistra — dark-skinned and fierce, every glance a dare.
Elyra — shy, though her eyes told a different story.
Vaelis — the singer, voice low enough to tremble in the bones.
Renelle — quick with her wit and quicker with her hands.
Sabryn — the storyteller, weaving tales even as she touched his shoulder.
Virelle — eyes like molten gold, smile like sin.
Karessa — soft-spoken, but her silence spoke volumes.
Zeryn — the huntress, predatory even in stillness.
Anevra — his oldest flame, the one who knew every scar.
They surrounded him in a slow, unbroken tide — silk brushing skin, perfume mingling in the air until it was dizzying.
Serenya was the first to kneel beside him, her hand resting lightly on his thigh.
"You could have any woman in Valmere," she whispered.
"I already do," Derius said.
The air thickened. It wasn't just the heat from the candles — it was the way they leaned in, the way silks shifted and skin caught the light. The scent of wine, jasmine, and warm bodies filled the hall like an unbroken chord.
Velinne slid behind Derius, her hands settling on his shoulders with the familiarity of a lover and the reverence of a worshiper. Her fingers traced the hard lines of muscle beneath his shirt, slow enough to make the wine in his glass tremble.
Fayenne knelt at his other side, her hair spilling across his arm as she looked up at him. "Tell us," she said, "which of us will you ruin first tonight?"
He chuckled — low, deliberate — and didn't answer. That was the cruelty of it. Derius never gave them the certainty they begged for. He let them linger in the fire of wanting until it almost burned.
Across from him, Oriana rose from the cushions, her long gown sliding from one shoulder as she moved. She crossed the room with the grace of a queen and the hunger of a thief, her fingers brushing each woman she passed, leaving ripples of shivers in her wake.
Isolde, already flushed from wine, leaned into Liora's side, watching Derius with eyes half-lidded. "He's playing with us," she whispered.
"Yes," Liora murmured, smiling. "That's why we stay."
He set down his glass, and the small sound of crystal meeting wood cut through the murmurs. Every eye followed his hands as they rested on the arms of his chair, and then — without a word — he stood.
The circle tightened.
Velinne's breath caught.
Nyra bit her lip.
He moved among them slowly, his fingers trailing over bare skin, over silk, over the curve of a jaw here, the line of a shoulder there. No two touches the same. No two women left without one. And when he finally reached Serenya again, his hand tilted her chin upward until her gaze locked with his.
"I don't choose," he said softly. "I take."
A shiver passed through them all.
Derius looks down at her and gave a determined smile.
Her lips parted, but no words came. His shadow fell over her face, and in that moment, every woman in the room knew — Serenya was chosen.
"You've been whispering in my ear all night," he said, his voice dark and smooth. "Now let me answer… properly."
He pulls out his huge gunner, droping it on her face.
They crawled hungry mob of ladies towards Derius, they all know the pleasure they get when ever he pulls out his dick.
The women around them shifted closer, some leaning closer, others biting their lips. The air felt too hot, too heavy, like the whole mansion was holding its breath.
Derius didn't kiss her — not yet. That was his cruelty. He let the anticipation coil tighter, the hunger in the room sharpening until every heartbeat felt like a drum.
"The smell gets me every time."
Serenya said with her mouth drooling and half of her face covered with thick penis.
As she stroke.
Serenya's fingers trailed up his chest as though memorizing the shape of him. She moved slowly, each touch deliberate, her eyes never leaving his. The candlelight painted gold across the hard planes of his body, shadows deepening in the hollows where her touch lingered.
"You were carved by jealous gods," she murmured, her voice thick with heat. Her fingertips traced the line of his collarbone, then drifted lower, following the ridges of muscle as if reading a language only she understood.
She strokes him once, her soft hands brushing his skin, her perfume clinging to the air between them. Her hand swept across his laps, stroking over every powerful line before coming to rest at his hip. "Every part of you," she whispered, "was made to conquer.
Her hands still moving — slow, worshipful — along his frame. "Do you know what it does to me, to touch you?" she asked, her lips curling into a faint smile. "It makes me forget myself. Makes me remember only that I belong here… to you."
Derius said nothing, but the sharp gleam in his eyes told her he heard every word.
She pressed her cheek lightly to his abdomen, her lips warm against his skin, and closed her eyes as though she were praying. "You are more than a man, my lion," she breathed. "You are the center of every dream I've ever dared to have."
The other women drifted forward, drawn in by Serenya's devotion as though it were a fire they could not resist.
Liora came first, kneeling beside Serenya, her hands sliding up Derius's arms, squeezing the strength coiled beneath his skin. "These," she murmured, "could hold an empire… or break one in a single night." Her lips brushed the inside of his wrist, a kiss as soft as a promise.
Velinne slipped behind him, her fingers pressing lightly into the muscles of his back, tracing the paths of power there. "Even your shadow is beautiful," she whispered, her breath ghosting over his ear. "I would follow it anywhere."
Cassiane's touch was slower, her nails grazing down his side in a line that made his breath deepen. "There is no flaw," she said, almost in disbelief. "Not a single place where the gods were careless."
Oriana stood before him with the dignity of a queen, but when her palm came to rest over his heart, her composure cracked. "It beats like a war drum," she said softly. "Every pulse could summon an army."
One by one, they joined the circle around him — Nyra pressing her forehead briefly to his sack in a silent vow, Mirelle running her poet's hands along his jaw as though shaping verses from his skin, Fayenne kissing the line of his shoulder with playful defiance.
Their voices overlapped — praise and worship, longing and possession — until the chamber was a chorus.
"My lion."
"My king."
"My only."
Serenya's voice rose above them all, her cheek still resting against him. "You are the dream every woman has," she whispered, "and the truth only we will ever know."
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