The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 425: The Royal Romance (End)
Elowen's hands slid up his arms, mapping out the firmness of his biceps, the sinew beneath his skin. She reveled in the contrast between her own delicate, slightly cool fingers and the warmth of his muscles. All the while, their tongues pressed and receded in a slow, sensuous dance, each glide a question answered by a gentle sigh or an urgent shift in posture.
When she ventured her tongue to brush against his, a soft moan escaped her—an unconscious sound of pleasure and relief. It felt as though she were speaking a language of pure sensation, no words, no protocols. Mikhailis answered with a quiet groan, gathering her up with an intensity that verged on desperation. For a second, she remembered the countless evenings she'd spent addressing dignitaries, parsing through negotiations, wearing the unassailable mask of the monarchy. That mask was gone now, replaced by the flush of longing coloring her cheeks.
Their mouths broke apart momentarily, drawn back only by the natural need for air. She gasped, eyes fluttering open to meet his. The hunger she saw in Mikhailis's gaze mirrored her own—unbridled, untamed, almost reverent. Before she had time to fully catch her breath, he leaned in again, claiming her lips once more with a renewed urgency. This time, there was more confidence in the way he explored her mouth, tongues intertwining slowly yet passionately, a silent promise that spoke of yearning stored up for far too long.
Between kisses, Elowen's breath hitched as her robe slipped further, the silky fabric catching on her hips. She did nothing to stop it. Instead, she focused on the luxurious sensation of his palm against the small of her back, the slight pressure that guided her more deeply into his warmth. She let her hands wander up, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the slight dampness of his skin. Each tender tug, each careful graze of nails across his scalp, elicited a hitch in his breathing that bolstered her confidence.
Her body began to respond in ways that had little to do with courtly manners and everything to do with raw human connection. A gentle arching of her spine pressed her chest against his, and she savored the hushed growl he made at the contact. Their kisses grew more fervent, lips parting and meeting in a rhythm of discovery. Elowen's entire being seemed to tune itself to the sensation of Mikhailis's mouth moving against hers.
She tasted his quiet laughter when her robe accidentally brushed a lamp, causing it to rock precariously. The near mishap only added to the intimacy of the moment, a reminder that they were sharing something deeply personal yet tinted with the spontaneity of real life. Nothing about this was perfectly orchestrated. They were simply two people, rediscovering the simple, magnificent thrill of surrendering to each other without fear.
Time stretched and contorted, losing all meaning. Each second became an endless brush of lips and swirl of tongues, each minute an indeterminate swirl of warmth and closeness. A haze of candlelit gold flickered at the edges of Elowen's vision, highlighting the toned lines of Mikhailis's chest where his shirt had slid halfway down his arm. That parted garment gave her a glimpse of lean muscle, an outward sign of the man who had spent days on end perfecting enchantments in the workshop, no doubt forgetting to eat or sleep. In this moment, she thought, she could learn more about him through her fingertips than through any number of late-night conversations.
The tension that usually coiled within her—born of diplomacy, duty, and always having to be ten steps ahead—began to loosen, replaced by an ache of gratitude for this fleeting sense of abandon. Each kiss, each gentle bite of his lower lip, reminded her that she was still capable of feeling something beyond the calculated confidence required of a ruler. She was still capable of letting go.
Her heartbeat matched his, drumming a syncopated chorus of want. The illusions of grandeur outside these walls no longer mattered, overshadowed by the elemental truth of skin meeting skin. A quiet gasp escaped as he edged his mouth away from hers, only to trail a line of kisses along her jaw. She felt his breath ghosting across her throat, sending a delicious tremor skittering down her spine. She tilted her head to grant him better access, her eyes fluttering shut once more, surrendering to the present.
Her own kisses shifted in turn—she lifted his chin with a light touch so that she could graze her lips along his cheek, then trace a path back to that inviting mouth. He met her halfway, their tongues brushing in a way that left them both dizzy. This time, the kiss was almost playful, but searing with desire beneath its surface. Her mind swam in the warmth of it, the press of his torso against hers, the quiet rush of blood filling her ears so that all she could truly hear was her own pulse, pounding in time with the moment.
Neither spoke. What words could approximate the rawness of this exchange? They had spent so long trapped by protocol and politics that to speak might break the spell. Instead, their bodies pressed more tightly together, the shifting folds of cloth around them offering no impediment to the growing need for closeness. In the back of her mind, Elowen realized she wanted more—more of his heartbeat, more of his breath mingling with hers, more of this fragile, shimmering instant in which she was not just a queen, but a woman allowed to yearn.
Yet, as her fingers slid up the nape of Mikhailis's neck, curling into his hair, she felt him tense slightly. Not from displeasure or unwillingness, but from the heightened awareness that everything had become so profoundly real. His lips stilled against hers for a single, trembling moment, as if to savor what they had achieved in these stolen minutes. She opened her eyes to see him gazing back at her, the candlelight illuminating the raw devotion in his expression.
Then came the knock at the door—sharp and abrupt, like a trumpet call in the midst of a lullaby.
Both of them froze. Their eyes widened, and the private universe they'd created splintered as reality came crashing back in. Elowen's first reaction was a rush of frustration, followed by a flicker of guilt that she, as queen, should expect such intrusions. But it didn't quell the flood of adrenaline swirling in her veins.
Mikhailis drew in a ragged breath, chest rising against her, then took a half-step away. His face was flushed, lips parted, and his gaze burned with a mixture of longing and annoyance. "Ten more seconds," he mumbled, voice deep with unspent emotion, "and I'd have declared war on whoever that was." His usually composed demeanor had vanished, replaced by the raw edge of someone abruptly denied a moment he'd been craving.
Elowen's laugh escaped as a husky whisper. She reached up to tuck a stray silver strand behind her ear, heartbeat pounding in her throat. "Careful," she replied. "I might've joined you. Wouldn't that be a spectacle? A royal edict labeling them traitors to the crown, punishable by missing a crucial moment."
Mikhailis almost managed a grin, but the knock resounded again—slightly more polite this time. The sound echoed through the quiet suite, as though reminding them that destiny could only be postponed for so long. With a reluctant sigh, Elowen put a few more inches of distance between them. She brushed her fingertips over her hair and let them glide down the front of her gown, smoothing away any telltale creases. In that single gesture, she reclaimed her regal bearing—the spine straightening, the shoulders squaring, the careful mask of poise setting back into place. Mikhailis, too, exhaled slowly, passing a hand through his tousled hair as he attempted to calm his racing pulse.
A muffled voice from beyond the door cleared its throat. "My apologies, Your Majesties," the individual said—likely a steward or aide. "Prince Laethor requests your presence. The formal dinner is about to begin."
Elowen cast a final glance at Mikhailis, eyes brimming with a regretful kind of amusement. They both knew that duty had a way of intruding at the most inopportune moments. "So it seems we've been summoned," she murmured, the queen's calm reasserting itself in her tone.
Mikhailis grimaced at the door, as if it had personally affronted him. He ran a finger around the edge of his loosened collar and shook his head. "Laethor's timing is—impeccable," he said drily, though there was still a spark of longing in his expression when he glanced back at Elowen. "I was hoping we might stay here a little longer."
Elowen touched his arm, the brief contact a promise unspoken. "We'll pick this up later," she whispered, letting her voice caress the hush between them. It was neither a question nor a suggestion. It was an assurance that, no matter how many formal dinners or royal decrees lay in wait, this moment belonged to them both.
With that, she twisted away, slipping effortlessly into a trained posture. Her reflection in the tall mirror near the door was the picture of queenly grace—silver hair tamed, shoulders draped in the robe she tugged back into place. In a matter of seconds, she had transformed from the unguarded woman in Mikhailis's arms into the regal figure the court expected to see. Even the faint blush on her cheeks, so telling a moment ago, now looked like part of a refined flush befitting a queen prepared to greet her guests.
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Mikhailis was slower to recover. One last sideways glance at the disheveled bedspread—where the two of them had nearly found a moment of pure solace—made him sigh under his breath. He pulled his shirt back over his shoulder, smoothing the fabric across his torso. The sense of yearning hadn't diminished, but he had no choice other than to lock it away behind civility. Soon enough, the door would open, and a retinue of courtiers would swirl them into a vortex of polite remarks, waltzes, and strategic alliances.
They turned to each other one last time, standing side by side in front of the same mirror. He leaned in to press his forehead against hers, letting their eyes drift closed, capturing an instant of quiet in a world that never stopped demanding. He inhaled the subtle perfume of her hair—something floral with a hint of spice—and tried to commit it to memory, as if he might hold onto it for the entire banquet.
"I'll remember this," she whispered, voice barely audible in the hush, like a vow sealed in the shadows of the Ivory Suite.
"You better," he murmured back, sincerity and teasing in equal measure. With measured care, he placed one final, feather-light kiss at her temple.
They separated, each taking a small step back. As if pulling on invisible armor, they donned their practiced smiles and court-ready expressions. Outside the door, the steward undoubtedly hovered, waiting to usher them to a night of carefully orchestrated formalities.
Finally, with a resolute nod, Elowen opened the door. The corridor, lit by ornate sconces, flooded their cozy sanctuary with harsher light. A pair of royal guards stood at attention. The steward bowed low. In that moment, Mikhailis noticed how his own heartbeat had steadied, yet the memory of Elowen's touch lingered like a molten ember. He glanced at her sidelong, and in the fleeting curve of her lips, he saw the same recollection in her eyes.
United by an invisible tether of shared intimacy, they stepped forward, walking side by side down the corridor. Both held their heads high, bodies aligned in graceful unison, prepared to face the banquet. The polished floors and echoing footsteps reminded them of their responsibilities—she, the queen whose presence alone could shift a realm's political landscape; he, the prince-consort whose innovations had captivated the court's imagination.
Yet beneath the powder, beneath the elegant finery, their hearts beat just a bit faster than usual. The raw hum of unspent desire and half-finished confessions hovered like a private secret between them. It lent a warmth to their posture, and even the palace staff seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere, bowing even more deeply than before as the two approached.
They would return to formalities and courtly games in mere moments. They would greet Prince Laethor with the appropriate gestures, partake in the dinner's ritualistic flow, and possibly fend off more prying questions about new magical cosmetics. But they also carried the memory of that near-forgotten second in the Ivory Suite—the hush, the taste of each other's breath, the understanding that behind the gilded ceremony, they remained two people in love, refusing to let the weight of crowns rob them of their humanity.
Ready to face the banquet with powdered elegance and hearts still quietly racing.
