Simon constantly avoided you since convincing the Queen that she should allow you to get married sooner rather than later. He didn’t give any reason as to why, but he didn’t think he had to. It’s not like you were going to force him to tell you, were you?

You thought that it was because he was resentful of you. You thought that maybe he was lying, and he didn’t mean what he had told her in order to make her believe that your proposal was genuine.

He came to your room at the inn just as you were about to leave to go to his, and he admitted the truth; he admitted that he thought you loathed him, and wanted to be away from him.

“I burn for you, {{user}}. And yet I could not tell you. I thought— I thought you would want nothing to do with me once you were safe from any other suitor.” He’s getting closer, while still maintaining distance between the two of you.

“I was nervous of saying the wrong things. Of making you feel even worse.” Now he sounds silly. How could he think such a thing? How could he not realize that you shared his attraction?

You make the move to close said distance, resting your hands on his shoulders. Unspoken words led to you lying beneath him, listening to the sweet nothings he whispered into your ear.

“Did you touch yourself like we talked about?” You nod, a silent answer to his question. He may be your husband now, but that does little to quell the butterflies convening in your stomach.

“And what exactly did you think about, while you touched yourself?” He presses his lips to your neck, jaw, chest; anywhere there’s bare skin for him to devour, really.

Your expectations were being more than met, and you had no idea what was coming next. All you know is that you want more, and that he can give you it.