**Chapter 6: Veiled Flames, Womb's Oath**
Arthas heard the echo of his own swallow in the chamber's heavy silence, a nervous gulp that betrayed the thunder of his pulse. Tension coiled in his gut like a spring wound too tight—this was conquest crossing into violation, the line blurred by shadows and forbidden fire. The object of his raging desire? His own aunt, the woman who'd doted on him with a warmth that bordered on adoration. Yet the blaze in his veins, stoked by years of suppressed longing and the night's intoxicating revelations, overrode all hesitation. He climbed atop her with reverent hunger, hands trembling slightly as they parted her toned thighs—muscles honed by years of striding Kul Tiras's decks, now yielding like silk under his touch. The air between them hummed with anticipation, the faint scent of rum and lavender mingling with something deeper, more primal: the musk of arousal unspoken.
In the gloom, broken only by the dying flicker of a single candle, he beheld her shadowed intimacy—the charming cleft unveiled like a secret harbor at midnight. Crystal beads of her essence gleamed faintly, a siren's invitation in the dark, tracing glistening paths that hinted at her body's unwitting welcome. Arthas's breath hitched, his hand drifting to encircle his crown—hot, throbbing with the weight of two lifetimes' unspent need. Drawing from fragmented memories of Earthly films, those clandestine scenes watched in hushed solitude, he knew the mechanics in theory: align, advance, surrender to the rhythm. But practice? A novice's riddle, the actual heat and slickness overwhelming his senses. He guided himself forward, rubbing the sensitive tip along her silken seam—velvet glide, warm and inviting, sending shivers racing up his spine. The sensation was exquisite torment: slippery bliss that teased without granting entry, her folds parting just enough to torment, but the true portal eluded him, lost in the haze of his own mounting frenzy.
In that daze of sensation, a sharp intake pierced the quiet—his aunt's breath, ragged and unmistakable. Not asleep, then. Panic spiked through him like a fel-tainted dart; he froze, glancing up at her face, heart hammering against his ribs. But her form lay still, lashes fanned in feigned repose, no rebuke, no recoil. Relief washed over him, mingled with a bolder surge of desire—perhaps the wine's haze held her in thrall, or perhaps... something more. Emboldened, he resumed, the glide of his tip against her slit igniting fresh waves of comfort that bordered on agony. Her nectar flowed freer now, slickening the path, trailing warm rivulets down her inner thigh to pool against the sheets—a testament to her body's betrayal, her feigned slumber no match for nature's call.
Arthas probed deeper, inexperience a clumsy foe; her entrance, taut as a virgin's vow despite her years, resisted his thrusts with stubborn allure. Again denial—slipping aside in the slick chaos, once grazing the sensitive rosebud below, sending unintended sparks through them both that made her hips twitch ever so slightly. He tried anew, frustration edging the pleasure, each failed bid heightening the tease until his veins thrummed with need.
Then—subtle sorcery: her hips canting upward in what could have been dream-tossed accident, a guiding nudge veiled as coincidence. His length plunged home, breaching the tight ring into welcoming heat—velvet walls clenching, hot and unyielding, cradling him in rhythmic pulse that stole the air from his lungs. Fullness crashed over him like a tidal wave: scorching embrace, suffocating in its intimacy, her depths a furnace of warmth and wetness that gripped him like fate's own fist. Virgin instincts betrayed him utterly—a primal buck, a gasp of "Oh, Auntie..."—and ecstasy shattered his world.
Numbness seized his core, lightning forking through every nerve; seed jetted forth in unrelenting waves, half a minute's torrent flooding her innermost sanctum with the force of pent-up lifetimes. Priscilla's frame quivered beneath him, subtle tremors betraying her vigil—her thighs flexing involuntarily, a soft hitch in her breath that she masked as sleep's sigh. Troubles vaporized in the afterglow—pleasure unbound, heedless of awakening her to the truth. He drove deeper on instinct, hips grinding as if to etch himself eternal, each aftershock pulse drawing a muffled whimper from her lips that she swallowed like a secret sin.
His release ebbed at last, leaving him slumped atop her, heaving amid the musk of salt and sin, the room's air thick with their mingled scents. Lips sought hers in ravenous claim, tongue delving for her essence—sweet with rum and restraint, a taste that peeled back layers of auntly affection to reveal the woman beneath. Hands roamed greedy: tracing the plush curve of her waist, cupping the heavy swells of her breasts, thumbs circling peaks that hardened under his touch like pearls kissed by dawn. Below, his revival stirred—insistent, swelling anew, a fact Priscilla could no longer ignore, her inner walls fluttering in silent acknowledgment around him.
Confusion had gripped her at the first brush: phantom fingers ghosting her skin, then parted limbs, a scalding rod teasing her core's forbidden threshold. Resistance flickered like a candle in gale—then recognition dawned: her cherished nephew, Arthas, astride her in the velvet dark, his breath hot against her neck. Wine's haze blurred the edges, and years' pent ache—a drought of touch since Poole's voyages grew interminable—stayed her cry; she yielded silently, a vessel for his storm, curiosity and craving curbing the elder's rebuke. Friction built torment exquisite—his aim adrift, her need coiling tighter with each failed probe, until instinct overrode all: a subtle lift of her hips, granting passage with a nudge disguised as slumber's shift.
Entry came swift and searing, but his release swifter—untimely flood, yet triumphant in its haste, painting her depths with the fervor of first surrender. Disappointment tinged her unslaked fire, eclipsed by a pride fierce as Tiras tides: she'd claimed the Prince of Lordaeron's maiden offering, a mature rite mirroring a maiden's fall. Thrilling symmetry, aunt devouring nephew's dawn—honor unsung, a secret crest that made her walls clench in afterthought.
Now, his explorations reignited her: kisses claiming with boyish fervor, hands mapping her bounty like a treasure seeker charting unspoiled isles. The renewed girth within stretched her anew—youth's vigor, unquenched and unyielding, filling her with a fullness that bordered on ache. Worthy of his bloodline, this resilience—post-deluge, still rampant, a testament to the boundless energy of spring's first bloom.
Arthas withdrew and plunged with growing rhythm, sans finesse—raw, relentless, the primal urge of one discovering fire's true burn. Her plush form pillowed him like a sea of silk, yielding yet embracing, a featherbed of flesh that absorbed his every impact with muffled sighs. Mouths fused in fervent fusion, his hips battered her sanctuary: stirring nectar to symphony—wet schlick of flesh on flesh, her walls fluttering in reply with contractions that milked him like a siren's song. Each clench drew gasps from him, cooling his fevered brow with stolen breaths, while his hands roamed freer: pinching peaks to pebbled need, fingers digging into hips that bucked to meet his descent.
Her skin—impossibly smooth, defying near-four decades' toll—baffled him anew, a mystery wrapped in merchant's mystery. Maintenance of a lady paramount: exotic oils from distant Kezan bazaars, perhaps, or sheer will of one who bent oceans to her ledger. And her depths? Virgin-tight, a decade-plus starved of intrusion, Poole's neglect a gift unwitting. Arthas knew her truth: arrogance's armor, disdain for dalliances lesser than her stature. Their union's chill had left her a desert for years—no cock to breach her since youth's end. No wonder she gripped like fate's own vise, walls rippling with a hunger that mirrored his own, each thrust eliciting a fresh gush of slick welcome that eased the way for deeper dives.
"Oh... Auntie... you're mine... my woman... ah... every dawn, every dusk..." Arthas growled against her throat, voice fracturing in ecstasy's grip. Hips snapped savage—feet bracing sheets, hoisting her thighs high, folding her in half for deeper siege, the angle allowing his crown to kiss her core's hidden gate with every descent. No art, only instinct: brutal, unrefined, yet it wrung whimpers from her guarded lips—soft "ah"s that she muffled against his shoulder, her breath hot and ragged in the crook of his neck.
If candlelight pierced the veil, the sight would sear: Priscilla arched swan-like—head thrown back, pale throat bared in taut ecstasy, veins tracing azure rivers 'neath porcelain skin like lightning etched in marble. Fingers clawed the linens, crumpling silk to chaos in white-knuckled frenzy—betraying the tempest within her calm facade, nails leaving crescent moons in the fabric as if to anchor against the tide.
She clung to the pretense still, loath to shatter the fragile veil of slumber. How to face him come dawn's unforgiving light? Better this masquerade—for both their sakes, a secret shared in silence's embrace, allowing the fire to burn unjudged.
Arthas inhaled sharp, glans ensnared in sucking vise—her core's rhythmic pull, a siren's demand for tribute that bordered on torment. His tempo swelled unwitting, movements grander, oblivious to her wakefulness amid the haze. Buried woes fueled him: exile's terror to this alien world of fel and faith, court's stifling yoke of etiquette and expectation, power's gnawing void that whispered of thrones ungrabbed, women's siren song that echoed the harem dreams now stirring in his reborn soul. All channeled here, in her yielding harbor—a vessel for the storm raging within.
"Priscilla... my wife... ah... I've craved you... loved you from the cradle... Auntie... ah... you're mine alone... no thief shall claim you... ah... bear my child... my queen..."
His confessions spilled like incantations, raw and ragged—each thrust a vow, each gasp a plea, peeling back the nephew's mask to reveal the man's possession. Even Priscilla's iron heart quailed, tenderness blooming amid the fray like a rare bloom in salt-cracked soil. Family's tether had spared her protest at the first breach; now, avowal twisted it to something fiercer, a knot of affection and ache she couldn't—wouldn't—unravel. Love? Kinship's evolution to flame? Irrelevant in the moment—the crest built inexorably, her climax a tidal wave unspoken, crashing with silent ferocity.
Arthas sensed the shift: her channel clamping like a vise forged in the forges of Ironforge, flower's heart suckling his crown in desperate plea, a vacuum of velvet and heat. Walls convulsed with fervent undulations—milking, demanding, wringing his essence with a hunger that matched his own. He shattered anew, seed surging in hot pulses—mingling with her release, the shared deluge a baptism in forbidden waters. Priscilla's form bucked subtly—thighs quaking like rigging in gale, breath hitching in muffled cry—as waves claimed her, silent storm yielding to the storm's eye, where peace reigned in the aftermath's hush.
In the languid afterglow, they lay entwined—nephew's head pillowed on her breast, aunt's fingers threading his hair in unconscious caress. Dawn loomed, secrets heavy as chains... or wings to loft them higher. What webs would this weave? Arthas wondered, tracing her curve in the dark. A harem's cornerstone, perhaps—Priscilla Ashvane, aunt no more, but paramour eternal, her fleets the vanguard of his rising empire.