The Royal Affair

Chapter 5

The heavy oak door swung shut behind them, the sounds of the raucous celebration fading into a muffled hum, leaving behind an echoing silence.

Derek's chambers, dimly lit by a single flickering candle, offered a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of the ballroom, a private sanctuary away from the prying eyes and whispering tongues of the court. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and musk, a masculine aroma that hinted at the knight's private world, a space of quiet contemplation and hidden desires. The red-haired woman, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of anticipation and a hint of boldness, stood in the center of the room, the shadows dancing across her flushed skin, her gaze fixed on Derek with a mixture of curiosity and nervous excitement.

He moved towards her with a slow, deliberate grace, his movements radiating a quiet confidence that was both alluring and intimidating, a silent promise of the pleasure to come. His touch, when it came, was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the raw power he exuded on the training yard, the strength he wielded on the battlefield. He traced the delicate curve of her cheek with his big strong hand, his eyes searching hers, seeking a silent invitation, a confirmation of her willingness.

Her breath hitched in her throat, her initial apprehension melting away, replaced by a growing sense of excitement, a thrill of anticipation coursing through her veins. She met his gaze, her own eyes reflecting a flicker of desire, a spark of shared understanding, and offered him a tentative smile, her lips curving into a silent invitation.

Derek returned the smile, a hint of warmth softening his features, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and reached out to untie the ribbons that held her gown together. The fabric slid down her shoulders, revealing the creamy expanse of her skin, the soft swell of her breasts, the delicate curve of her collarbone. He paused, his gaze lingering on her form, his eyes filled with a quiet appreciation, a slow burn of desire igniting within him.

But before he could continue, the red-haired woman stepped closer, her movements bold and purposeful. Her hands reached up to his tunic, her fingers deftly undoing the fastenings, her gaze never leaving his.

She slid the garment off his broad shoulders, revealing the muscular expanse of his chest, the defined lines of his abdomen. Derek stood before her, his physique honed from years of training, every muscle corded and powerful. A dusting of dark hair trailed down his chest, narrowing into a fine line that disappeared below his waist. The woman's breath caught in her throat; she forgot how to breathe for a moment, her eyes widening in stunned appreciation.

He took his time, savoring each moment, his touch lingering on her skin, exploring the curves of her body, his fingers tracing the lines of her figure. He kissed her softly, his lips brushing against hers, teasing her with gentle caresses, his touch light and tantalizing. Her moans, soft and hesitant at first, gradually grew louder, echoing through the chamber, a testament to the pleasure he was eliciting, a symphony of growing passion.

He explored her body with a practiced hand, his touch igniting a fire within her, awakening a hunger she hadn't known she possessed. She arched beneath him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails tracing patterns on his back, her cries growing more insistent, her pleas for release becoming more urgent. He pushed her to her limits, savoring her cries, reveling in her surrender. He was gentle yet firm, masterful yet tender.

He delved deeper, his movements slow and rhythmic, drawing out her pleasure, building the tension within her until it reached a fever pitch, a crescendo of sensation that threatened to consume them both. Her body trembled beneath him, her moans reaching a crescendo, a wild cry of ecstasy that filled the chamber. He moved faster and faster, harder and harder, his own control slipping as he surrendered to the shared passion. He unleashed everything he had, giving himself over to the moment.

And then, finally, they reached their peaks together, their bodies entwined in a symphony of passion, their cries mingling in the dimly lit chamber, a testament to the intensity of their shared experience.

The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of their shared experience, broken only by their ragged breaths, the soft thudding of their hearts, and the gentle rustling of the sheets. The red-haired woman sighed contentedly, her body relaxed beneath his, a satisfied smile gracing her lips, her eyes half-closed in blissful contentment.

"Gods," she whispered, her voice husky with pleasure, a hint of awe in her tone, "you are by far the best I've ever had. No lie. Truly."

Derek chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, his eyes gleaming with amusement, a hint of pride in his voice. "Even better than the King?" he asked, his voice laced with playful arrogance, a teasing challenge in his tone.

He shifted onto his back, resting his arm behind his head, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes, a memory of past encounters flickering across his face.

The woman's smirk slowly faded, replaced by a shadow of discomfort, a flicker of unease in her eyes. "The King…" she hesitated, her gaze dropping to her hands, her fingers tracing patterns on the sheets, "he was… rough. It was difficult to… enjoy. He seemed… impatient."

Derek's expression softened, a flicker of sympathy in his eyes, a hint of understanding in his gaze. He sighed, his voice laced with a hint of apology, a regretful acknowledgement of his friend's shortcomings. "I am sorry to hear that," he said, his tone gentle, his voice soothing.

The woman rested her chin on Derek's chest, her gaze searching his, her eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and a hint of fear. "Is it true?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, the words hesitant and trembling. "Is it true what they say about the King? That he has trouble… conceiving… due to an injury as a child? That he was kicked in the balls by a horse?"

Derek's jaw tightened, his eyes hardening, a flicker of anger flashing across his face. He looked down at her, his voice low and dangerous, each word carefully enunciated, each syllable dripping with warning. "It is treason," he said, his voice a low growl, "to speak such things about our King. You will not repeat those rumors, do you understand? It is forbidden."

The woman's eyes widened with fear, her body tensing next to him. "Yes," she whispered, her voice trembling, her gaze darting around the room as if expecting to be overheard. "I apologize. I didn't mean any harm. I was just curious."

Derek's expression softened slightly, but his gaze remained stern, his voice firm but not unkind. "Remember your place," he said, his voice laced with a hint of warning. "And never speak of this again. The walls have ears, and whispers carry far."

He shifted, his body moving away from her, creating a distance between them, a tangible separation that mirrored the growing chasm between them. The intimacy of the moment had shattered, replaced by a palpable tension, a chilling reminder of the dangers that lurked within the court. The secrets of the royal court were dangerous things, and whispers could have deadly consequences.

The woman quickly dressed, her movements hurried and clumsy, her eyes darting around the room, her fear palpable. She offered Derek a hesitant nod, her lips trembling, and then slipped out of the chamber, leaving him alone in the dimly lit room.

Derek lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his mind racing, his thoughts consumed by the woman's question. The memory of that day, that fateful day, resurfaced in his mind, vivid and clear as if it had happened only yesterday.

He and Francis were just nine years old, full of youthful exuberance and boundless energy, their laughter echoing through the royal stables. The air was thick with the scent of hay and horseflesh, a familiar aroma that had been a constant in their lives. Francis, ever the adventurous one, had spotted a magnificent black stallion, its coat gleaming like polished obsidian, its eyes flashing with untamed spirit.

"I want to ride him, Derek!" Francis had exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement, his voice filled with childish enthusiasm. "He's the most beautiful horse I've ever seen!"

Derek, ever the cautious one, had hesitated, a sense of unease settling in his stomach. He knew the stallion was known for its wild temperament, its unpredictable nature. "I don't know, Francis," he had said, his voice laced with concern. "He looks dangerous. Maybe you should ride one of the gentler horses."

But Francis, as always, had been headstrong and determined, his youthful impatience overriding Derek's cautious warnings. He had climbed into the saddle, his small hands gripping the reins, his eyes shining with exhilaration.

The stallion had bucked and reared, its powerful muscles rippling beneath its dark coat, its hooves pounding the ground with a deafening roar. Francis, thrown off balance, had clung to the saddle for dear life, his face pale with fear. Then he was thrown off landing behind the horse, Francis stood wiping the dirt off his clothes chuckling.

And then, it had happened. The stallion had kicked out with its hind legs, its hoof connecting with Francis's groin with a sickening thud. Francis had cried out in pain, his voice piercing the air, his body crumpling to the ground.

Derek had rushed to his side, his heart pounding in his chest, his own fear choking him. He had cradled Francis in his arms, his eyes filled with terror, his hands trembling as he tried to assess the damage.

The memory of that day, the image of Francis's pain-stricken face, the sound of his anguished cries, had haunted Derek for years. He had always carried a burden of guilt, a sense of responsibility for what had happened. He had been Francis's protector, his friend, and he had failed to protect him from that devastating blow.

Even now, years later, the guilt gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his failure. He often wondered if things would have been different if he had been more forceful, if he had somehow managed to stop Francis from riding that damned stallion.

He sighed, his gaze drifting to the window, the first rays of dawn painting the sky with hues of pink and gold. The new day was beginning, but the shadows of the past still lingered, clinging to him like a persistent darkness.