(1310-08-14) Losing Innocence
Summary: Ortolette's assignation with Aimeric continues.
RL Date: 26/08-02/09/2018
Related: Follows right after this.
aimeric ortolette 

Ortolette's Chambers - Ducal Palace


He had been paraded around for long enough, or so it seemed, when Aimeric finally noticed they were headed towards the entrance of the Dome itself. It was hardly visible, the ghost of a smile that played at the corners of his mouth, the faint shimmer in his own eyes, of confidence and gratification at how Ortolette indeed appeared to enjoy the moment. It was a sentiment better well hidden, for someone who is supposed to be the paragon of shyness and modesty. And so the White rose Adept lowered his lashes as he entered the building, half following, half guiding her with her hand placed on his arm. Once they were through the doors, he was amiable enough to assist her with the steps. Perhaps pondering for a moment, and then deciding to propose the unthinkable. "Would you like me to carry you up the stairs?", a breathy suggestion, he offered to her.

It's hard for Ortolette to remember just how many stairs there are between the courtyard and her room. Girard is usually in charge of carrying her up and down them, after all. So when she waves off his help, the first flight into the main hall she takes with all due energy and zeal. By the time they're across the main hall and to the base of the rather longer stairwell to the upper floors, wow, she begins to wonder whether she made a mistake. But still she does not beckon her helper, only slowing her pace but still remaining steadfast, leaning more substantively upon Aimeric's arm, eyes closing modestly as she begs indulgence for her slowness. There, below the grand stairwell, she pauses with him, mentally girding herself for the task ahead, when he offers to her that kindness— her cheeks grow pale, and below the layers of tulle in her built up collar that unsightly, splotchy blush of hers begins to rise, hidden most gracefully by the accessory. She produces a shy totter of a nod, "Yes," she whispers, and, more than accustomed to the method of being held aloft, she angles her arms up and timidly, then more warmly places them about his neck, lifting herself onto her toes to aid in her ascent.

Aimeric may be a young lad, delicate in his looks of slightly timid beauty. That does not mean his arms are weak, perhaps not as thoroughly trained in their musculature as those of a fighter. Gently he slips one arm along her back while he bends his knees just far enough, that the other arm can find the slight angle of her knees, hidden away below those many layers of exquisite fabric. Ortolette is a light creature, and so he lifts her easily, and in straightening, meets her eyes. Oh yes, her blush will be mirrored in the increase of rosiness upon his features, a soft intake of breath, a bit of awkwardness there in the smile he gives her. The young man carries her all the way up to the upper floor, a fleeting look given now and then the grand interior of the palace and the impressive stairway, as he has to watch his steps of course, when carrying such a delicate burden. Once they arrive in the upper hallway, Aimeric sets Ortolette back down to her feet, the hint of a courteous bow given to her. "You will have to guide me to your chambers," he remarks with a shy smile.

Ortolette takes the opportunity of their ascent to grow comfortable being so close to a man— well, a man who isn't a Cassiline… or a doctor… alright, she's been close to plenty of men, but this is an entirely other situation, and she goes from rather stiff and anxious in his arms to melted against him like a warming pat of butter, her head lolling against his chest and feeling for his pulse with her cheek, one of her thumbs exploring delicately what skin she can discover exposed above his collar at the back of his neck. It gives her a chance, as well, to recover her breath, quite nearly spent after all of that marching about. When she alights once more upon her feet, she seems refreshed, and, after taking a moment to see that her garb is settled properly, she even reaches out a hand for his, "Come, and I will show you. It is past where the stairs ascend to the rooftop," which he will no doubt recall from when he came to tea this morning. Was that only this morning? How changed everything seems from then. Girard is giving the little lovebirds their space, but he's still following from behind, reaching the top of the stairs just as they make the double doors into the Ducal Wing — reaching the doors of the Ducal Wing just as they make Ortolette's chamber doors. Another of the palace guards is already there, and opens the door for them, having previously swept the room to make sure no maid or servant was still loitering inside. The door yawns to a blue-tinged darkness, only a few lit candles in sparkling glass giving a low light to the environs. "They are here," Ortolette announces, stating the obvious, in one sense, but knowing that stepping over the threshold will be a significant act in itself. Nonetheless, she lets go his hand and walks ahead, her gossamer gown making her look like a ghost in a blue-haunted darkness when she turns to face him, settling gingerly upon the edge of her bed and meeting his eyes with hers, a silent summons.

<FS3> Aimeric rolls Perception: Great Success. (7 6 1 5 8 3 4 7 7 7)

Physical proximity is hard to ignore, even if it occurs in the helpful act of carrying her up the stairs. Likewise, Aimeric appears slightly nervous at first, a tension there in his own bearing as well. Even through layers of fabric it is the temptation of what lays hidden, be it through the warmth emanating from those human beings, the tactile fleeting exploration of how the leg feels, even if only in the bend of a knee. When Ortolette melts against him, the White Rose Adepts blinks and gives her a shy smile. When awkwardness fades and they once again walk side by side, it is only with a mere sweep of his gaze that Aimeric notices the Cassiline is following, another detail reminding him of the importance this assignation, and how well guarded his delicate patron is. Slipping into the chambers, he glances about, taking in the delicate sombreness of these rooms, an impression that is dimmed by the light of candles, but then again, not really. The door closes behind them, and it seems now that they have finally arrived at the destination, Aimeric nó Rose Sauvage takes a deep breath, as if hesitating to continue. His gaze lingers on Ortolette as she takes a seat on the edge of the bed. But it is he look she gives him, that makes him approach and sit down beside her. "They are here, and here we are," Aimeric states in half-echoing her own words. His hand trembles a little as it reaches out, his fingers brushing over hers. "Alone, at last."

Ortolette takes a deep lungful of air when the door is finally closed, no latch sliding to, but no doubt Girard and the other Palace Guard are moving into position to guard the door as a double force, making sure the pair within will remain undisturbed. When Aimeric settles near her on her bedside, she slides subtly away from him, a gesture that might indicate fear, except that she draws her knee up onto the bed between them and turns to regard him, here, with her, instead. She offers out her hand for his to brush over. "Yes, Monsieur Aimeric," she agrees with him. "And you have been very bold, to join me upon my bed," she points out. Is that a criticism? Or is she only trying to make him flustered? In her little child's voice, the intonation is hard to find— but she has selected a White Rose for her assignation, and so one may presume she bears some natural predilection for their treatment, some darker, more dominant edge creeping into her voice now that they are out of the public eye and her behavior is the thing of a contract to which his silence is bound.

There is another blink of his eyes, when Ortolette slides away from him, and then elects to address him with a faint rebuke. "I…", Aimeric begins, before he considers, eyes flickering nervously. "I did not mean to be considered forward.", he finally manages, cheeks darkening from a blush. "I thought you would wish me to sit with you. But then… it seems I overstepped." He lowers his gaze, even as he continues in a low murmur, "What do you wish of me, my lady? How can I appease you, for my misstep?" It may be a move to figure out her intentions and preferences, even if it sounds outwardly like begging for forgiveness with mortified concern.

Ortolette seeks to mollify that mortification, once it is rendered up to her, with a small, girlish smile. "Do not suppose, my sweet Monsieur Aimeric, that I am wroth with you. I suppose that it must be a nervous evening for you— maybe even more so than it is for me," she considers, drawing her hand from beneath his hand and lifting it to his cheek to feel the heat of his blush there with a gentle caress while he offers to make restitution for his error. "You may take your place on your knees at my feet by the side of my bed," she tells him, heart racing slightly as she gives voice to words she has only fantasized of saying to a man before. She speaks of allowances, as though granted beneficently from on high, with an arch, imperious threading below the words… but there's no mistaking the tone of command.

With a faint flare of nostrils from his breathing, Aimeric listens to Ortolette, a faint twitch of his brows occurring in the moment, her fingers touch against his cheek that feels hot indeed. It will be now that he lifts his gaze again, daring to meet hers. There is that subtle widening of his eyes, when she tells him what would have been the expected choice of place for a White Rose in the first place, and he nods, a hasty nod as he breaks the gaze with a faint line appearing between his brows. "I misstepped indeed," the young man murmurs softly, as he stands and then turns around to face Ortolette when he lowers himself, knees touching the floor before the bed, and Aimeric, forced to lift his gaze to this frail beauty of a Mereliot. He completes the motion, buttocks hidden away in white trousers touching against the heels of his feet, hands coming to rest in his lap, as he kneels in perfect abeyante manner, gaze slightly lowered again.

Ortolette smiles most kindly, a forgiving and almost adoring grin blossoming forth from her demure little smile when he looks to her. "I won't tell your Second," she promises, almost playfully, before giving him a gentle pat on the cheek and dismissing him thus to go from her and take his appropriate place. And it's a view worth waiting for— Ortolette's hand comes to rest over her heart as though trying to pacify it when he strikes that perfectly obedient pose, the way his bangs hide his eyes bringing a hint of moisture to Ortolette's own eyes. "You truly are the most beautiful of creatures, Monsieur Aimeric." Her other hand is resting on her thigh, and, with a curl of her fingers, she hitches up the hem of her gown just faintly, lifting one delicate baby blue slipper into view and experimentally trailing its pointed toe up the inside of his thigh, then down again. "You will help to undress me," she explains her intention. "But only as I ask. You must not become too excited and rush ahead," she warns him. Up again. "My slipper, if you please," she brings it helpfully to about the level of his hand, while keeping her leg still veiled by the gown even to the ankle. Not to mention that her other slipper still hides in its gossamer layers.

"You are flattering me," Aimeric responds, his voice showing off that faintly nervous tremble, as if he were not aware of his impeccable looks. With his eyes slightly lowered he is able to observe that coy pull at her skirts, his gaze drops further, when the revealed slippered foot brushes against his clothed thigh, and Aimeric inhales, as if in light alarm. When asked to assist, he curls his fingers gently about the ankle of the offered foot, while his other takes hold of the shoe to pull it off. A nod to her instructions. "I promise, Lady Ortolette. I shall not overstep again," he assures her, brows lifting as he looks up from her foot he is releasing from its confines. His attention shifts back to the foot he is still holding, and with a soft inhale, he leans over to the side to set that slipper safely down onto the floor. And then releases her foot from his gentle grasp. A bit reluctantly, perhaps.

"Very good, Monsieur Aimeric," Ortolette murmurs, half-afraid that he can hear her heartbeat in her words— she can feel it in her throat— almost in her lips. "I know that you will not. You are well-trained, and will not disobey me," she coos sweetly, sounding half-apt to faint at the thought of this beautiful creature so completely hers, if only for the evening. When her ankle is cupped, she tips her head back, lips parted, and when her stocking-foot is laid bare, she explores his thigh with her toes and the ball of her foot, something she'd hesitated to do with her slipper on, not wanting to dirty him. So to speak. Then, sneaking her little toes further up, she trails them up his stomach and rests her foot against his chest, slowly bundling up her gossamer gown before his eyes, keeping it hugged to herself so as not to display her undergarments further up, but laying bare her shin and slender calf, up to just over her knee where her stocking is clipped to a garter. She lets it rest there, feeling for his heartbeat with her heel, eyes finding his face, making him wait in the shifting candlelight for a moment longer before, "And my stocking," she continues.

She is taking liberties, in the way she slides her foot along his thigh. Now deprived of its previous armor, the foot proves even more dangerous, and it is no wonder the attention of both will linger in the progress of that cheeky limb. A slightly alarmed inhale occurs, just before her toes and ball reach his abdomen, that intake of breath for her to feel, even through the layer of his white shirt and jacket. Higher that foot goes, now resting against his chest, and it will be now, that Aimeric lifts his eyes to meet Ortolette's gaze, as if to read her next wish there. The eventual instruction becomes obsolete, when the position of the leg reveals the lower part of it - and the stocking. He blushes, taking in what is revealed of that leg, and finally lifting a hand to touch lightly against the side of the calf, fingers splayed almost reverently as they slide up slowly to her knee and slightly above of it. Hesitantly, but with fingers that appear to be too nimble as not to have dealt with such a task before, he begins unclipping the stocking there, and then touches his both hands to the lace finish of the stocking to pull it unhurriedly down. His gaze should be averted, and ironically they are, evading the urge to look what he unravels, instead holding her gaze, until he has pulled the stocking as far as the ankle, which will mark the time for one hand to touch against the bared calf from below to support it while he leans away to pull the stocking off completely.

Ortolette is taking liberties— but they are her liberties to take, and for all she may be new to this, and faintly anxious about the… event itself… she does enjoy taking them as her heart and loins instruct. The wise way his hands manipulate her lower leg, so reverent and reticent in its obedient timidity, it makes the red color rise in various spots on her chest and throat, rise almost looking like welts, as though she had been beaten. Fortunately she is still wear the collar that so effectively hides her deformed blushing. But as she holds Aimeric's gaze, she also slides one arm gingerly from its swanfeather loop, then the other one, and as the stocking is slid down over her leg to render it bare, she quivers visibly and a breath turns into a shuddered rush of air. She moves her bared calf against the support of his hand, then rests it on his shoulder, as he were a sort of fanciful ottoman. "And the other," she reminds him of her other slipper, just gently nudging through the leaves of her gown to show him where to find it… but he will have to discover his own way to her ankle and then up to her garters. Her arms are slid behind her, slowly losing the closures at the back of her gown, one at a time.

Aimeric does not object to play supportive ottoman for Ortolette's leg. The forward move of the young lady placing it upon his shoulder though, causes his gaze to veil for a moment, eyelids lowering as he digests this new situation of him somewhat trapped by that leg, the suggestive implications of her placing her claim upon him, and the awareness of a more generous view of leg and skin, when skirts will have to shift a little further up the leg. It is hard to tell whether he noticed her elegant beginning manoeuvre of arms slipping out of sleeves, when the tremble of his hand, he rests upon her bare leg for a moment, very much suggest his focus is forced to linger on the challenge of one foot, skirts and yet another new task she has for him. How to chase a shoe under the mysteries of skirts? It will force him to bend forward a little, which will bring his face to closer proximity to said skirts. The leg shifts a little further upon his shoulder, as the adept blushes, lips pressed together in a line as he lets his hand dive into the skirts from beneath, in timid pursuit of the other slippered foot. "Forgive me," Aimeric mutters, as his hand finds the firm shape of the shoe, and he will lift the leg attached to the foot, to free it as gently and matter-of-factly as possible from the shoe.

Ortolette bites at her lower lip, a subtle gesture of mingled pleasure and anticipation when Aimeric has to take somewhat to diving into the layers of organza that make up her skirt. Her already bared foot slides deliciously down his back, stroking him assuringly while he makes his apologies. "You are forgiven," she murmurs to him, "You are only acting upon my command," she adds, "As a good Rose should. And look, may you be rewarded for your obedience," she attempts to draw his eyes to her again— for as he was attempting to find her shoe, she slid apart the bodice of her dress and has laid it to rest upon her lap. Not to say she's bare beneath, but the corset-inspired negligee she wears is white lace at its most opaque and ranges considerably more see-through, its pattern creating something of an illusory curve to her rather flat form, and leaving her bosom covered but visible.

A trap has been laid, and no one will step right into it with as much modest grace as a White Rose or an Alyssum. Her foot slides deeper, trapping him in the hold of her leg, even as Aimeric continues with his efforts of removing the other shoe, his face charmed by the fabric of multiple layered skirts. Her words are noted, and as if to emphasize he listened, the young adept lifts his gaze — only to freeze for a moment, when he beholds the thinly veiled torso of the maiden, the lack of curves hardly mattering, when even a faint outline of such can be enough to inspire a fresh blush upon his features. His jaw drops and he cannot help but stare at the view for a moment, breathing a somewhat overwhelmed, "my lady." His hand beneath the skirts meanwhile, slides the now vacant shoe towards its twin, and then he gets to the task of removing the stocking on that leg as well, without averting his gaze from the view the blonde maiden is granting him.

Ortolette lifts up her chin when Aimeric acknowledges her by her appropriate title, making sure to keep himself subordinate to her in all ways. A slight backward lean allows her to follow his hands with her leg, letting her guide him, to some extent, to her garters, even as she unfastens the belt that holds the other end of the now slackened garters to her waist. Once he has the end of her stocking in hand, she takes her already bared foot back to his shoulder and begins to push against it, slowly building up pressure, not to push him away, but to slide her whole person backward and out of the gown which continues to sit on the edge of the bed, garters still inside of it, the second stocking going limp in Aimeric's hands as her leg withdraws from it on its own. Now she's sitting upright in the center of the bed, with her bare legs curled to one side and a hand planted beside her to help her sit up. Dressed only in that white lace negligee and a pair of pale blue panties, she lets her Rose admire her for a moment, before, "Set my gown aside, please," she tells him. "Then I believe it should be your turn."

"Ah… umm… wait…", Aimeric murmurs in a low hesitant plea, when the frail Mereliot snakes her way out of the masterpiece of couture she had been wrapped into. Beneath the bare foot pushing against his chest, she can sense his breath picking up, as if in slight alarm. But why does the blushing White Rose not avert his gaze, why does his lips part to allow his breath to flow, gaze half-lidding as it focuses on the almost see-through allure of what remains of Ortolette's garb? He blinks. Admiring indeed. A faint ripple of the adam's apple of his throat as Aimeric swallows, finally lowering his gaze when he hears her request. Trembling hands reach for the gown, taking it gently to set it aside, even of that means that he will have to discard his current position of a kneel, to place the garment over the back of a chair. Turning towards the bed, Aimeric begins to unbutton the white jacket, a nervous expression playing across his features, as he for now appears to evade her gaze. The jacket joins Ortolette's dress upon the backrest of the chair, and then there is a moment of hesitation, a glance to gauge the lady's inclination. A soft almost inaudible sigh then, as he begins to fidget with the shirt, hazel eyes glancing down at his fingers, a faint line there between his brows, as if the act of revealing his skin to her view were not an easy thing for him to do. His flesh is pale, and the more and more he reveals in the act of undoing those buttons, it appears to be the perfection as would be expected in a courtesan. Not a single blemish there, only a pleasant hint of youthful musculature in his torso, his shoulders masculine but not as developed as those of a sword fighter. The longer he proceeds, the deeper the blush that stains his cheeks. And the more effort it seems to cost Aimeric to lift his gaze and meet those eyes of Ortolette de Mereliot, whose eyes must be feasting on the view.

Ortolette eases herself to her side, grabbing one of her pillows and folding it in half to prop below her rib cage and keep her half-upright while her legs stretch out along the bedding, reclining in ease like a kitten on a windowpane with eyes fixed gently but without respite upon Aimeric. He's hesitant— of course he is— that only renders the vision that much more charming. "Go on," she whispers breathily, "You are mine, to-night, and I get to see what has been kept from all other eyes in Marsilikos." There's a certain heady luxury, there, this rare beauty for her eyes alone— everyone else will only be next in line. Her left hand comes to rest on top of her heart when he finally takes his hands to his buttons, trying to calm herself when he follows her commands and begins to — so shyly — undress for her. Her fingers then move to her lips, covering an excited little quiver of a gasp when he reveals the beauty of his bare chest, and when his eyes look to hers they will find them almost on the edge of a swoon. "Yes— yes, that is enough… for now…" she manages, swallowing down at the heart that has leapt into her throat. She will save the rest. "Now — NOW you may come and sit with me," she finally gives him the permission he had failed to seek earlier in the evening. "I would touch just… just what you have shown me."

That statement of hers summing it up so adequately chases a visible shudder down Aimeric's spine. "Yes, my lady.", he manages after a moment, gaze downcast as he — turning just slightly as he places the shirt upon the jacket — allows her a glimpse of a back that is devoid yet of any beginnings of a marque. "It only seems fair, given the view I am granted in turn." A courteous reply, sounding slightly awkward, especially considering how he avoids to look at her for a long moment. He looks a little relieved, when Ortolette allows him to cling for a bit longer to the modesty of his white trousers, even if his lips must suddenly feel very dry, if one could tell from the way he moistens them with a quick flick of a tongue. The White Rose sits down on the bed, not too far away from Ortolette, this time with her expressed permission. And yet, he does not make any move towards her. "If it pleases you," is all he manages in hoarsely whispered reply.

Ortolette does glance down over the line of her body, briefly surprised to see how… adult she looks in this gear. Her hand drops from her face to trace the line of her side, her waist, hip, thigh, covered only but barely by lace and blue panty. But then comes Aimeric, bidden to her side, and she closes even that minimal space by shifting just a little bit closer to the edge where he sits, reaching out to trace her fingers first against his back, so bare, for just now, so soon to be marqued with the beginnings of his house colors. Fingers, nimble, slender, crawl up his back like a spider, investigating his musculature with a girlish timidity, then up to his far shoulder, Ortolette drawing herself up against his back, pressing her lace-clad front to his back and bringing her lips to explore the shoulder nearer to her, not really kissing, just feeling his skin against her mouth, really possessing him, eyes moving from downcast along the line of his chest up to his cheek and to his hair. She does love his hair. It makes him look so effortlessly shy. "It pleases me a great deal," her voice quivers near to his ear. "Does it please you?"

Oh, how he shudders beneath the fingers walking up his back and tracing his bare skin. But this reaction is dwarfed a little by what occurs when Aimeric feels her lips touching against his flesh, a slightly startled huff of breath leaving his lungs as he stares, eyes widening, towards a spot at the opposite wall. Ortolette will notice the goosebumps that arise on his skin, the deep flush that remains upon his cheeks, his body reacting where his supposedly shy disposition would rather cling to the frail composure of modesty. When she poses her question to him, Aimeric closes his eyes, lips forming a line as if he were caught in inner turmoil. He does not respond rightaway, instead breathing and enduring her touch and proximity, of lace and feminine shapes beneath that lace pressing against his exposed back.

Scandalous confessions would need a moment or two, before they leave the lips of a confessor. And so Aimeric's voice is barely above a whisper, when he admits the full extent of his beginning corruption. "Indeed. It does."

Ortolette does one better than that— with her left hand on his left shoulder and her chin on his right shoulder, her right hand lingers at his right hip, teasing him with the promises of a reward for his confession, in the aftermath of which she trails her fingers around to his stomach, then sweeps them up his lithe abdomen and torso as though she were in the solar playing her zither. "Good," she praises him. "I won't tell anyone how well you were pleased to be bared to me… for me to touch you… it will be our secret. I will tell them how you wept in shame for your despoiling. I will not tell them how you also smiled."

The White Rose is indeed played with perhaps surprising expertise. The way Aimeric responds nonverbally to her touches, her light-fingered teases. "Please, my lady…", he begins in a murmured plea that then simply breaks off, when he hears her announcement with an appreciative shudder — despite himself. "You would… boast of this?", the White Rose murmurs, turning his gaze now towards her, torso twisting just so beneath her touch, his expression, somewhere between torment and a new quality, repressed desire that she so efficiently conjures. One could wonder who is the experienced one in Naamah's Arts, and who the debutant. "You would… revel in my shame?" There is only a hint of rebuke in his trembling voice, "and tell others of it?"

"Oh — " Ortolette seeks to soothe her White Rose's worry with a quiet kiss to his neck, fond and warm as she acclimates to such prolonged touching of an intimate variety, skin to skin. "No, never boast. That wouldn't do. But when my girlfriends and my mother's ladies in waiting come — and they will come — they will wheedle from me some little bit of gossip which I shall… ever so reluctantly part with. How beautiful you were when you wept," she smiles. "Now— they will be the ones to spread that little bit of your fame amongst themselves." She knows how a rumor is best spread, to all evidence. For one long trapped within the walls of the palace, it is a useful skill to pick up. "And you… will have to give up the same, after being quite hard pressed by those even in your house. I would have you say how scared I was… how timid… how you had to guide me through the loosening of my maidenhood and hold my hand so that I would feel safe." She would keep her reputation as a shy and fainting flower, in other words, and not by any means have it known how well she plied her virgin dominance upon the poor White Rose.

"You would have me lie?", Aimeric whispers, giving her a look of faint reproach. "You would ask me to… make up a story, of me…" He swallows. "Convincing you… Seducing you…?" His hand lifts, unbidden, to touch against Ortolette's cheek, his fingers trembling faintly as they make contact - if she allows. "That I… did all these things with you…" He closes his eyes again, as if to shoo away those unbidden images of what they would do at some point soon. "I won't tell. I am not allowed to. We Servants of Naamah are bound to secrecy…" When the White Rose opens his eyes again, he blinks, a faint redness there in them, as if tears were already beginning to well up at his eventual fate. "I shouldn't…", he begins, trying to lean away a little from the frail dark allure of the blonde virgin; and then attempting to edge away, to bring some distance between Ortolette and himself. It is not a hasty movement, easily to be stopped by such a dominating patron such as Ortolette Mereliot. An attempt that is not genuine, perhaps, but merely a manoeuver to pull them both all the more in.

"Yes, I would," Ortolette confirms, and nor is she ashamed much of it, "But if you will not, your silence will suffice me," she sighs, nuzzling her cheek against the back of his shoulder and taking in a subtle breath when he begins to draw away from her, letting him do so and merely drawing back, herself, sitting up straight with a knee angled toward the ceiling and her hip planted into the bedding. "Monsieur Aimeric. Have I given you permission to withdraw from me?" she asks, girlish voice underlined by a will of steel. "You will return, and lie here on the bed beside me, on your stomach," she informs him. "And what you should and should not do will be for me to determine."

His eyes widen a little at that stern tone, perhaps because it occurs in such a girlish voice, and Aimeric freezes at once in his subtle retreat. "You have not," Aimeric realizes with a faint frown. Again, his throat ripples faintly. And he obeys, laying down on his stomach as told, beside the lovely frail beauty in her lace covered grace. "What would you have me do?", he asks, lifting his head to regard her, hazel eyes looking a touch bewildered through the fringe of dark hair falling across his vision. "I wasn't my intention to displease you."

"Only speak to me," Ortolette seems to be letting him off the hook, for the time being. She even stretches out beside him momentarily, just reaching to grab a pillow and situate it where he can rest his cheek on it, guiding his head to look away from her and across the room in comfort. "Tell me when you are going to get the first of your marque inked," she begins, "Will it be after this assignation, or will you wait until you have several more?" she speaks, her fingers measuring out the space of Aimeric's back as she shuffles down beside him again. "It looks so empty, like you might be… just a man I know. Mayhaps a husband," she laughs a little bit, knowing well that that will never happen for her. "I would like it if you would be inked before your next assignment," she suggests, but there's less of a dominant tone there, more conversational, since she knows it's largely not up to him. "This bare back will be all the more rare a sight, one that I will have the pleasure of keeping largely to myself," she continues, mapping out his back with her fingers until she comes to the tops of his trousers, which she fingers within to see how much give they have, then gives them a soft tugging to begin to reveal the topmost curve of his rear.

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