The Evil Queen/Regina Mills

Heat.


Mere weeks since King Leopold's tragic and untimely death have passed. Such a short time for The Evil Queen, now newly liberated. Newly free. With the erection of his sepulcher hers has crumbled, and where once she was bound, bedchambers cold and empty, now she is taking her delight in whatever she will.


Thirst.


At the moment, whatever she will is the Huntsman limned in dawn's first light, his body naked, strong, bound to her by a thin layer of sweat. The low flickering from the fireplace catches every crevasse, every hard line; she reimagines the way his muscles moved the night before, sinuous, exquisite, and she feeding into his ear each passion as it rolled across her in waves.


Bliss. Thrill. Desire.


Satisfaction.


It's been a very long time since she has felt satisfaction. A long and miserable time, poring her passion into her hatred instead; being what she was expected, what she had, to be to get this far. The king certainly never satisfied her, no, and never desired to. Everything she's done these last long weeks has been an act of rebellion, and this — his body, perfect, responsive, the way his hand curled under her thigh, his lips at her neck, the feel of his back under her fingertips as he moved — this, the greatest act of all.

Yes, husband. In whatever world you may be, know that I am, for once, satisfied.