Nightcap
He cups your cheek with a leather palm. “Is there something else I can give you then, my dear?”
You swallow dumbly, unable to focus on anything other than his touch. He strokes your cheekbone slowly before trailing his fingers down your jaw to capture your chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“Tell me, Rook,” he leans close, his lips almost brushing yours. “What do you want?”
~
You can’t sleep. Plagued by thoughts of Professor Volkarin, you find your way to his quarters where he is more than happy to provide assistance.
~
The Lighthouse is still. Quiet.
A soft blue glow fills the room as you lie on your back, your huffed sigh the only sound to break the night air.
Without a natural cycle of night and day in the Fade, you have been forced to establish your own routine in the lighthouse. Even so, the air feels heavy — full — the veiled horizon a moody lilac smouldering into twilight.
Exhaustion clings to your bones and the deep ache in your joints continues to grumble despite the plush surroundings and your earlier soak. You close your eyes and wait for sleep to wash over you.
Your resolve is threadbare. You open your eyes.
It's useless.
A strange energy fizzles beneath your skin. The leftover adrenaline from battle… or something else? You trail your fingertips across your chest. Goosebumps chase your touch and you shiver. Your breath hitches as you feel the tremor trace your spine and settle low in your gut. There is a hot, eager tug deep between your thighs—calling you. An echo of want. Of him.
Your eyes flutter closed as you picture the professor as he was just hours ago. Practically pristine, he looked out of place among the gore of the defeated Antaam. Splattered by the grime of battle, you’d drank him in greedily. The green glow from his stave illuminated the single bead of sweat clinging to the nape of his neck. It rolled beneath his collar and you almost groaned, wanting to trace its path with your tongue.
You take a long breath, inhaling through your nose before pushing it out through pursed lips. Your throat rolls as you swallow, your fingers tugging your shift up over your hips. Slowly, you lower your hand to dip between your thighs. Desperate for salvation, your legs part eagerly and you swipe a finger across your centre, your core molten and needy.
It's useless.
Slick and wanting, your cunt begs for release. But it is not your hand you yearn for.
You slip through the Lighthouse corridors unseen, the soft whisper of skin against stone the only indication of your passing. The thin nightgown you wear grants scant protection from the chill breeze skating across your skin. You take a shaky breath, suppressing a shiver, and turn.
The pressure between your thighs mounts with every breath. Each step is filled with tantalising friction. The slickness of your core threatens to spill onto your thighs, coating you in the evidence of your frustrations. Heat crawls up your neck at the thought, the scarlet flush reaching the very tips of your ears.
You come to a stop before the Professor's door. Your breath races as your heart flutters a sprint beneath your breast. Dressed in only your shift, you are an affront to propriety. Despite your previous couplings with the older man, a trickle of doubt filters into your mind.
What will he think? Your mind races. You can see everything under this. It's too much. He won't—
You tap your fist to the door before you can talk yourself into leaving. Your knuckles play a gentle rhythm against the wood and you hold your breath as you hear movement within. The scrape of a chair. The steady cadence of the Professor's steps. The tinkle of gold bracelets clashing together.
The needy tug between your legs surges and you claim your lip between your teeth involuntarily. You have only a heartbeat to hope Manfred is not present before the door opens and you come face to face with Professor Emmrich Volkarin.
"Rook?" He does not seem to know where to look. His eyes slip down from your face to survey your sorry state of dress. He steps back to allow you entry to his quarters. "Are you quite well, darling?"
You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.
He is, as always, the picture of sophistication. Refined. Poised. Not a hair out of place beneath all that pressed linen. Each garment expertly layered like a well-wrapped gift. You want nothing more than to spend the night peeling each item away. One at a time, tracing the skin you reveal with your teeth and tongue. The pressure in your core has no such patience.
"Sorry," you say at last, as Emmrich rests a hand against the small of your back. "I—" The heat of his palm leaks through the thin material of your gown and your senses narrow to hone in on that spot. You stumble over your words inelegantly. "I can't sleep. I've just been—" He strokes your back with his thumb and you could swear you almost purr from the contact.
"Distracted, dearest?" He finishes for you. A mischievous glint shines in his eye as he slips his hand to your hip and a soft sigh escapes your lips unbidden.
"Yes," you murmur.
The pressure of his hand falls away as he moves to his desk. The heat fades all too quickly and you follow him like a moth to a flame.
His mouth twitches upwards as he leans back on the desk to regard you. This time, when his gaze dips to your chest, it lingers. You watch hungrily as he darts his tongue across his lips, his gaze trailing slowly lower. He swallows thickly as his focus falls to the apex of your thighs, his pupils blown wide with lust.
“I’m sure I can find a remedy for that, my darling,” he says. His voice is hoarse and he whispers so softly you can barely hear it over the racing of your heart.
You yearn to step closer to him but your feet won't move. You remain rooted to the spot, pinned beneath his gaze. Hazel eyes eclipsed by darkness slide to yours and hold you fast.
“Perhaps a calming tea?” He murmurs, his lips quirking up into a teasing smile.
You step forward, the hold on you gone.
“Tea…?” You echo, as you stop within an inch of the professor.
“No?” He cups your cheek with a leather palm. “Is there something else I can give you then, my dear?”
You swallow dumbly, unable to focus on anything other than his touch. He strokes your cheekbone slowly before trailing his fingers down your jaw to capture your chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“Tell me, Rook,” he leans close, his lips almost brushing yours. “What do you want?”
You. The word screams through your mind. His mouth on yours. His hand in your hair. His cock buried deep as you—
Your lips open and close soundlessly as you try to voice your desires. But your mouth is dry and the words flake away unsaid as Emmrich’s free hand curls over your hip.
“Darling?” He prompts, his hand at your hip guiding you towards the desk.
“I—” Your lips part, a soft gasp escaping as firm wood presses against your rear. Words tumble out of reach as Emmrich tilts your chin to the side. He shifts and you tremble beneath him as he brushes his lips against the soft skin of your neck.
Barely there, his touch is feather-light at first. A whisper that barely glances across the delicate flesh beneath your ear. Your eyes flutter shut as he presses his lips to your throat. A moan on your lips, your hands scramble to find a hold on the desk.
“Emmrich~” You mewl, the pulsing heat in your core becoming more insistent by the moment.
“Tell me,” he murmurs against your skin. His moustache prickles your neck but any discomfort is chased away by the tender caress of his lips and tongue. “Tell me what you want me to do, darling.”
Each heartbeat sends a thrum of pressure shooting between your thighs. The slick bundle of nerves there demands attention and you take a shaky breath before whispering your desire.
"Touch me…" You breathe, wrestling for control of your tongue despite the delicious distraction of his mouth on your skin. "Please, Emmrich." It is nothing short of a plea.
Emmrich smiles. "For you, my dear." He breathes in your scent as he guides you up onto the edge of his desk. "Anything."
His knee parts your legs and you gasp as a wave of cool air rushes up your skirt to kiss the sensitive flesh beneath. Gentle fingers skate across your skin. Across your arms, your shoulders, your neck. You watch as he pulls back, his blown-out pupils mirrored by your own.
Reverent, he drags his focus lower. Long fingers slip easily across the silk of your shift. They dance across your ribs, his thumb just barely grazing the underside of your breast. A shiver darts down your spine and you note the way his mouth quirks up to one side at the sight.
Through the haze of lust, you force free a single word. "Please."
He chuckles, the sound low and sinful. "Patience, my dear," he soothes, again cupping your cheek with a tender palm.
You yearn to obey. To surrender to his touch— to his command— entirely. But the pressure within demands more. His knee brushes against your centre and you arch involuntarily. Any sense of decorum forgotten, your hips follow the friction of his knee. You grind against him, panting greedily as your need for release mounts higher still.
His hand slips from your cheek and he threads his fingers through your hair. You groan as gloved fingertips curl against your scalp, murmuring his name as though in prayer. The hand by your breast drops to your hip and holds you still. This time, the groan that rumbles through your chest is one of frustration. You look at him with wide eyes, your mouth opening and closing noiselessly.
"I believe I told you to be patient." His breath is hot against your ear, and you feel a wave of heat flood your cheeks.
If speech was an option a moment ago it is a moment long since passed. All you can do is nod and submit.
"Good," he whispers, pulling back to appraise you fully. His hand abandons your hair, slowly tracing your curves lower. Every touch is searing, even through the fabric of your shift, and you tremble as you fight to remain still beneath his ministrations.
"So good for me," he murmurs as his hands tighten on your hips. "So beautiful, my darling Rook."
Slowly— oh so very slowly— he gathers the material of your nightgown, hitching it above your thighs. But still, he does not direct his touch to where you want it most.
The cold bite of metal sends goosebumps skating across your flesh as he strokes the outside of your thighs. His gold rings glint in the firelight as he reaches your knees, applying a gentle suggestive pressure. You open your legs to him, desperate for him to fill the void between them.
Bared before him, perched on his desk, you feel the weight of his gaze as he takes stock of the slick mess at your centre. The heady scent of your arousal fills the air and you feel a strange sense of pride blossom in your chest as his breaths become laboured.
"You are…" his words are near a whisper as his bejewelled fingers crawl slowly towards the apex of your thighs. "You are resplendent, my love."
His hands so close to where you want them, you huff out a needy whine. Now. You need him now. Your protestations are silenced by a stern look and you swallow the plea in your throat.
His bangles fall together as he brings his hands to the pulsing heat of your core. Gold clashes against gold and the resulting tinkling sound threatens to erode your control entirely. You take a shuddered breath as he barely grazes the sensitive flesh of your cunt. He drags his thumb down your centre in one long slow swipe and you buck beneath him.
"Now, now," he chides, "try to stay still for me darling."
You worry your lower lip with your teeth as you nod, anchoring yourself to the desk obediently.
"Thank you," he murmurs softly. His free hand returns to your chin, holding you still with a single finger. His lips brush against yours and you moan against him. Your eyes flutter shut and you open your mouth to him, desperate for his taste to fill you whole. He grants you no such satisfaction.
"Please," you mewl, and you aren't even sure what you're asking for. All you know is the heavy pressure in your core— the demanding thrum that aches for the man before you. "Please, love, I—"
His long fingers slip between your silken folds and your words are lost to a strangled gasp. They twitch once, testing for your response. The sound that parts your lips is beyond comprehension. Blissful agony under a loving hand, he coaxes each gasping moan from you with expert care.
"Let me hear you," he whispers as he circles your clit with his thumb. "Don't hold back, dearest, I want to hear everything."
His voice alone could be your undoing. You obey without thought, your moans growing louder with each stroke against the sensitive bud.
"Good." His praise stokes your need impossibly higher and you clutch the desk desperately to avoid moving against him. The hand at your chin drops to your shoulder and he hooks a finger into the strap of your nightgown. A gentle tug and the silk pools around your waist. He guides your hips to lift from the desk, allowing the material to be discarded.
Bared to him entirely, the flush in your cheeks deepens as he returns to his ministrations. One hand between your thighs, the other cups your breast. His thumb brushes across the stiffened peak of your nipple and again you moan for him. Together, his hands work to draw out each pathetic mewl of want. You lose yourself beneath his touch, the raging fire in your veins becoming near unbearable. Your legs tremble as you edge closer to the abyss.
"Not yet, darling." His tone allows for no rebuttal. "Not yet."
Moisture lines your lashes as you fight against the urge to erupt.
"Please, love," you beg breathlessly. "I can't—"
"You can," he commands and your nerves sing in response. One knee on the desk, the other keeps your quivering thighs spread for him. "You're doing so well, my dear."
Your head tips back as the world ebbs away. Your entire existence narrows to just you and him. Two fingers tease your entrance and your breath hitches in your throat. Your cunt slick and wanting, he slips into you with ease and you groan needily.
"Emmrich, I—"
"Hold on, my love," he whispers, cupping the back of your neck and holding your gaze. "Just a moment longer."
Panting, you barely manage to nod as his fingers curl inside you. Lightning surges through you as your hips buck against his hand, your release barely contained. This time, he allows it, coaching you as you ride his hand wantonly. Gold bracelets jingling in time with each thrust of his wrist, his fingers plunge deep within you again and again.
"That's it, dearest." His eyes are dark, hazed by affection and lust in equal measure. "That's it, let go for me."
You require no further instruction. Your body obeys without thought, his name spilling from your parted lips. It is a crescendo like no other. You hold his gaze as your release washes over you. Your nerves sing to one another, a chain reaction that reverberates through you like a tune through crystal.
Even as you spasm atop the desk, Emmrich continues to plunge deep into you. He curls his fingers against your inner wall as his palm rubs against your clit. The dual stimulation is your ruin and your whole body becomes putty beneath his hand.
You sag against him as he at last removes himself from between your legs. His laboured breath echoes your own and you raise a shaky hand to his cheek.
"My love," you whisper, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone.
He smiles — soft and warm — as he takes your free hand in his.
"My darling, Rook." He allows himself a moment to drink in your flushed cheeks, your messed hair and glistening thighs.
"Let's get you to bed now, shall we?"