She lingered in his space, something she had been doing for too long. Something he had been letting her do for too long. He'd done nothing when her hand on his arm had become something less than casual, nor when she had called on him to deliver a report while she bathed, nor when she had almost kissed him after knocking him to the ground while sparring yesterday. Only footsteps in the hall had saved him then.
Now she stepped forward into him until he walked backwards and stumbled into the throne, and she drew herself over him to settle astride his hips. When he put his hands on her arms to push her away, he found himself only holding her loosely.
One of her hands smoothed through his hair and then suddenly pulled tight, bending his neck back until it hurt. "You're mine," she said. "I'm yours."
He wanted to say no, but not enough, not more than he wanted to give her anything she asked. She was dearest to him in the whole world, and what was his self-respect compared to that.
His breath came shallow as she dipped her head to bite and suck at his neck, her fingers tightening. "Say it," she whispered, low, sultry, almost cruel.
He swallowed hard, shivered all the way through, wanting her and hating himself, and said, "Yes."