“Is she pretty?” you murmur as Satoru kisses over the skin of your neck line, pale fingers spanning over the detailed bodice. His pale white hair is a tousled mess, his dress shirt half-unbuttoned and he’s already started to hitch your skirt up to find your silk stockings.

“What are you talking about?” Satoru mutters as his fingers slide over your lace garters, gently pressing you back against the four-poster bed, the drapes pulled down and blocking out the gentle summer sun.

You’d both snuck away into your private quarters in the middle of the day. He wouldn’t have long before his footmen realised he was missing from his temporary quarters and your ladies maids realised you weren’t at tea with your mother.

“Your betrothed Satoru,” you say with an eye roll as he presses kisses above your bust.

“My betrothed,” he echoes as he kisses over your throat, breathing in the scent of worn books and jasmine that clings to you, kneading your thighs gently.

He knows he shouldn’t be here. Your kingdoms were on sour terms, and he’s only staying in your family’s palace for a political banquet, but even with the threat of war looming over your heads, he couldn’t stay away from you.

Not even with his betrothed. Some duchess his parents picked out for him, claiming he had to start making good on his promise of delivering heirs. The girl in question is probably perfect, probably pretty and proper. But he’ll never feel a fraction of the fire he does with you.

“I don’t know if she’s pretty, I don’t care,” he mutters as he presses kisses up to your jaw. He pulls back ever so slightly to look down at you — your hair splayed over the deep maroon bedding, skin flushed and looking up at him.

This is so risky but all Satoru feels when he looks at you is an ache low in his belly and a fire in his veins. This affair could spell ruin for both your kingdoms and yet all logic he’s grown up with flies out the window when he tastes your lips.

“She’s not under me right now, is she?” Satoru murmurs.