The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort
Chapter 534 - 534: The Royal Morning (1)

The first hint of dawn crept in shyly, shy as a kitten, through the slit between silver-thread curtains. Light pooled in slender stripes across the immense headboard then slipped, curious and gentle, onto the bed itself. The sheets—undyed silk so smooth they almost sighed when touched—shimmered from pearl to palest gold as each stray beam kissed them.

Elowen floated in that hush between dreams and waking, mind fuzzy, limbs boneless. The unfamiliar heaviness she felt at her center wasn't a blanket or a pillow. It was Mikhailis—more precisely, the thick, living heat of him still sheathed deep inside her body, as if they had never quite said goodnight. That knowledge trickled through her like warm syrup. A sleepy, secret smile rose before her eyes even opened.

She shifted the tiniest bit, as though testing whether last night had been a half-remembered fragment. The response was immediate: a slick flutter, a muted throb, and a small, involuntary gasp escaping her lips. Oh yes, still there. Still him. She bit her bottom lip, drowsy delight prickling over her skin.

Beside her, Mikhailis lay on his side, one arm curved possessively over her waist, keeping her pressed flush to him. His breath was warm against the dip of her shoulder, irregular curls of hair feathering her nape. Elowen studied him with lazy affection—lashes too dark for someone so fair, a faint crease between brows that only appeared in deep sleep, and that ridiculous stubborn lock of hair that drooped right onto his brow ridge no matter how many times Lira combed it back.

A scarcely audible hum vibrated through his chest; he was on the verge of waking. She loved that moment, the instant the playful prince emerged from dreamland and remembered the world—and her—in one hitch of breath. So she waited, wickedly still, savoring anticipation.

"Mmh…" His hips nudged forward, half reflex, half question. The nudge slid him an impossible shade deeper, and her breath caught in a soft whimper. It drew him fully awake. Silver-blue eyes cracked open, unfocused then bright, and a grin—lazy, boyish—curved his mouth.

"Mornin', my priceless astronomer," he mumbled, voice rough with sleep, forehead nuzzling the crown of her head as if sniffing out the day.

"Morning, my overgrown firefly," she answered, letting the pet name flutter out on a giggle. She felt ridiculous calling a man with his build a firefly, but the way he glowed inside her life made it fit.

He gave a husky laugh. "Firefly? At least pick a beetle. Something with a little armor." His palm smoothed from her ribs to her hip, thumb tracing the curve as though redrawing it for memory's sake. "Then again, fireflies do light up the night. Acceptable."

The movement rocked them, and a warmer ripple slid through her core. Elowen inhaled sharply, the sound part gasp, part indulgent sigh. Her thighs quivered, instinctively trying to squeeze together though his body blocked the attempt.

She dared a glance under the rumpled sheet. The proof of their night lay on her inner thighs—a glistening path that caught the dawn light. Something about that sight, stark and unabashed, sent a pulse of shy pride through her.

Mikhailis must have followed her gaze; amusement lit his eyes. "You're beautiful messed up," he murmured, nipping her ear lobe. "Chaos looks good on you."

She swatted his shoulder lightly. "Says the man who is the embodiment of chaos."

"Guilty." He shifted his weight onto an elbow, free hand brushing away a silky strand that settled across her lips. "But tell me, Professor Elowen, how does it feel to wake up impaled by an agent of chaos?"

Elowen's cheeks burned even as laughter bubbled up. "Everything with you is an experiment, isn't it?"

He adopted a scholarly tone. "For accurate data we must monitor morning variables: heart rate, moisture levels, capacity to speak full sentences." His hips rolled minutely to emphasize the last item, drawing a breathy moan from her throat instead of any coherent response.

"Sentence… failed," she whispered, eyes fluttering closed as warmth spiraled outward from her center.

"Observation: subject exhibits loss of linguistic ability when stimulated." He grinned, proud of the effect, then softened, leaning down to kiss the corner of her mouth. The kiss started small—just lips brushing—but quickly deepened. Their tongues met lazily, tasting of night's sweetness and dawn's promise.

Every gentle stroke of his mouth made the connection within her pulse. He felt thicker now, swelling slowly, rousing like a dragon beneath a hill. Elowen gasped into the kiss. Her fingers found his wrist where it rested on her waist, kneading softly as if that touch could ground her.

He loosened the sheets with his other hand, revealing the pale slope of her shoulder to the light. "Stars, you glow," he whispered, tracing her collarbone with the back of a knuckle. "You always do, but at sunrise… it's unfair to the sun."

She laughed breathlessly. "Flattery before breakfast?"

"Always." He leaned in to follow the path of his knuckle with his lips, soft kisses across her throat down to the crest of her breast. Each kiss sent tiny thrills darting through her nerve endings. She arched slightly, an unconscious invitation.

"Stay still," he murmured. "I'm cataloguing new constellations." He kissed lower. "This freckle here is Northern Serpent." Another kiss. "And that little ridge—Southern Crown."

Elowen's giggle turned to a shaky moan when he grazed the sensitive underside of her breast. "Your map is—ah—hardly accurate."

"Cartographers must make do with shifting terrain." He rose to capture her mouth again. The kiss lengthened until time blurred, their breaths mingling, warmth pooling deeper. She forgot daylight, forgot thrones and audiences; there was only his patient tongue coaxing hers and his slow, rolling hips.

A tiny thought peeked through haze: Should I be embarrassed we never separated? But embarrassment dissolved under tenderness. This was theirs, a secret ritual—waking still one.

Breaking the kiss, Mikhailis inhaled her scent—a blend of rosewater, parchment, and something uniquely Elowen. He exhaled a satisfied hum. "Do you realize," he said, voice intimate, "that every time my heart beats I feel that echo inside you?"

She tightened around him at the words, a soft, helpless response. "I feel it too. Like you're part of my pulse."

He brushed his nose against hers. "Then I'm officially indispens-" A sudden loud gurgle erupted from his stomach, cutting the poetry short.

Elowen giggled so hard that their joined bodies jolted. The motion forced a shallow thrust; the sudden friction tore a surprised moan from both. She pressed a palm to her mouth, half mortified, half amused.

"Traitorous stomach," he complained, though his eyes sparkled. "Here I am delivering the speech of the century, and it demands pastries."

Elowen recovered, wiping tears of laughter. "Maybe it's right. A starving prince is useless."

"You wound me," he said dramatically, though his hands resumed gentle circles on her skin. "I thought you were addicted to my trouble."

She sobered enough to kiss his chin. "Addiction doesn't erase the need for pastries." Her gaze softened. "Or the need to rule wisely."

At that reminder, a sliver of duty pierced the cozy bubble. But Mikhailis caught the flicker in her eyes and shook his head. "Shh. Duty can wait until second bells." He kissed her forehead, as if sealing a promise.

She closed her eyes, letting the moment stretch. Outside, faint birdsong threaded through palace courtyards. The fragrance of morning tea brewing somewhere wafted under the door. Inside, there was only the rhythm of two hearts and the slow expansion of warmth.

Elowen shifted again, testing. The slight withdrawal then glide back inside sparked another rush of slickness and a shared gasp. She buried her face in his shoulder, shy but tempted. "If we stay like this, we'll end up tangled again," she whispered.

"Precisely my cunning plan," he whispered back. He flexed his hips experimentally, earning a muffled squeak. "See? Research supports repeat trials for consistency."

She should chastise the joke, but joy brimmed too brightly. Instead, she nipped his earlobe. "Incorrigible scientist."

He hissed in playful pain, then laughed. "You encourage me."

"I plead innocent."

"Your blush says otherwise." He kissed the flush blooming on her cheek. "Besides, I like seeing that color."

Her reply was lost as his mouth met hers again, slow and savoring. Their tongues brushed, tasting the honeyed hush of dawn. He broke only to nose along her jawline, breathing her name like a blessing.

Each tender caress, each barely-there thrust, drew soft sounds—breathy sighs, small hums, the occasional defeated giggle when he whispered another ridiculous constellatory name for her freckles. It was less a continuation of last night's storm and more a gentle wave, washing both in contentment.

Minutes—or lifetimes—passed. Finally Elowen rested her palm against his chest, feeling the solid thump. "If we don't move soon, your stomach will declare war."

He looked scandalised. "Mutiny by organs. Unacceptable."

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