Whispers
Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen Niece Reader
۶ৎ 4.8k words
↳ Summary:
Speculations lingered in hushed corners of court that Prince Jacaerys and his twin shared more than just blood. Such rumors left Aemond burdened with silent longing. Yet he knew not then, whispers are just whispers.
↳ Warnings:
MDNI! 18+, Targcest (Uncle/Niece Dynamic), Speculations of Twincest (Jace/Twin Sister Reader), Power Dynamics, Mention of Jealousy, Mention of Alcohol
The streets of King’s Landing were veiled in shadow, torches casting flickers of gold on stone and soot as Aemond made his way back from a meeting that dragged too long, with lords who spoke too little sense. Vhagar was left resting at the Dragonpit hours ago, her wings folded like the roofs of temples, unmoved by war or politics. Aemond preferred the stillness now. The cool descent of night, the thinning of crowds, the weightless press of dusk.
But just before the gate, he paused.
There. Through the narrow arch where the cliffs curved toward the Blackwater, he saw movement.
Two figures, cloaked not in armor but moonlight. Quiet. Free.
His feet moved before reason followed.
He knew that gait. That voice. That laughter like silver hitting water.
You.
You, barefoot on the pale sand, robe slipping off one shoulder, your hair half-braided as if you’d undone it in a hurry, dragging Jace by the hand with mischief in your eyes.
Jacaerys said something low, and you laughed again, louder this time, before he tugged at your waist and pulled you near. His mouth caught your temple, then your cheek, and you let him. Not in desire, but comfort. Habit.
Aemond’s breath halted as you reached for the ties of your gown and let it fall.
Not fully, not ceremonious, just enough for the silk to pool at your feet.
And gods help him.
His eye stayed rooted as you stepped into the water, Jace trailing close, his hand steady at your back. They were like children, he told himself. Foolish, fearless, loud. But then you turned slightly, chest rising, the moon cresting your collarbone as Jace whispered something into the hollow of your ear.
You tilted your head back to laugh and Aemond felt it. Like a lash. Like a blade.
He should’ve turned away.
Should’ve walked. Should’ve run.
Instead, he stayed. Watched.
Not out of curiosity.
But because his body refused to move.
He returned to the Keep without a word.
The sentries saw nothing in his gait to suggest unrest. No one caught the storm roiling beneath the surface, least of all the servants who bowed low as he passed, unaware that the prince’s composure tonight was a blade drawn thin.
He walked in silence. Through the long stone halls, through the shadowed turns of the tower, to the chamber where he always ended his day alone.
But tonight, he was not alone in his mind.
He entered his quarters slowly, locking the door with a click too soft to echo. He paused only to unbuckle his sword, letting it rest against the carved edge of the hearth. The rest he discarded by rote: his cloak, his boots, the tunic that still smelled faintly of wind and smoke.
Steam curled from behind the tall wooden screen where a bath had been drawn, the copper tub set deep and wide, the water still steaming.
He stepped toward it wordlessly.
The firelight flickered golden across the water’s surface, refracting in broken halos on the stone walls. Aemond’s breath was steady, but his hands, his hands betrayed him.
They lingered at his belt. Tense.
He undressed in silence.
The heat licked up his skin as he stepped in, muscles twitching as they adjusted to the warmth. He sank lower until water covered his chest, the dim light catching the sharp angle of his jaw, the single sapphire glinting faintly in its place.
But even in the water, he could not forget.
You. Rising from the waves like something sacred. Your smile unguarded, your hair clinging to your skin. And Jacaerys? His hands on you as if he owned what Aemond never dared reach for.
His jaw tightened. One hand gripped the rim of the tub.
The other slid lower.
This was not indulgence. This was discipline, twisted and contorted by the rot of longing. By the knowledge that you, twin to his enemy, daughter of his father’s shame, moved through the world untouched by the consequence you deserved.
His breath hissed between his teeth as his fingers dipped below the water.
He imagined your voice first. Low. Teasing. That silken tone you used when you knew you’d won an argument in court. That glint in your eye when you turned away from him, smug, victorious, unaware that each step you took was a hook dragging deeper into him.
He imagined your hands. Soft but sure, bracing yourself on his chest. Or curling around the edge of the bath, steam rising around you as you leaned in too close.
The flicker of your mouth.
The curve of your breast, half-covered by silk, then not at all.
The sound of your breath catching, high and helpless as he touched you where Jacaerys never should have.
Aemond’s head tipped back, hair damp against the edge of the tub. His hand moved with purpose now, slow but deliberate, caught between rage and reverence. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw you there. Wet and flushed, pinned beneath his palm like something wild made docile only for him.
"Say it," he imagined himself snarling. "Say who it is you want."
And you, lips parted, shuddering. You would say his name.
Not the bastard’s.
His.
A quiet grunt escaped him as his body tensed, pleasure cresting through him like flame in dry kindling. He did not speak. He did not moan.
He burned.
And when it was done, when his breath slowed and his hand fell still beneath the water, he sat there motionless.
۶ৎ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ۶ৎ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ۶ৎ
In the days that followed, the Red Keep resumed its rhythm. Tension pulsed beneath every gilded hallway, but the motions remained the same. Morning audiences. Training in the yards. Quiet suppers with veiled glances cast across long, lacquered tables. The air hung heavy, thick with the unsaid, the unsolved.
You moved through it all like a shadow dressed in silk.
Composed. Civil. Pleasant, when necessary.
You greeted Queen Alicent with a respectful nod. You stood beside Rhaenyra with measured ease. When your brother sparred in the yard, eyes sharp with something more than competition, you would clap. When your aunt Helaena mumbled verses to herself, you paused to listen, offering a gentle smile.
You were a princess. And you played your part.
Even if the halls were colder now.
Even if your dreams were haunted by silver hair and a sapphire stare you could never name aloud.
There was no time to dwell. The duties of royalty made perfect distractions. You studied maps beside your grandsire. You rode your dragon when restlessness gnawed at your ribs. You exchanged polite conversation with the maesters, learned the names of lords you’d likely never meet. The Keep bustled around you and in that, you found strange relief.
And yet.
There were moments.
Brief, stolen, unnerving.
Moments when your gaze would drift across the training yard… and catch his.
There hadn’t been many words between you. But there were moments. Fleeting, almost forgettable, if not for how they made your skin prickle with awareness.
You would see him sometimes in the Dragonpit, just as you were preparing for a ride or leading your dragon back to its lair. You never went there expecting to run into him, and yet somehow you did. He would emerge from the shadows, boots heavy against stone, Vhagar’s looming presence behind him. You would nod. He would bow.
"Uncle," you’d say, chin lifting just slightly.
"Princess," he’d return, curt and cool.
It was never more than that. Just the brushing of titles in an echo chamber of smoke and dragonfire. But something always lingered in his eye, something unreadable. You never stopped to name it.
And then there were the times in the yard.
On some afternoons, when the court felt suffocating and your thoughts restless, you would join your brother at archery. You never said it aloud, but you were a fair shot. Jace would try to correct your form with that big-brother know-it-all charm.
Aemond, of course, was always near.
Sometimes he sparred. Other times he only watched, arms crossed and stance coiled like a spring. But once, just once, you caught him saying it.
"Your grip is too tight. You’ll lose aim that way."
You turned then, startled, and met his eye.
"I wasn’t asking," you replied evenly.
He only lifted a brow. "Then don’t miss."
You didn’t. Not that time.
But you also didn’t thank him.
And you didn’t forget it either.
Then, there was that one night.
You had been creeping back through the Keep, hood pulled low, boots silent on cold stone. The moon was high, the castle quiet. You had slipped past the guards with the same daring you always had. Restless blood called for restless nights. The cool air outside the castle walls had sobered you slightly, but not completely. Your cheeks were still warm, the thrill of the night still buzzing in your veins.
You didn’t expect anyone to be in the hallways. Certainly not him.
But there he was, coming around the corner, fresh from some late-night venture of his own. He didn’t stumble, but there was a looseness to him. A scent, too. Wine. Myrrh. Maybe more. Maybe less.
You stopped. He did too.
"Uncle," you greeted coolly, as if your pulse wasn’t suddenly hammering in your throat.
"Princess," he said, voice low.
His eye scanned you. Your windblown hair, your cloak pulled hastily across your chest, the flushed glow of your cheeks. He said nothing more. Neither did you. The moment passed, thick and quiet, like the heavy press of a thunderstorm before it breaks.
You both moved on.
But not for long.
It wasn’t the last time your paths would cross under moonlight.
A few days later, gods knew from what escapade, you found yourself returning to the Keep again after dark. Your head was light, feet uneven. The world felt like it spun just a little too fast, but you didn’t mind. A little fun wasn’t forbidden. Not yet, anyway.
Aegon had brought you out that night, one of his rare moments of generosity though you were never sure if it was born of affection or boredom. He’d paraded you through the Streets of Silk like a precious bauble, daring anyone to stare too long at the girl on his arm. "My favorite niece," he had called you. "Beautiful thing."
You remembered laughter. Too many goblets passed to your hands. A dancer with veils who taught you to move with your hips. A drink that burned your throat and made you laugh so hard you nearly fell backward.
And now gods, now you were stumbling into the shadowed halls of the Red Keep, cloak half-askew, boots scuffing too loudly across stone.
You didn’t even realize you weren’t alone until a hand seized your arm and yanked you backward hard.
You gave a small yelp, but it was quickly muffled. A strong hand clamped gently over your mouth, the other bracing your back as your body hit cold stone tucked into the narrow recess of a pillar just off the hallway.
You blinked.
And found yourself face-to-face with him.
Aemond.
He was cloaked in black, tall and looming, scent of leather and steel hanging from him like fog. His silver hair was tied back, his single eye sharp even in the dark.
His hand still covered your mouth.
You didn’t know whether to laugh or glare.
Then, faintly, boots echoed down the corridor. Guards. You could hear them now, their steps brisk and purposeful. They were close.
You froze. So did he.
His body pressed closer against yours, shielding you completely from sight. You could feel the hilt of his sword grazing your hip. His breath was calm against your cheek, and you, gods, you were anything but calm.
You said something behind his palm. Muffled, nonsense.
His eye narrowed.
"Quiet," he mouthed.
You huffed but stayed still, a giddy little thrill tickling your spine.
The guards passed.
Their steps faded.
Aemond finally let go.
And you immediately slumped forward with a grin, giggling.
"Shouldn’t you be asleep, Uncle?" you slurred, half-laughing.
You lost your balance as soon as the words left your mouth, your weight pitching forward from your heeled boots and clouded head.
He caught you before you could fall completely. Hands firm around your waist, drawing you upright again. Your hands found purchase at his chest, and for one dizzy, breathless second, the two of you stood there like dancers caught in stillness.
"You reek of silk and wine," he muttered, his tone clipped.
"Thank you," you smiled, eyes heavy. "I try my best."
His jaw ticked.
"Did Aegon drag you to the brothels again?"
"Drag?" You scoffed. "He invited. I accepted. I'm not some damsel, Uncle."
"And yet here you are," he said, steadying you once more as you swayed. "Tripping over yourself in a hallway like one."
"Was that concern?" you teased, lips quirking.
He didn’t answer.
But his hand lingered at your waist.
And his gaze, sharp and unreadable stayed fixed on you, even when the silence began to stretch.
You licked your lips, still breathless.
"You’re staring."
"You’re drunk."
"Very," you whispered. "But not blind."
His grip on you tightened, just slightly.
"Do you even realize what could’ve happened if a guard found you like this?" he asked.
"But you found me instead," you countered, voice softer now. "How lucky I am."
Aemond stared at you for a beat too long. Your words lingered like incense between you, sweet and provocative.
But you were swaying again, head lolling lightly to the side as you blinked blearily at him. You looked at your feet, then down the corridor, then back at him.
"...Where were my chambers again?"
He sighed.
"You’re hopeless," he muttered and before you could protest, you were hoisted.
A yelp escaped your lips, sharp and indignant as he threw you over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Seven—bloody—hells—Aemond!" you cried, voice muffled against his cloak. “You can’t just go around manhandling princesses!”
"Quiet," he hissed. "Do you want to wake the entire Keep?"
"You're kidnapping me!"
He walked briskly, steps silent despite your flailing limbs. You kept yapping as he carried you, unbothered and far too amused by your own drunkenness.
"Are you always this grumpy at night? Maybe you need a drink. I needed three—no, four. That last one didn’t count. Too small. But—"
"If you don’t shut up," he muttered under his breath, "I swear on Vhagar, she wouldn't mind to have a princess as meal."
That got a giggle out of you. “You're so dramatic, uncle.”
"You’re lucky it’s me who found you," he growled low.
"I am lucky," you agreed smugly. "You’re my favorite uncle, after all."
He said nothing to that. But his pace quickened.
When he finally reached your chambers, two handmaidens were inside finishing the lighting of your hearth and arranging fresh towels by your bath. They barely turned at the door creaking open until they saw him, with you slung over his shoulder.
Their eyes widened.
"Leave," Aemond ordered, voice firm.
They scrambled, dipping into clumsy curtsies before hurrying out. The door shut behind them.
He set you down with a gentleness you didn’t expect, guiding you to the bed as though you were made of glass. You landed softly atop the coverlet, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, lips parted from half-spoken thoughts.
But your hand didn’t let go of him.
Instead, your fingers fisted in the collar of his tunic, pulling him slightly downward.
"You’re always in a hurry," you murmured, eyes half-lidded and teasing. "Don’t even stay for a kiss?"
"I have business to tend to."
You pouted. “You’re no fun.”
And with an unexpected strength, still drunk but not entirely helpless, you pushed yourself upright. Your balance faltered, so your hand braced against his chest. Broad, firm, warm beneath the fabric.
Now face to face.
Your breath slowed.
His didn’t.
You stared up at him, barely a hair’s breadth between you. His eye flicked from your gaze to your lips, then back again. His body didn’t move, but something in the air did. Like the moment before lightning strikes.
You smirked.
“Liar,” you whispered. “You’re staying.”
Your fingers slipped to the clasp of your cloak. A flick, a shift. And it fell to the floor with a whisper, revealing the dress beneath.
Aemond stilled.
Gods.
You were still clothed, yes, but only barely. The white fabric hugged your frame too well, too soft, too bare to have come from any of the royal seamstresses. Light caught the sheerness at the hem, and the neckline dipped just low enough that he averted his gaze. Not out of disinterest, but out of sheer discipline.
It was not a dress meant to be worn within the Keep, and certainly not one your mother would’ve approved of. If Rhaenyra had seen you in it, she might’ve summoned a tailor and a septa all in the same breath.
But Aemond was no septon.
And you were no saint.
You swayed slightly, intoxication still clinging to your limbs, but your gaze was clear now. Sharp, curious, hungry.
He forced himself to speak.
"You should rest," he said, tone flat but heavy. "I’ll call your handmaidens to draw your bath. Then you’re going to sleep."
But that only made you laugh.
A soft, melodic sound, mocking and amused.
You reached for his cloak this time, tugging it from his shoulders with easy familiarity. It joined yours on the floor in a heap of dark velvet and silver embroidery.
“You’ve always had such a noble mouth,” you teased, eyes raking over him. “But your body opposes.”
He didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Your hands found the edge of his sword belt, fingers working with almost practiced ease as you began to remove it. Your knuckles brushed against his hips, his abdomen, warmth radiating through his leathers.
Then, your fingers slid to the fastenings at his chest, beginning to unlace the upper half of his usual leather jerkin, tugging at the buckles just beneath his collarbone.
His hand caught yours.
Firm. Final.
"I'm not going to repeat myself," he said, voice low and dangerous.
But you just tilted your head, lips parting slowly, breaths mingling.
"Then don’t," you whispered. "Just feel. Don’t lie to yourself, Uncle," you murmured, your breath brushing his cheek. "I know you want it too."
Your hand slid down, slow and deliberate, until it found the growing evidence of his arousal beneath the folds of his tunic and leathers. He inhaled sharply as your fingers stroked him through the fabric. Unhurried, unbothered, daring.
That was when his hand rose to your throat.
Not harshly.
Not to harm.
But with enough pressure, just enough to remind you that no matter how clever your mouth was or how bold your touch, he was still the one in control.
Your eyes met his.
Neither of you smiled.
This wasn’t jest.
This was truth laid bare.
His gaze was storm and fire. Silent, but aching.
Yours was open, defiant. Willing.
"You're enjoying this," Aemond murmured, his voice low and taut as wire, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I hope you know what you're signing up for."
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t falter.
Your fingers tightened around the heat of him, stroking with firmer intent now, deliberate and slow. "Always have," you whispered, gaze steady beneath his. "Always been."
"Then you’re mine."
No more warning.
His mouth crashed into yours, wild and starved. You moaned against him as he kissed you like he’d been dying for it, like years of restraint had crumbled in a breath.
And your hand kept working him, unrelenting, until the growl in his throat became something dangerously close to a whimper.
He kissed like a man unhinged. Desperate, controlled only by the years he had forced himself to look, never touch. His hand at your throat moved to your jaw, tilting your face so he could deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping into your mouth as if claiming territory long denied.
But you wanted more.
Your fingers moved with purpose, loosening the leather across his chest, unfastening clasps one by one until his clothing parted, revealing skin hot and taut beneath your touch. You swallowed the low groan that rumbled from his throat, swallowed it and fed it with your hands, your mouth, your need.
And then you dropped to your knees.
Aemond’s breath caught.
Your hands worked him free, the weight of him warm in your palm. You looked up once, just once. And gods, the way he stared down at you… jaw tight, lips parted, his silver hair falling slightly across his brow like he’d stepped straight from one of your dreams. His eye was fixed on you like prey, and yet you were the one who had him trembling.
Your mouth found him without hesitation.
A sharp breath hissed through his teeth as your lips wrapped around him, slow, warm, deliberate.
His hand slid into your hair, not forcing, not pushing, just anchoring. Grounding himself. The silence broke only with the sound of your mouth, the soft drag of breath, the whisper of his voice murmuring your name like a sin on his tongue.
“Seven hells,” he muttered. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
But you did.
Because you’d thought of this too, countless times. Wondered if he’d taste like fire and fury, if he’d come undone for you, just once. If he'd let himself feel.
His hips bucked once, reflexive, raw, as the tension shattered from within him, years of restraint unraveling into your touch.
A strangled curse escaped his lips, low and guttural, as his fingers tightened in your hair, holding you there, breathless beneath the weight of his need. His other hand lifted your chin as the moment washed over you. Warm and claiming. His gaze never left yours.
You blinked up at him, lips parted, breath uneven. You were trembling slightly, but your eyes, gods, your eyes burned with mischief and fire and something almost like reverence.
“Swallow,” he commanded, voice hoarse and wrecked.
And you did. Obedient, unblinking.
“Good girl.”
Aemond's thumb brushed a stray smear from your chin, his expression unreadable. He brought it to your lips, pressing it against the softness there.
Your tongue darted out, licking him clean.
He wasn’t done.
Aemond’s gaze dropped to your form. Disheveled, wanton, eyes still dazed with pleasure and mischief. His hand slipped to your waist, gripped, then to the sheer fabric clinging to your hips. You barely had time to breathe before the sound tore through the room—
Riiip.
Your dress was nothing but soft seams and delicate stitching, no match for the heat that gripped him now. Silk whispered as it tore apart in his hands, falling like water to the floor. You gasped, but not in protest.
His mouth was on your collarbone, then lower. Teeth grazing skin. Tongue drawing slow lines of fire down your chest, until your knees buckled and your back hit the bedframe.
You laid back, chest heaving. Aemond towered above you like a shadow, his silver hair falling forward, framing that single eye aflame with hunger. His hands ran along your legs, thumbs digging into your thighs as he parted them, gaze locked on yours.
“You’ve no idea what you've done,” he said, voice strained.
“I think I do,” you whispered back, breathless.
And then he was upon you.
His weight pressed into yours, skin meeting skin as he claimed your mouth again. This time rougher, needier. His hips slotted between yours as his hands explored every curve, every inch of you, as though he'd dreamed of this moment too many times to waste a second.
You arched into him, nails dragging down his back, and he groaned against your mouth.
“Tell me you mean this. That you're not just drunk,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your throat, your pulse point.
“Drunk? Yes,” you breathed. “Meant it? Definitely.”
That undid him.
He gripped your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the bed, positioning himself. The tip of him pressed against you, teasing, waiting. Your breath hitched.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
Then he pushed in. Slow at first, inch by inch, stretching you open, filling you so completely your mouth parted in a silent gasp.
Your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching, grounding yourself as pleasure shot through you like lightning. He groaned, long and low, at the feel of you wrapped around him, finally, finally his.
He moved.
Not gently.
He thrust deep and hard, hips snapping forward as your legs wrapped around him instinctively, your back arching off the sheets. The bed creaked, the headboard knocking gently against the stone wall, and still, he didn’t slow.
His hand slid beneath your knee, angling you just right, hitting deeper. You cried out his name, and something snapped in him.
“I need to hear it again,” he growled. “Say my name.”
“Aemond—gods, Aemond—”
He kissed you to swallow your cries, his rhythm relentless now. Every thrust felt like penance and worship all at once, like he was staking a claim, branding your body with every desperate movement.
One of your hands found his jaw, holding him close, the other tangled in his hair. His mouth never strayed far from yours. Lips, neck, shoulder, marking wherever he could reach.
You were both unraveling, fast.
The pressure was building. The knot inside you tightening. And his thrusts were becoming more erratic, more desperate. Each one laced with the years of restraint now crumbling between you.
But then you moved.
Aemond let out a breathless sound when your hands pushed gently against his chest. His eyes flying open in surprise, then something darker. You rolled him onto his back with quiet authority, straddling him. His hands gripped your hips on instinct, but he didn’t resist. He watched you, mouth parted, his silver hair fanned out beneath him like a fallen prince.
Now you were the one in control.
You braced your hands against his chest, the rise and fall of it uneven beneath your palms. His skin was flushed, warm, and slick with effort. You had always imagined this. This exact thing. How he’d look beneath you. Tamed. Vulnerable. Yours.
You began to move, hips rolling with purpose, your pace slow at first, savoring every reaction you pulled from him. His fingers dug into your thighs, not to stop you, but to ground himself. Aemond was not a man easily undone, but gods, you were doing it. With every shift of your hips, every breathless moan, every flicker of your eyes locking with his.
“Look at you,” he rasped, voice thick. “Like you were made for this.”
You leaned forward slightly, and his hands slid up your torso, thumbs brushing the curve of your ribs. You felt worshipped, like every part of you was a sacred thing he’d denied himself too long.
He was close again. You could feel it in the way his hands began to tremble, the way his breathing broke. His grip on your hips tightened, grounding himself in the feeling of you, of your heat, your weight, your rhythm above him.
You rode him with purpose now, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing softly through the chamber. Every roll of your hips sent sparks through your spine, every strained sound from his lips drove you higher, until your fingers clawed into the muscle of his chest just to keep from unraveling.
"Aemond," you gasped, the name breaking free like a prayer.
That was what did it.
He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around you, your bodies flush, your foreheads pressed together as he drove up into you with a force that stole your breath. The sudden closeness, the rawness of it, made your world tilt.
The knot snapped.
You broke apart in his arms. Head thrown back, mouth parted in a moan he swallowed with a kiss as your body trembled around him. He followed right after, with a groan against your skin, the sound low and guttural, his release buried deep inside you. One last thrust. Then stillness.
Heavy breathing. Damp skin. His arms still locked around your waist like if he let go, the moment would vanish.
You didn’t move. Neither did he.
“Better than Jace could make you feel?” Aemond asked, voice low and dry, though the corner of his mouth twitched. Half smug, half something darker. A flicker of something possessive behind the jest.
Your brows furrowed slightly, eyes narrowing as you leaned back just enough to study him. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Uncle.”
He didn’t answer, just held your gaze. Still waiting. Still wanting something you couldn’t quite name.
You sighed, resting your palms on his chest. “Jace is my twin,” you said, as though that should have been enough. And it should’ve been. “We’ve been together since the womb. That kind of closeness.. people will always whisper.”
“But that’s all they do,” you added pointedly. “Whisper.”
Aemond’s jaw flexed.
You smirked, a little breathless still. “Besides… if Jace could make me feel like that, don’t you think I’d be limping more often?”
His eye widened slightly, caught off guard for just a second, before a sharp laugh escaped him, his hands gripping your waist tighter.
“Seven hells,” he muttered under his breath, dragging his lips against your collarbone.
“Don’t start again unless you plan to finish it,” you teased, brushing the silver hair from his face.
“I always finish."