There was a certain magic to late afternoon in the Celestian palace—the kind that made golden light spill like honey across the stone floors and rendered even the most ruthless corners almost gentle.
Lara, of all people, felt it most in these rare moments of near-peace: when she could shed her armor, shake out her hair, and find some echo of herself not as the general or the half-demon scandal, but as a woman, breathing, wanting, sometimes even daring to hope.
It was almost dinner time, but duty, as always, came first. Lara made her way to Sarisa's office, her stride easy but her mind not entirely at rest.
Since returning from the south, there'd been a shift in the air—a new electricity, impossible to ignore.
Each day, the weight of secrecy pressed a little heavier on her chest, even as the private moments with Sarisa grew sweeter, more incendiary, more impossible to give up.
When she opened the door to Sarisa's office, the sight that greeted her was exactly what she'd expected: Sarisa hunched over her desk, a mountain of documents rising around her like a defensive fortress.
The princess—no, the future queen—looked both exhausted and stubbornly determined, her hair falling loose over one shoulder, her eyes red-rimmed from hours of reading.
"Hey," Lara said quietly, closing the door behind her. "You planning to stay in here all night?"
Sarisa didn't look up. "Not unless the council discovers a way to banish paperwork by decree."
Lara grinned, crossing the room and leaning over Sarisa's shoulder to scan the top page. "Let me help. You've been at this for hours."
Sarisa started to protest, but Lara shook her head. "Go relax. If I can't handle a stack of petitions, I'm not fit to call myself a general."
With a reluctant smile, Sarisa relinquished her chair. "Don't say I didn't warn you. The Western Province envoy's handwriting is a war crime."
Lara winked and sat, pulling the pile toward her. "I've faced worse."
The next thirty minutes passed in a blur of royal etiquette, tedious legalese, and Lara's broad, calloused fingers dancing over crisp, expensive parchment.
Sarisa drifted to the couch, curling up with a cup of tea, head resting on the arm as she watched Lara work. Outside the window, twilight deepened, the first stars blinking awake.
Lara was halfway through a particularly dry document on grain tariffs when she felt a shift in the air—familiar, electric, laced with a promise.
She didn't have to look up to know Sarisa was moving; she could feel the princess's eyes on her, heavy and hungry, all pretense of work or royalty abandoned.
She heard, rather than saw, Sarisa rise from the couch, footsteps whispering across the carpet.
The next thing she felt was a gentle pressure on her thigh as Sarisa slid under the desk—so quietly and so smoothly that Lara's pen stilled mid-sentence.
"Princess?" she murmured, a warning and a prayer.
Sarisa's voice, soft and teasing, floated up. "Don't mind me. You said you could handle anything."
Lara's heart stuttered. She glanced at the door—closed, but still, anyone could knock, anyone could—
She nearly leaped out of her skin when she felt Sarisa's hands at her belt, then her zipper, sliding it down with practiced precision. Cool air, then hot breath. Lara clenched her jaw, pulse thundering in her ears.
"Sar—" she managed, then bit back the rest as Sarisa's hand curled around her, drawing her cock free with infuriating patience.
She wanted to say something. She wanted to protest, to warn, to at least pretend to be in control. But then Sarisa's mouth closed over her—hot, wet, and perfect—and every word flew from her mind.
Lara's hands tightened on the desk, knuckles white. She forced herself to keep breathing, to keep her eyes on the paperwork, to keep her hips still. But gods, Sarisa knew exactly what she was doing—she always had.
The first time was slow, a teasing swirl of tongue, a soft hum against sensitive skin. Lara swallowed hard, stifling a groan as pleasure skated up her spine.
She glanced at the door, at the window, at the endless stack of documents—anything to ground herself, to keep from giving in entirely.
She managed to scrawl her signature on one page before Sarisa did something with her tongue that made Lara's whole body tense. "Sar— don't—" she hissed, breathless.
Sarisa's only response was a low, satisfied laugh, muffled by her task.
It was pure, exquisite torture.
Just as Lara's self-control was about to snap, there was a sharp knock at the door. Lara froze, panic and pleasure warring in her gut.
"General?" Vaelen's voice, annoyingly chipper. "Is Sarisa here? I need to discuss the revised security roster—"
Lara clamped her hands flat on the desk, trying to keep her composure. "No," she managed, voice strangled and barely steady. "Sarisa's not here right now."
Vaelen hesitated. Lara felt Sarisa's mouth pause, then redouble its efforts—out of mischief or a sense of danger, she didn't know.
"Are you sure? I thought I heard—"
"Definitely not here," Lara gritted, sweat prickling at her brow. "Just me. And I'm a bit busy."
"Oh. Well, if you see her, tell her I stopped by." Vaelen's footsteps receded, the door closing behind him.
Lara slumped forward, letting out a shaky breath. Sarisa, emboldened, picked up her pace, drawing Lara closer and closer to the edge.
"Gods, Sarisa," Lara whispered, fighting to keep her voice down. "You're going to kill me."
Sarisa's answer was a muffled hum and a particularly wicked twist of her tongue. Lara gripped the edge of the desk so hard her knuckles ached, fighting not to buck her hips, not to give in, not to make a sound that would carry through the old stone halls.
But Sarisa was relentless, coaxing her, teasing her, drawing pleasure out slow and hot and dangerous.
Lara felt the world tighten, narrow, until there was nothing but the heat of Sarisa's mouth, the press of her tongue, the scrape of her teeth.
She came with a strangled gasp, biting down on her own wrist to muffle the sound, vision whiting out as pleasure crashed through her.
It was a long moment before she remembered how to breathe.
When Sarisa finally emerged from under the desk, her hair was a glorious mess and her eyes were dark with triumph.
She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and grinned—a look so smug it made Lara want to pull her down and kiss her until neither of them could think straight.
Instead, Sarisa opened her desk drawer and produced the box Elysia had delivered earlier—gleaming, enchanted, and only slightly mocking.
"Yeah," Sarisa said, voice low and breathy, "let's relax a bit more."
Lara laughed, husky and hoarse, and drew Sarisa into her lap, the paperwork forgotten, the office door was now locked.