Bend the Knee

Her door is unlocked; he knows he is welcome. He eases it open on oiled hinges, slipping inside silently. Gone too is her lumbering protector, likely dismissed hours ago. The giant of a woman may suspect something untoward--she levels that sour look at him often enough--but she’s too doggedly loyal to disobey her lady’s command. The room is dim, lit by torchlight and the fire in the hearth, and his love is absent at present. He drops to his knees in the space’s center without being ordered, his head bowed; disobedience won't serve him well, at least at this stage in the game. Then he waits, impatience buried beneath the calming notion that he is at least guaranteed to touch her tonight, if nothing else. The cold stone is murder on his joints, but he’s already half-hard and he hasn’t even looked at her yet.