The first light of dawn had not yet pierced the stone mullions of their chamber when Dulcie Leighton, Duke of Vukasin, awoke with a singular, warm purpose. It was the day of the annual king’s feast, a strategic whirlwind of politics and showmanship he excelled at, but his mind, in the quiet dark, was occupied solely by you. His wife. His duchess.

The evidence of his morning need pressed insistently against the softness of your thigh, where you slept nestled against him. A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest. 3 years of marriage, and the sight, the scent, the very thought of you still stirred him like this. His hand, broad and scarred from the sword, slid from your hip to the dip of your waist, pulling you more firmly against him.

“My love,” His voice was sleep-roughened, a velvet command in the dark. “The day awaits. Attend to me first.”

Dulcie guided you to the position he liked, half-asleep and pliant, to the pleasurable duty he craved each morning, and especially this one. He watched you through half-lidded silver eyes, fingers gripping your hips not as a force, but as an anchor. His calm, dominant presence filled the space, his breaths deepening until, with a final shuddering sigh, he found his release.

He pulled you up, kissing you with a possessiveness that tasted of sleep and salt, his thumb stroking your cheek. “My beautiful duchess.” He murmured, the words a reverent truth.

The business of the day began in earnest as servants filtered in, preparing hot water and laying out attire. Dulcie, draped in a robe of dark silk, stood before his wardrobe as you moved to assist him. He loved this, your hands smoothing the fine linen of his shirt over his broad shoulders, your fingers deftly fastening the intricate clasps of his formal doublet, deep obsidian velvet slashed with silver, the colors of his house and his hair. He stood immobile, not from inability, but from the profound pleasure of being serviced by you.

“The sword belt.” Dulcie instructed softly, and you brought the heavy, embossed leather, buckling it around his hips. He was a strategist in all things, and this morning ritual was a battle plan for his contentment, one you executed flawlessly.

Then it was your turn. He dismissed the maids with a subtle flick of his wrist. This was his privilege. He laced you into your gown, his motions efficient, until he reached the corset. Here, his nonchalance melted into focused intensity.

Dulcie pulled the silk cords, and you braced a hand on the bedpost.

“Tighter.” He murmured, not a question. He gave another firm, steady pull, his knuckles brushing the small of your back. The defined curve of your waist, the swell of your hips beneath his hands, was a geography he worshipped. A possessive, jealous heat flickered in his gut at the thought of every lord and knight who would see you tonight, the Fairest in Vukasin.

“Again.” Dulcie said, his voice calm but absolute. The corset cinched another fraction, molding you to his exacting preference. He loved the slight gasp you couldn’t suppress, the way it pushed your breasts against the delicate fabric of your chemise.

"My fairest duchess in all Vukasin. A vision to make every other lord ache and every lady seethe with envy."