The private dining hall at the peak of the obsidian tower was reserved for only the most sacred of meals—banquets with kings, midnight councils of war, offerings to old gods. Tonight, it was just me and Vilo.
Candles lined the stone walls, flickering low and golden. The hearth crackled softly in the corner. Outside the tall windows, the storm clouds swirled like quiet observers, shielding the stars. A long, velvet-draped table stretched between us, but I didn't sit at it. I stood behind my chair, confused.
"Sit," she commanded.
I obeyed.
Before I could reach for my fork, she raised a hand.
"You're not eating tonight."
I froze, halfway to lifting my napkin.
"Sorry?"
"You're feeding me." Her voice was low. Deliberate. Not teasing, but not cold either. "I've decided."
"You… want me to feed you."
"Yes." She leaned forward slowly, silver hair sliding like silk over one shoulder. "You'll use your hands. Not the utensils."
I blinked. "That's… unsanitary?"
Her tail coiled under the table.
A sharp tug on my ankle made me flinch.
"You will feed me," she repeated, lips just parted. "And you'll do it properly."
There was no questioning that tone. Not from my wife.
I reached for the platter of seared emberbeast slices, cut a piece carefully, and brought it to her lips with two fingers. She didn't open her mouth immediately. Her eyes never left mine.
Then, slowly, her lips parted.
She closed them around the tips of my fingers—warm, soft—and bit down just enough to pull the food away. Her lips brushed skin. Heat followed.
Her tail tightened again.
"You're trembling," she noted calmly, chewing with elegant slowness.
"I—just a little nervous," I admitted.
"Why?"
I didn't answer.
She didn't let me.
Another bite. Another brush of lips.
The curve of her mouth lingered longer this time, the contact firmer. Her tail wrapped further—first my ankle, then sliding up my calf under the table, deliberate and unrelenting.
"Continue," she murmured.
I fed her again. A piece of blackroot soaked in spiced oil. Her tongue flicked against my knuckles as she took it.
"You blush too easily," she said, eyes never blinking. "Your skin gives you away."
"I can't help it," I muttered, trying to focus on the food.
Her thigh brushed mine beneath the table—bare skin against fabric. The slit in her royal gown had shifted, revealing smooth, muscular skin that radiated heat.
"You wore that on purpose," I accused.
She tilted her head. "Wore what?"
I gestured vaguely. "The gown. The slit."
"This is my dining attire."
"Since when?"
"Since I wanted you squirming."
I swallowed hard and picked up a slice of charred rootfruit.
She opened her mouth.
This time, when I fed her, she caught my finger between her teeth and gently bit down.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to make me freeze.
She held it there for a second.
Then released it slowly, her eyes still locked on mine.
"You make a better servant than I expected," she said.
"I'm your husband."
"A role with many responsibilities."
Her tail uncoiled from my calf and slid higher—past my knee, up my thigh, wrapping, tightening, until I was forced to shift in my seat to keep from gasping.
"I'm not sure I can focus like this," I said, voice trembling.
"Then try harder."
She selected the next item herself with a gesture—a rolled slip of roasted wyvern tongue. I lifted it carefully to her mouth, my fingers now shaking with the tension building between us. Her lips opened slower this time. She didn't take the food immediately. Instead, she leaned closer.
Her lips brushed my fingers, then the side of my hand.
Then my palm.
Then my wrist.
"I'm hungry," she whispered.
"I'm… trying."
"I'm not talking about food."
The breath caught in my throat.
Her thighs pressed closer to mine, sliding along the inside. I could feel the heat radiating off her core through the thin fabric between us. Her body, normally disciplined and statuesque, now moved with slow, controlled friction—every little shift making it harder to think.
Her tail wrapped firmly around my waist.
"Next course," she said flatly.
I obeyed, reaching for a cluster of frostberries in honey glaze. They stuck to my fingers as I brought them up, glistening with syrup. Vilo leaned forward and slowly licked the juice from my knuckles before taking the berries into her mouth.
Her tongue lingered.
"You taste like dessert," she murmured.
"I'm not on the menu."
"Yet."
The words made my chest clench. My breathing hitched.
"Vilo…"
"You're still trembling."
"Because you're doing this on purpose."
She leaned in, her cheek brushing mine, her breath hot against my ear.
"Of course I am."
Then came dessert.
A rich chocolate custard—dense, dark, and slightly warm. I dipped my finger into it, brought it to her lips. She didn't move.
"You'll make a mess," she said, watching me.
I leaned closer, dipped again.
This time, she caught my wrist, guiding it up—then took the custard from my finger with a slow, deliberate suck.
I nearly melted in my chair.
"Vilo—"
Before I could recover, her tail yanked hard.
I was pulled from my chair in one swift motion and into her lap.
Her arms wrapped around me like bars of steel, and I found myself straddling her thighs, her tail still coiled around my torso. She picked up a custard-laced spoon, dipped it again, and guided my hand to feed her once more.
"Next time," she whispered, licking the edge of the spoon, "you'll do it shirtless."
I blinked rapidly. "W-What?"
She leaned in until her chest pressed to mine, her voice a low growl.
"I want to see how red you get."
She let the spoon fall back into the dish, then slid one hand up my spine and the other down to grip my thigh.
"You belong to me," she murmured, nuzzling against the side of my neck.
Then, more softly:
"And I like seeing what's mine squirm."
I couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
All I could feel was her—her body, her voice, her heat—wrapped around me like a throne come alive.
Dinner was over.
But the real feast, I realized, had only just begun.