Chapter 233: To Be A Farmer
"I know I cannot get it without spilling blood, Lorraine," Leroy said. His hand slid down to the small of her back, fingers pressing lightly, possessively. "And I’m tired of spilling blood. All I want now is to... be at peace. Live with you, like a common man, raising a family on a farm..."
"Farm?" Her lips curved, brushing the skin just below his ear. "You’re serious?"
She could understand a little why he wouldn’t want to spill blood and fight his way through life. She too got tired often to be fighting all the time.
But a farm? Really? What would he know about farming?
He did not answer immediately, but the heat of his chest, the quiet weight of him, the way his fingers traced slow, deliberate lines down her spine spoke for him.
"Must I be a king for you?" he asked finally, his voice low, intimate, vibrating through the press of his lips to the crown of her head.
Lorraine’s breath hitched. What could she say if he put it that way?
She rolled onto her side slightly, pressing her lips near the hollow at his throat. "I don’t care what you are. I want you as my husband," she said, fingers tracing the faint curve of his jaw, brushing along his neck. Her heart hammered against her ribs, warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with politics.
He exhaled, long and slow, his lips grazing the top of her hair again. "Then we’ll see this world together," he murmured.
Her hand lingered over his chest, feeling the steady pulse beneath, the rise and fall of each breath. For a long moment, they remained pressed together, the world outside and the machinations of the Dowager forgotten in the rhythm of shared warmth.
And yet, even amid the heat, their minds remained sharp, plotting and wary. Lorraine could feel the tension in his hands, the way he held her like a coiled spring. She knew him well enough to understand that every touch, every brush of skin, was layered with restraint, with calculation, with unspoken promises.
Did she think Leroy’s plan to be a "farmer" would work? No. She was seeing visions that were too real that spoke of glory and power. Never once did she see herself standing in a farm, milking a cow, or collecting eggs.
But she let him do his thing. She didn’t think his plans would succeed. But she would definitely stand by his side.
She did remember how her plans to run to Corvalith were spoiled by the death of the Queen of Corvalith. She hoped Leory’s dream wouldn’t cost them dearly.
"I will let the Dowager play her hand," Lorraine whispered against his chest, the words threading through his skin like silk. "For now."
Leroy hummed, brushing his thumb across her side, a slow, deliberate drag that left her breathless. "For now," he repeated, and she felt the heat of his gaze in every inch of her that touched him.
He was surprised she agreed to him without any protest. But he wanted her to see his point of view and support him.
Her cheek pressed against the firm rise of his chest, the scent of him intoxicating and grounding at the same time. "And the throne?" she asked softly, fingers pressing lightly against his sternum.
He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, brushing his nose along her temple. "Let’s see if peace is enough first," he murmured, voice low and rumbling, carrying the weight of desire restrained by responsibility.
She lifted her head and pressed her lips to his again, straddling his thighs lightly, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. The press of her body against his sent heat through her chest, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, memorizing the strength beneath his skin.
He held her close, hands resting gently along her sides, careful of the soft swell of her belly. Every touch, every brush of skin, was measured, deliberate, intimate yet restrained. She leaned into him, their breaths mingling, the warmth of his body grounding her, the strength of his embrace both comforting and thrilling.
Her hands trailed down his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, and she pressed closer, letting their bodies mold together without pressure, without urgency. His fingers tangled in her hair, cradling her head, while she nuzzled against him, lips brushing along his collarbone, the subtle scent of him wrapping around her senses.
Every movement was slow, careful, a dance of closeness. Their foreheads pressed together, sharing the same breath, their chests rising and falling in tandem. Lorraine could feel his heartbeat through her palms, steady and strong, and it soothed a storm inside her that she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying.
"You feel so warm," she whispered, voice trembling slightly, a shiver running down her spine as his hand brushed her back.
"And you... you feel like home," he murmured in reply, his lips brushing her temple. She leaned into him, letting herself melt against his chest, savoring the safety and desire in his touch without needing anything more than this closeness.
Her hands traced slow patterns along his shoulders and arms, mindful of her body, mindful of the life growing within her. She pressed against him, hips tilting slightly, feeling the taut strength of him beneath her. Every touch was deliberate, a wordless conversation of trust and intimacy, the slow burn of want tempered by care.
He lowered his lips to hers again, a soft, lingering kiss, hands gentle along her sides, cupping her carefully. She responded in kind, a quiet fire building between them, a shared rhythm of breathing and lingering glances, of whispered sighs and tender touches.
Lorraine’s fingers threaded through his, intertwining as if to anchor themselves in the moment, their bodies speaking a language of longing and restraint, a deep connection without the need to rush.
The quiet of the room wrapped around them, the world outside the bedchamber fading to nothing. Every heartbeat, every brush of skin, every inhaled breath between them carried meaning: desire restrained by care, love expressed through closeness, intimacy folded into safety.
She rested her forehead against his, lips brushing his jaw, and whispered, "I could stay like this forever."
He pressed his lips to her temple, his hands holding her as if he could keep her safe from everything outside. "Forever," he agreed, his voice low and certain, full of the weight of promise.
They lingered there, bodies entwined, sharing warmth and breath, the tension and longing simmering just beneath the surface. In that closeness, every worry about the world, the throne, the Dowager, or the future seemed to melt away.
All that existed was the press of their bodies, the rhythm of their breaths, and the quiet, profound knowledge that they were together, mutually aware and mutually cherished, in tenderness.
Lorraine tilted her head back to look at him, their eyes locking, and smiled. Her lips met his again, soft, lingering, a slow exploration of what it meant to trust, to be loved, to be desired, without urgency and danger.
"I hope your plan works, Leroy," she whispered.