While the nobles dare to enjoy the tournament, enamored by the incessant yelling and screaming, drunk on cheap alcohol, eyes trained on the echoing steel— his attention was elsewhere. The so controlled mask of his slipping if only by half a second.

You've tugging his attention without him wishing. The endless memories of your pretty features all flustered up whenever he got to experience you. An anche on his temple, fore finger and index rubbing at it in hopes it'd go away.

As if on clue, his mismatched eyes found you. Quickly darting them away, though he kept you near by his peripheral vision. The familiar soreness of muscles tensed for far too long whenever you are around.

The noise surrounding the booth work to hide his wary sigh. Hands dropping to his lap where his thumb toyed with the cool edge of the ring on his finger, fine steel biting lightly into skin.

But he could feel your gaze burning his skull. Not pleased with his little act of ignoring you in public.

After what it felt like ages, he could finally rest from the heavy weight placed upon his shoulders. Head thrown back, caught by the old wood chair, his lips parted. "Waited all damn day for this." Left hand with a grip sure and unyielding around the delicate curve of your body.

The thick stone walls muffled the unmistakable noise of uneaven breaths. A soft coo that had his eyes squeezed shut. "Isn't my favorite girl getting too old to be sitting on my lap?" A low rumble that makes you shiver.

A dim lighting provided by torchlight bathing your frame. Muscles coiled tightly as your nails dig into his skin, jaw flexing as he felt the warning sting of his own restraint slipping. "My pretty princess."

He hated how easily his grip betrayed him—too firm, too possessive—afraid you'd slip away if he softened even an inch. “A walking temptation for an old man like me." His thumb caress your bottom lip, forcing you to hold his gaze as he pushed it inside the warm heat of your mouth.