Chapter Text
The estate had the kind of summer hush money could buy: high white walls mantled in ivy, glass doors thrown open to let the heat breathe through the marble-floored rooms, and a swimming pool cut into the terrace like a slab of fallen sky. Beyond the hedges, the city existed only as a faint shimmer and the occasional murmur of traffic, distant enough to feel fictional.
Daenerys arrived just before noon in a black car with tinted windows, stepping out into the gold blaze of the day with her phone in one hand and a small overnight bag looped over her shoulder. She paused at the foot of the steps, taking in the estate with a look that said she had seen grander places and emptier ones. The breeze lifted a few pale waves of hair from her shoulders, and sunlight caught in them until they seemed almost silver.
She had dressed down because she had meant to keep the day uncomplicated. The floral cami dress hugged her figure without ceremony, soft fabric clinging at her hips and thighs, the neckline casual enough to be comfortable and dangerous enough to make a weaker man forget whatever speech he had prepared. She wore little jewelry, no entourage, no performance smile. Just Daenerys, warm from the ride, travel-tired around the eyes, and curious despite herself.
Jon opened the door on the second knock.
For half a second, he simply looked at her.
Not in the polished, practiced way men in their industry looked at women—cataloguing angles, imagining camera setups, calculating opportunity. His expression cracked open with something younger and less guarded, as though a rumor had finally stepped out of the internet and onto his doorstep.
Daenerys arched an eyebrow. “You invited me.”
Jon blinked, then laughed under his breath, shaking himself back into the world. “I did. I just didn’t expect you to actually come.”
“That’s a terrible thing to admit at the door.”
“Aye, probably.” His mouth curved, and the warmth in it saved him. “Come in.”
The house was larger than it needed to be and quieter than she expected. She noticed that immediately. No assistant hovering nearby. No cameraman lurking with too much equipment. No distant laughter from a production crew pretending not to listen.
Just Jon.
He wore dark swim shorts and a white linen shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was still damp, curling at the nape as if he had showered in a hurry. He was broader in person than he looked on-screen, less glossy, more solid. That was the first thing that struck her. The second was that his eyes held steady when he looked at her face.
Daenerys stepped inside, glancing past him into the sunlit entryway. “No one else here?”
“No.” Jon closed the door behind her. “Tyrion wanted to send someone over. I told him not to.”
“Missandei offered to come.”
“And you told her?”
“That I can handle lunch with a man in a rented mansion.” She glanced back at him. “Usually.”
He smiled at that. “Drink?”
“Depends what you’re making.”
“Something cold enough to forgive the weather.”
“That sounds nearly competent.”
He led her to the kitchen, all pale stone and brushed steel, where condensation already sweated down a pitcher of something citrusy on the island. There were cut limes in a bowl, mint bruised on a board, and two glasses waiting. Not staged, exactly. Just prepared.
Daenerys set her bag down by a stool and watched as he poured. “You do this yourself?”
“Pour drinks?”
“Host.”
“Badly, sometimes.” He slid a glass toward her. “But I’m trying.”
She lifted it, sniffed, and took a careful sip. Lime, mint, a little cucumber, gin sharp beneath the sweetness. She looked at him over the rim of the glass. “Not bad.”
“I’ll pretend that didn’t sound like a shock.”
“It was praise.”
“Cruel praise.”
“The memorable kind.”
They settled at the island with the easy caution of two people used to being watched and suddenly alone. At first the conversation stayed harmless: her flight, the driver who had taken three wrong turns and blamed the GPS, the hotel she had abandoned after checking in because the lobby had three men pretending not to recognize her. Jon told her about the estate, about how Tyrion had found it through a friend of a friend, about the broken espresso machine and the pool heater that apparently worked only when insulted.
She found herself laughing sooner than she meant to.
Jon had a dry, unhurried humor that came sideways, often at his own expense. He didn’t fill every silence. He didn’t try to impress her by naming the people he knew or the offers he had turned down. When he asked a question, he listened through the answer.
Daenerys had expected charm. Charm was common. Charm could be bought by the hour, edited in post, lit from three directions, and sold back to lonely strangers as intimacy.
This was less convenient.
This was inconveniently real.
The second drink came easier than the first. She let her shoulders soften. He asked about her work without making it a résumé. She asked about his without letting him hide in jokes. They spoke of schedules, burnout, managers with impossible calendars, fans who thought chemistry could be conjured on command, and the peculiar loneliness of being desired by millions while being known by almost no one.
At some point, Jon glanced toward the terrace where heat shimmered above the pool.
“You swim?” he asked.
Daenerys looked down at her dress, then at him. “I didn’t bring much.”
“There’s a guest room. Bathroom too. I had some spare things sent over in case you wanted options.”
Her eyes narrowed with amusement. “That sounds like preparation.”
“It sounds like hospitality.”
“It sounds like Tyrion.”
His smile turned guilty. “A little.”
Daenerys leaned her elbow on the island, glass turning slowly between her fingers. “And if I say no?”
“Then we sit here and drink gin until one of us says something regrettable.”
“That is usually how business meetings go.”
“I won’t bite,” Jon said.
She looked at him then, really looked, letting the pause stretch just long enough to make the air change temperature. “Shame. I might enjoy you more if you did.”
The words hung between them, bright and wicked.
Jon’s eyes dipped for half a heartbeat to her mouth before lifting again. He didn’t lunge for the opening. He didn’t laugh it away. He absorbed it, and something in his expression darkened by a degree.
“Guest room is down the hall,” he said, voice lower than before. “Second door on the left.”
Daenerys carried her bag with her and took her time.
The room was cool, curtains half-drawn, a wide bed made with linen so crisp it looked untouched by human failings. The adjoining bathroom smelled faintly of eucalyptus. She closed the door, leaned back against it, and exhaled.
This was foolish.
Probably.
The sort of foolishness people dressed up later as spontaneity, chemistry, fate, or branding, depending on how honest they were willing to be. She had agreed to a casual afternoon because the noise surrounding them had become impossible to ignore. Every other comment under her posts. Every fan edit. Every thread pairing them as if desire were a public petition.
She had expected awkwardness. Professional flirting. Maybe a photo, a little teasing video, some harmless fuel for the ravenous crowd.
She had not expected Jon Snow to open the door looking startled and pleased in a way that reached under her ribs.
Daenerys changed slowly, perhaps because she could feel the day tilting and wanted to savor the exact moment before gravity admitted what it was doing. The bikini she chose was more provocation than swimwear, black mesh stretched over skin, the top a narrow band that left very little to imagination and even less to restraint. She adjusted the fabric, turned in the mirror, and smiled despite herself.
If he had looked stunned at the door, she was curious what he would do now.
Jon was outside by the pool when she emerged, standing near a shaded table with his phone in one hand and a drink in the other. He turned at the sound of the sliding door.
The effect was immediate.
His posture changed first, shoulders going still, then his gaze travelled over her with a hunger he did not quite manage to disguise. The mesh top revealed the dusky outline of her nipples, the curve and weight of her breasts held just enough to be legal in daylight and indecent in spirit. Her hair spilled loose down her back, pale against sun-warmed skin. She walked barefoot across the terrace as though she had never in her life hurried for anyone.
Jon swallowed.
Daenerys noticed. Of course she noticed. Her smile sharpened.
“Too much?” she asked.
He gave a rough little laugh. “I’m trying to remember what manners are.”
“Let me know if you do.”
“They’re overrated.”
“Good.” She stopped in front of him and took the drink from his hand. “Because I need sunscreen.”
He stared at her for a beat too long.
“My back,” she clarified, all innocence with a blade tucked under it.
“Right.” Jon set his phone aside and reached for the bottle on the table. “Turn around.”
Daenerys turned, sweeping her hair over one shoulder. The exposed line of her back gleamed under the sun, elegant and bare above the tie of her bikini bottoms. Jon poured sunscreen into his palm, rubbed his hands together, then touched her.
He began carefully, spreading the lotion across her shoulders in slow, even strokes. His palms were warm and broad. He worked over her upper back, thumbs pressing gently into muscle, and she let her head tip forward with a sigh that was almost respectable.
Almost.
When his hands moved lower, tracing along either side of her spine, Daenerys made a soft sound in her throat.
“Mmm.”
Jon’s hands paused.
She said nothing.
He resumed, slower this time, smoothing sunscreen over the delicate dip of her waist. His fingers brushed close to the side of her breast where the mesh offered no real barrier, and she let out another sound, breathier, unmistakably deliberate.
“Mmmh… that feels good.”
Jon exhaled through his nose. “Are you doing that on purpose?”
Daenerys looked back over her shoulder, eyes bright with mischief. “Doing what?”
He laughed, but it came strained at the edges. “You’re trouble.”
“I’ve been called worse by better men.”
“I doubt they were better.”
“That was almost smooth.”
“I’m improving.”
He finished her lower back with more restraint than she would have credited him for, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the effort. When he stepped away, Daenerys turned and reached for the sunscreen.
“Your turn?” she offered.
“If you touch me like that, I’m going to embarrass myself.”
“Jon Snow, professional entertainer, undone by lotion.”
“By you,” he said, and the honesty landed before he could make it a joke.
For a moment neither of them moved.
Then Daenerys lifted her glass and took a drink, giving him time to recover or pretend to. He chose neither, picking up his phone instead.
“I promised Tyrion I’d send proof you weren’t a hallucination,” he said.
“And I promised Missandei I wouldn’t end up in a scandal before dinner.”
“That seems optimistic.”
“Film from the shoulders up.”
He unlocked the phone, angled it toward them, and leaned close enough that the side of his arm brushed hers. On the screen, they looked like a fantasy made careless: Daenerys glowing in black mesh, Jon sun-browned and trying not to stare, the pool bright behind them.
Jon hit record.
“Well,” he said to the camera, “apparently persistence works. Thank you to everyone who insisted this should happen.”
Daenerys leaned into frame, smile lazy. “You are all very demanding.”
“They’ve got taste,” Jon added. “I’ll give them that.”
“They also have no patience.”
“Neither do I, sometimes.” He glanced at her, and the camera caught the look before he could hide it. “But I’m already having a better day than expected.”
Daenerys tilted her head. “Careful. They’ll make theories.”
“They were going to do that anyway.”
She reached over and ended the recording herself.
The afternoon loosened after that.
Music played from hidden speakers, something low and rhythmic that slid easily beneath conversation. They drank in the shallow end, elbows propped on sun-warmed stone, legs drifting through blue water. The pool cooled the heat on their skin but did nothing for the heat growing elsewhere, the subtler thing built from looks that lasted a little too long and laughter that leaned closer each time.
Jon told her about his first shoot, how nervous he had been and how badly he had tried to hide it. Daenerys confessed she had once walked off a set because the director kept calling her “princess” between takes in a tone that made her want to commit a felony. Jon nearly choked on his drink laughing, and she found herself pleased by the sound.
The pitcher emptied. Another appeared. Jon sliced fruit badly. Daenerys mocked his knife skills until he fed her a piece of mango from his fingers, and she held his gaze as she took it into her mouth.
After that, the conversation developed gaps.
Not awkward ones.
Charged ones.
The sort where words became decorations around the actual exchange.
Daenerys floated on her back, hair fanning around her like pale sea grass, the mesh top clinging wetly to the curve of her breasts. Jon watched from a few feet away, one forearm hooked over the pool edge, his expression caught between admiration and hunger.
“You look at me like you’re trying to decide something,” she said without opening her eyes.
“I already decided.”
That made her glance at him. “And?”
He pushed away from the edge, moving through the water toward her. “I’m trying to decide if saying it ruins the afternoon.”
Daenerys stood, water streaming down her body. The bikini had become nearly transparent where soaked, the dark mesh plastered to her nipples, every breath making them shift against the fabric. “Say it.”
Jon stopped close enough that the water between them trembled with both their movement. He had been drinking, yes, but his eyes were clear, fixed on hers with a seriousness that made her pulse trip.
“I want to taste you.”
The words dropped heavily into the bright summer air.
Daenerys bit her lower lip, and something in Jon’s face flickered at the sight. She could have teased him. Could have made him work harder. Could have reminded him they had said casual, no pressure, no expectations.
Instead, she nodded.
Jon closed the distance.
He did not go straight for her mouth. His hands settled at her waist beneath the water, drawing her close until her body brushed his, and then he lowered his head to her chest. His mouth found her through the wet mesh, hot against the cold cling of the fabric. Daenerys sucked in a breath as his lips closed over one nipple, the sensation filtered and intensified by the barrier, rough threads dragging over her swollen skin while his tongue pressed and circled.
“Oh,” she breathed, fingers sliding into his damp curls. “Oh, fuck…”
Jon groaned softly against her, one hand spreading over her back, the other firm at her hip. He sucked harder, and her knees softened under the water. The music pulsed around them, the sun burned above them, and Daenerys felt the absurdity of it: two people who performed desire for a living discovering there was still a way to be surprised by it.
He shifted to the other breast, teeth grazing through the mesh just enough to make her gasp.
“Jon…”
That did something to him. She felt it in the way his grip tightened, in the low sound that rolled out of his chest. He reached behind her and freed the top with one tug, wet fabric loosening between them. Daenerys let it fall into the water.
He kissed her then, a brief collision of mouths, gin and lime and heat. It could have become the center of everything, but Jon broke away almost immediately, descending again as though starving for the taste of her skin. His mouth closed over her bare nipple, and the difference wrung a sharp cry from her.
“Ahh—yes…”
He worshipped her breasts with a focus that bordered on reverence and greed, licking, sucking, using the edge of his teeth until pleasure gathered low in her body with humiliating speed. Daenerys clung to him, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand buried in his hair as he worked her with his mouth. He learned quickly: the pressure that made her breath catch, the scrape that made her hips jerk, the pull that sent a tremor down her thighs.
She came with a broken sound, body folding toward him, water splashing softly around them as the orgasm rolled through her from nothing but his mouth at her breasts.
“Gods,” she whispered, laughing once because she was embarrassed by how shaken she felt. “You’re pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”
Jon lifted his head, lips wet, eyes darker than before. “A bit.”
“Arrogant.”
“Encouraged.”
She kissed him for that, harder this time.
They climbed out of the pool dripping and unsteady, leaving wet footprints across the stone. Daenerys barely made it to the lounge chair before Jon was behind her, settling with her between his thighs, his chest warm against her back. For a while they kissed lazily over shoulders and turned cheeks, breath mingling, hands growing bolder by degrees.
Then Jon’s fingers slid under the narrow edge of her bikini bottoms.
Daenerys went still for half a second, then spread her thighs.
His mouth brushed her ear. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“Touch me,” she said.
He did.
Two fingers moved through her slick heat with a slow stroke that made them both groan. She was already soaked, impossibly ready, and he took his time discovering it. His fingertips circled her clit first, gentle and maddening, gathering wetness, spreading it in smooth, patient circles until her head tipped back against his shoulder.
“Mmmh… Jon…”
“There,” he murmured.
“Yes, there.”
His other hand came up to cup her breast, thumb rolling over the nipple he had already made tender with his mouth. She writhed against him, trapped deliciously between the hand at her cunt and the hardness pressing against her lower back. He slid one finger inside her, then another, working slowly at first, feeling how her body welcomed him.
Daenerys clenched around him.
Jon cursed under his breath.
She smiled, breathless. “You feel that?”
“Aye.” His fingers curled inside her, and she cried out. “I feel it.”
He kept one hand between her legs and the other at her chest, dividing her attention until she could not decide which pleasure to chase. Her hips lifted into his touch, grinding shamelessly while he kissed the side of her neck. Every circle of his fingers over her clit was smooth and exact, every thrust into her tight, wet heat sending slick sounds into the summer air.
“Inside,” she said suddenly.
Jon’s hand slowed. “What?”
Daenerys turned her head, lips brushing his jaw. “Take me inside.”
That was all it took.
They moved through the open doors into the living room, damp skin cooling in the air-conditioned hush. The room smelled faintly of citrus and expensive wood, sunlight spilling across the floor in hard white rectangles. They stood in the middle of it kissing as if the house had vanished around them.
Daenerys pushed his linen shirt off his shoulders. Jon let it fall. Her hands moved over his chest, the dark hair there, the hard plane of muscle beneath. He kissed like he meant it, deeply, with none of the showy exaggeration she had expected from a man whose mouth had made him famous in several countries.
She sank to her knees.
Jon’s breath stopped.
Daenerys looked up at him through her lashes as she palmed him through his swim shorts. He was painfully hard, thick beneath the damp fabric, and she smiled at the way his abdomen tightened under her touch.
“You’re quiet now,” she said.
“Trying not to lose my mind.”
“Don’t try too hard.”
She leaned forward and kissed him through the material, slow and obscene, feeling him jerk against her mouth. Jon’s hand flexed at his side, fingers curling into a fist as if he were restraining himself by force alone. She mouthed along the outline of him, breathing warm through the cloth, and his head tipped back.
“Daenerys…”
Hearing her name like that—strained, reverent, ruined—sent heat rushing through her again.
She hooked her fingers in the waistband and pulled his shorts down.
His cock sprang free, long and heavy, flushed dark at the head, already gleaming. Daenerys took a moment to admire him, and Jon noticed because of course he did, his expression going tight with need and pride.
“Well,” she murmured. “That explains the confidence.”
He gave a breathless laugh that became a groan when she wrapped her hand around him.
She did not rush. She kissed the base first, then up along the thick shaft, soft lips brushing over hot skin. Her tongue traced a vein slowly enough to make his hips twitch. She pressed open-mouthed kisses along him, teasing, learning the weight of him in her hand, the way he responded when she circled the head with her tongue.
Only when his control began to visibly fray did she take him into her mouth.
Jon’s vision seemed to go somewhere else. His hand shot out, bracing on the back of the sofa, and a ragged sound tore from him.
“Fuck.”
Daenerys hummed around him, pleased, taking him deeper. The vibration made him groan again, lower this time. She hollowed her cheeks and worked him with slow, devastating pulls, one hand stroking what she did not yet take, the other resting on his thigh. His cock filled her mouth heavily, stretching her lips, and saliva gathered slickly as she moved.
She reached for his hands and guided them to her head.
Jon looked down, eyes wild. “Dany…”
She answered by taking him deeper.
His fingers sank into her hair.
The first thrust was restrained. The second less so. By the third, he found a rhythm, careful but hungry, guiding her mouth along his length while she looked up at him with tears shining at the corners of her eyes and a challenge in her gaze. Wet sounds filled the living room, obscene and intimate. Her throat worked around him, and each time he slid deeper, his composure cracked further.
“Gods, your mouth…”
She moaned around his cock, and his hips bucked involuntarily. He pulled back sharply, breathing hard, jaw clenched.
“Stand up.”
Daenerys released him with a wet gasp, lips swollen, chin glistening. “Already?”
“If you keep doing that, I’m done.”
She laughed, but the sound broke when he hauled her up and kissed her, tasting himself on her tongue without hesitation. His hands found the strings of her bikini bottoms and dragged them down her legs. She stepped free, naked now except for water drops and sunlight.
Jon lifted her as if she weighed nothing.
Daenerys yelped, then burst into breathless laughter as he flipped her, positioning her upside down with her thighs braced over his shoulders and her mouth aligned with his cock. The world tilted into muscle and heat, her hair falling toward the floor, his hands gripping her hips. Then his mouth was on her.
“Ahh—fuck!”
He devoured her without delicacy, tongue dragging through her soaked folds, lips closing over her clit with ruthless hunger. Daenerys grabbed his cock again, desperate to steady herself, and took him back into her mouth as best she could while pleasure shattered her concentration. He licked into her, groaning against her cunt, the vibration making her thighs tremble against his face.
Somehow, impossibly, he walked them toward the nearest bedroom, each step controlled, almost arrogant, while she sucked him and gasped around him and tried not to fall apart entirely. By the time he laid her onto the bed and settled over her in a tangled sixty-nine, she was shaking.
Jon did not relent.
He braced himself above her, cock sliding back into her mouth as his tongue worked between her thighs. Daenerys moaned around him, fingers digging into his hips. He fucked her mouth in shallow strokes while licking her clit in firm, rapid flicks, then slowed to push his tongue inside her, tasting the wetness he had drawn from her body.
She came again with him in her mouth, the cry muffled into a desperate, gagging moan.
“Mmmph—ahh, Jon—”
He rolled, pulling her on top of him so she straddled his face, giving her control and taking it away in the same motion. She leaned forward over his body, mouth returning to his cock, and he slapped her ass hard enough to make her jerk.
The sound cracked through the room.
“Ah!”
Jon’s hands kneaded her hips, then spread her open for his mouth. He ate her like he had been waiting all day to be impolite, tongue relentless, lips slick, the scrape of his stubble rough against the inside of her thighs. Daenerys tried to keep sucking him, but her rhythm faltered again and again as he dragged her closer to the edge.
He spanked her once more.
She moaned around his cock, louder this time, hips rocking helplessly against his face.
Jon pulled away just enough to speak, voice rough against her wet skin. “You like that.”
Daenerys lifted her mouth from him, panting. “Don’t sound so smug.”
He licked her slowly in answer.
Her arms nearly gave out.
When he finally moved her beneath him, she was flushed and disheveled, hair spread across the bed like pale fire, lips red from his cock, eyes bright with that dazed, furious arousal that looked almost like combat. Jon positioned himself between her thighs, one hand beside her head, the other guiding himself against her.
He paused there, the thick head of his cock pressing at her entrance.
The air changed again.
This was the threshold where performance usually entered, where bodies became choreography and angles mattered, where everyone knew what came next because the scene had been negotiated, blocked, and lit.
Jon looked at her as if none of that existed.
Daenerys touched his face, thumb brushing over the dark line of his beard. “Yes.”
He pushed into her slowly.
Her mouth opened on a silent gasp, then sound spilled out of her as he stretched her inch by inch. “Ohhh… fuck, Jon…”
His brow lowered, control straining across his face. “You’re so tight.”
She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper. “Move.”
He did, and the first full thrust made them both groan.
Missionary should have felt ordinary. It should have felt too simple for people who had built careers out of making sex look spectacular. Instead, chest to chest, slick skin against slick skin, mouths close enough to share breath, it felt indecently intimate. Jon fucked her with slow, deep strokes at first, letting her feel every inch, every drag, every pulse of him buried inside her.
Daenerys held onto his shoulders, nails biting in.
He kissed her when she moaned too loudly, swallowing the sound, then broke away to watch her face as he changed the angle. Her eyes rolled half-shut. Her back arched.
“There,” he said.
“Yes—yes, right there.”
He drove into her harder, bed shifting beneath them, his hips snapping with measured force. Her breasts bounced against his chest, still sensitive from his mouth, and every brush sent sparks through her. He lowered his head to suck one nipple again as he fucked her, and the combined sensation pushed her over with shocking force.
Daenerys came around him, clenching so hard his rhythm broke.
“Fuck,” Jon groaned, teeth grazing her breast. “Dany…”
She was still pulsing when he began moving again.
“No,” she gasped, laughing and sobbing at once. “Wait—”
He did not stop, only slowed enough to make it bearable, enough to turn the aftershocks into another climb. “You can take it.”
Her nails dragged down his back. “Bastard.”
“Aye.”
He kissed her, smiling against her mouth, and then fucked her through the sensitivity until the pleasure sharpened again. Daenerys shuddered beneath him, thighs tightening around his waist, body helplessly slick and open for him. The second orgasm rose faster because the first had left her defenseless. She tried to turnher face away, overwhelmed, but Jon caught her jaw gently and brought her back.
“Look at me.”
She did.
The command, quiet and rough, undid her.
She came again with his name breaking apart on her tongue.
“Jon—ahh, Jon!”
He held himself deep as she clenched around him, chest heaving, eyes fixed on hers like he wanted the sight burned permanently into him. When she went limp beneath him, he kissed her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, unexpectedly tender for a man still buried inside her and hard enough to make her tremble.
Then he shifted.
Daenerys made a sound of protest when he pulled out, empty and raw, but Jon only turned her over and brought her onto him. Reverse cowgirl. Her hands braced on his thighs, her hair falling down her back as he guided her hips. She sank onto him with a long, shaking moan.
Behind her, Jon exhaled a curse.
The new angle filled her differently, deeper, pressing against a place that made her whole body stutter. Jon gripped her waist and set the rhythm, lifting and lowering her, then fucking up into her as she rode him. Her moans turned uneven, wobbly with pleasure, and he laughed breathlessly.
“That’s a new sound.”
“Shut up,” she managed, though her voice shook.
“I like it.”
He spanked her again, palm landing on the curve of her ass with a sharp crack. She clenched around him, and his laugh turned into a groan.
“You really like it.”
Daenerys tried to answer, but he thrust up hard enough to scatter the words. Her hands curled into fists against his thighs. He took over completely, using his grip on her hips to bounce her on his cock, each stroke wet and deep and relentless. The room filled with skin slapping skin, the strained sounds of their breathing, her broken cries.
Her third orgasm hit like a fever breaking.
She folded forward, shaking, and Jon sat up behind her, pulling her back against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, one hand at her breast, the other splayed low across her belly as he continued to thrust up into her through the tremors. He turned her face and kissed her fiercely, tongue pushing into her mouth while she whimpered against him.
When he withdrew this time, he moved with purpose.
He laid her on her stomach and came over her, settling his weight carefully but firmly, his body covering hers from shoulder to thigh. Daenerys turned her face to the side, cheek against the sheet, breath already ragged as he nudged her thighs apart with his knee.
“Jon…”
“I’ve got you.”
He slid back inside her in one long, slow push.
Prone beneath him, she felt utterly pinned, filled so deeply she could barely think. His chest pressed to her back, his breath hot at her ear, his hips grinding into her ass with each thrust. One of his hands tangled in her hair, not yanking yet, just holding, while the other curved around her throat with a pressure that made her pulse leap against his palm.
Daenerys moaned, low and wrecked. “Ohhh…”
Jon’s voice came rough beside her ear. “You feel unreal.”
She clenched around him.
He noticed. His fingers tightened slightly in her hair, hips driving harder. “There it is.”
“Don’t tease.”
“I’m not teasing.” He thrust into her slow and brutal, seating himself deep enough to make her gasp. “You’re so fucking tight. Like your body’s been waiting for me.”
Daenerys made a helpless sound, cunt gripping him again. The words should have been too much. Too intimate, too ridiculous, too dangerous after half a day and too many drinks under a summer sun. Instead, they went through her like lightning.
Jon felt every reaction, and his composure began to shred.
He fucked her harder, the bed creaking beneath them, his hand at her throat holding her in place while his mouth brushed her ear. “I could stay inside you forever.”
“Jon,” she sobbed.
“I mean it.” His voice had lost the last of its polish, gone dark and ragged. “Don’t want to leave this pussy. Don’t want to think about anything else.”
Her body answered before she could. Pleasure tore through her again, sudden and overwhelming, wet heat gushing around him as she cried his name into the sheets.
“Jon—oh, fuck, Jon!”
He groaned, deep and almost pained, and pressed his palm between her shoulder blades, holding her down as he began to lose restraint. His thrusts turned harder, faster, each one punching the breath from her lungs. Daenerys could do nothing but take him, fingers clawing at the sheets, throat vibrating beneath his hand as broken sounds spilled out of her.
“Ahh—ahh—yes—don’t stop—”
Jon buried his face against her hair, hips hammering into her. “Dany.”
The name sounded like surrender.
His rhythm faltered once, then snapped back with ferocious urgency. He shoved deep and came with a roar that broke from his chest, body locking over hers as he emptied himself inside her. Daenerys felt him pulse, felt every hot spill, every shuddering aftershock as he held himself buried to the root.
For a while, neither of them moved.
The music still played somewhere outside, muffled by distance and glass. Sunlight lay across the bedroom floor. The sheets beneath them were tangled, damp from pool water and sweat. Daenerys turned her head to the side, fighting for breath, her body still fluttering around him in little involuntary contractions.
Jon lowered himself carefully, not crushing her, and brushed his mouth along her cheek.
She opened her eyes.
He kissed her then, deep and slow, stealing what little breath she had managed to recover. His hand released her throat and slid down to cover hers against the sheet, fingers threading together. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against her temple, both of them still trembling.
Daenerys swallowed, voice hoarse. “So much for casual.”
Jon gave a quiet laugh, breath warm against her skin. “Aye.”
She turned her face enough to catch his mouth again, softer this time, lingering. Outside, the afternoon kept burning, indifferent and golden, while the phone on the terrace sat forgotten beside two half-empty glasses and a video their fans would dissect for weeks without ever knowing how little of the story it had it had captured.