Clarke lifts her hips and Lexa takes the hint, peels the pants and underwear down Clarke’s legs. Pulls her boots off. Tosses them aside.
Coaxes Clarke’s leg up, up, until she drapes it over Lexa’s left shoulder, the one with the guard still attached. She’s shivery, body still trembling from the aftermath of her orgasm.
Lexa dots kisses along pale skin, nibbling at the flesh, nosing at the join where thigh meets pelvis, heavy breath gusting over the soaked sparse hair of her cunt.
Clarke inhales sharply before Lexa’s lips even touch her, before Lexa even has a chance to drag her tongue up through the slick mess between her legs. She can’t. It’s too much.
To have Lexa’s mouth directly on her so soon. Her fingers, still white-knuckled on the gnarled arms of the throne, lodge themselves in Lexa’s braids instead.
They’re half-loosened, mussed, undoing the careful diligence of Lexa’s handmaidens. Clarke weaves one hand into those lovely curls and tugs until Lexa flows up her body.
And, God, the stretch of her thigh braced against Lexa’s shoulder. The rough scrape of Lexa’s coat against the delicate skin of her inner thighs, her stomach.
She’s spread wide open and wet and so, so ready for more.
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