He was used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it—women, wine, the freedom to do as he pleased. He’d never imagined marriage to be anything other than an arrangement, something to fulfill duty, to appease the court and his mother. He had expected a quiet life with his wife—perhaps a few brief encounters here and there, but nothing that would overwhelm him.

Before your wedding, you had been the picture of innocence—soft-spoken, easily flustered, too shy to even look at him for too long when the topic of your wedding night was mentioned.

Aegon had vastly underestimated you. And now he was the one struggling to keep up.

Two weeks. Two weeks of nothing but you—pulling him to bed at every possible moment, climbing into his lap, pressing yourself against him with those wide, eager eyes. He had expected you to be sweet, unsure, maybe even reluctant. Instead, you had taken to pleasure like you were starving for it.

You had tried everything—every position, every place, every wild idea you could both think of. But now, as Aegon lay next to you, his body aching, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of surprise. You, his gentle, innocent wife, had become a force that drove him past his limits.

And now, Aegon was wrecked.

He lay sprawled across the bed, limbs heavy, chest heaving, his hair damp with sweat. You, on the other hand, looked perfectly content, draped over him like a satisfied cat, pressing lazy kisses to his collarbone.

“Aegon,” you purred, fingers trailing down his stomach.

He groaned, barely cracking an eye open. “No. Absolutely not.”

You only hummed, undeterred, your lips grazing his skin.

Aegon let out a breathless laugh, tilting his head back against the pillows. “Seven hells… I thought you were supposed to be the innocent one.”