Polishing ceremonial armor shouldn't have felt like an intimate act. But with Vilo, it always turned into something more.
She sat regally at the foot of the bed, one long leg crossed over the other, tail curling lazily behind her. Her robe was loose—she'd discarded the formal overshirt after returning from court, leaving only the tight, high-cut underwraps clinging to her curves. Her scales shimmered faintly in the low candlelight, and her wings rested slightly open, relaxed but alert.
"Polish it," she said simply, motioning toward the gleaming black-and-gold armor laid out across the table.
I nodded, already picking up the cloth and oil. I'd done this before—maintaining her gear after battles or ceremonies. But something felt different tonight. She was watching. Closely.
The armor was beautiful. Heavy pauldrons shaped like dragon claws. Breastplate carved with her sigil in sharp silver lines. The whole thing had weight and presence—just like her. Each piece needed attention, and I worked carefully, rubbing slow circles into every curve and ridge.
Especially the breastplate.
It had been custom-made, molded perfectly to her. I didn't have to imagine how her bust would fit against the inside of it—I could see it, etched in smooth contours and narrow seams. My fingers slowed, hesitated at one ridge that traced beneath the swell of one breast.
"You're thorough," Vilo murmured.
I startled. "I-I just want to do it right."
"Mm."
She didn't look away. Her golden eyes were sharp, assessing, like she was reading every flicker of thought behind my eyes.
Once I finished, she stood. "Help me into it."
I blinked. "You want… me?"
"You polished it. You can fit it."
I hesitated. "Shouldn't one of the attendants—"
She stepped forward, dropping her robe from her shoulders.
It slid down her back, revealing smooth, pale scales across her shoulders and the full curve of her hips. Her chest was barely bound in a thin strip of cloth, and even that looked like an afterthought. Her thighs shifted as she adjusted her stance, wide, toned, commanding.
"No attendants," she said flatly. "Just you."
I swallowed hard and stepped forward with the first piece.
Helping her into her armor was an exercise in restraint.
The thigh plates came first. Sleek, gold-trimmed obsidian that clamped just above the curve of her hips. I had to kneel, brushing fingers against the insides of her thighs to fit the inner latches. Her skin was warm—too warm—and every time my knuckles brushed her, I tensed.
She didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just stared down at me.
When I finished with the legs, she stepped closer, making me rise with her. "Next," she said.
The waistguard hugged her hips tightly. It clicked into place just above her buttocks—round, strong, perfect beneath the polished curve of her tailbone. I tried not to stare. Failed. Tried to breathe normally. Failed again.
Her tail flicked once, brushing behind me like a whip.
"You're flustered," she noted, voice unreadable.
"N-No."
"Liar."
The chestplate came next.
It was the hardest.
Because to get it on, I had to reach around her. Pull the plate tight across her chest, adjust the understraps beneath her bust. And they were heavy—not just from the armor—but from her. Full, soft, scaled only lightly along the sides. Her nipples peaked beneath the cloth wrap, brushing the inner plate as I adjusted the clasps.
"Focus," she said coldly when I hesitated.
"I am," I lied.
Her breath brushed against my ear. "Then stop shaking."
I wasn't shaking. Not until she said it.
My fingers fumbled with one of the side clasps, brushing the curve beneath her breast.
Her chest rose.
She didn't flinch.
She didn't smile.
But she knew.
The pauldrons were easier. Barely. They didn't require skin contact—but my brain was already melting. I couldn't stop thinking about the feel of her skin beneath the plates, the way her thighs had flexed when I latched the leg armor, or the warmth of her chest against mine when I fastened the breastplate.
By the time I stepped back, finished, I was sweating harder than if I'd worn the armor myself.
She stood tall now—a fully armed queen.
Cold. Regal. Impossibly intimidating.
And impossibly beautiful.
Her tail curled behind her, then flicked lazily across the air. "You're staring again."
I nodded dumbly. "I—yeah. Sorry."
She stepped forward.
One hand touched my chest.
Then she leaned in.
So close, her armored chest nearly pressed into mine. The golden ridges gleamed like dragonfire, but it was her eyes—sharp, unreadable, dominant—that held me frozen.
"Next time," she whispered, her voice like velvet steel, "undress me instead."
Then she turned, wings flaring, and walked away—every step of her armored thighs sending my brain deeper into the fire.
And gods help me, I hoped "next time" was soon.