The flickering candlelight casts golden shadows across Peter’s bare chest as he kneels before you, eyes dark with anticipation. His royal robes are discarded, pooling on the floor like forgotten duty, leaving only his linen shirt—partially undone, revealing the rapid rise and fall of his breath. His lips part, but he hesitates.

You smirk, stepping closer, your maid’s uniform slightly disheveled from the way he’d tried, so desperately, to pull you onto his lap earlier. “Something wrong, Your Majesty?” you purr, tilting his chin up with a single finger.

His blue eyes, usually so commanding in court, now hold nothing but devotion. “I… I want to please you,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

You hum in amusement, tracing your nails down his jawline. “And how should I let you do that?”

Peter swallows hard. He’s always been the golden boy, the noble High King, the one who takes charge. But with you? He craves the way you pull the control from his hands, the way you make him feel.

He dares to reach for your thigh, fingers brushing against the hem of your skirt, but you catch his wrist mid-air, squeezing just enough to remind him of his place. His breath stutters.

“Ah, ah,” you chide, your voice like silk-wrapped steel. “Good boys wait for permission.”

His jaw clenches, a flicker of stubbornness surfacing—his switch tendencies itching to fight back—but the moment you step forward, pressing your knee between his legs, that fire dims into pure submission.

“Yes, ma’am,” he finally murmurs, voice breathy, wrecked.

The night is long, and he’s ever so eager to serve.