Page 35 of His Noble Savior

With a last spurt, Richard finished, sagging against the tub’s back. Lilian collapsed on top of him, panting against his ear as he came down from his high, his hole quivering with delicious aftershocks.

“You came inside me,” Lilian softly moaned, sounding unreasonably happy. “I loved that.”

Richard kissed his cheek and stroked his back. He took Lilian in his arms and held him close. Richard had never come so hard. Lilian brought out his protective streak and at the same time sparked a lust Richard had never known.

He burned for Lilian. He’d do anything to keep him safe and satisfied. If only they weren’t on borrowed time. As much as Richard wanted to protect Lilian from the orcs, they were bound to overrun Vale. The only thing that could thwart them was an alliance with the Spring Queen. It didn’t matter whetherRichard wanted to marry Princess Bellerose or not. Taking her as his bride would save his family, and Lilian would be protected by the wards surrounding the Spring Court. And yet, Richard’s heart screamed for Lilian. A stone settled in his stomach at the thought of sharing his bedchamber with anyone else. Or letting Lilian out of it.

The following weeks passed in a blur of furious lovemaking. Lilian’s wound had healed, and he didn’t need the faerie oil anymore, but they continued applying it anyway. It was a flimsy excuse to get his fingers inside Lilian and rub and prod him to climax morning and night, and sometimes in between too.

Lilian’s newfound sexual appetite proved insatiable, and their ample use of faerie oil fueled his needs further. After multiple orgasms on Richard’s fingers, Lilian, covered in a sheen of sweat, would gently push him onto his back and ride him. The moment Lilian convulsed in release, clenching on Richard’s cock, he was done for. He came hard and fast inside Lilian, their joint climax the only thing that pacified Lilian’s relentless urges. Richard was in heaven.

One morning, they were lying in bed after a particularly intense round of sex, Lilian sprawled on top of him, panting, Richard’s cock still inside of him, somehow still half-hard. He wouldn’t have been able to keep up with any other lover this hungry for sex, but a sultry look from Lilian or a low moan in his ear was enough to get him up.

“I miss making pottery,” Lilian said, his index finger drawing circles on Richard’s shoulder. “I used to do it every day before the orcs caught me. Don’t get me wrong, I love that you’ve given me the opportunity to paint, but I miss working with my hands, getting them wet and dirty.”

Mischief tickled Richard. “I don’t know; I think you often work with your hands. Get them wet and dirty too.”

Lilian gave an amused huff. “I do enjoy having your cum allover them.”

Richard sobered. “But I get it. You miss your old routine. There must be a lot of things from your life in the faerie realm that you miss.”

The last sentence left a bitter taste in Richard’s mouth. He provided for Lilian, but as nice as Somerdale Castle was, it wasn’t Lilian’s old home, his familiar environment. Eventually, Lilian would want to return.

“It helps that it’s springtime here. Winter was awful.” Lilian shivered; he hadn’t meant just the weather.

“What can I do to make you feel more at home? There’s an unused room on the ground floor that we could turn into a potter’s workshop for you.”

Lilian rolled off him, Richard’s cock slipping free. He winced at the loss of that soft, snug heat.

“You’re already doing too much for me.”

Richard lay on his back, thinking. He wanted to give Lilian what he needed, but at the same time, he didn’t want to make him feel more indebted than Lilian already did. As a fae, he’d be compelled to repay Richard, and in Lilian’s mind, his debt was mounting. Richard couldn’t care less if Lilian ever “compensated” him, their relationship wasn’t transactional to him. Fae nature was strong though, and Lilian would feel overburdened if Richard did too much. Building Lilian a pottery wasn’t a good idea in light of this, but how about something smaller that’d make him happy?

Richard ran a strand of Lilian’s soft hair between his fingers. “Would you like to visit the artisans in Somerdale? There’s a potter among them.”

Lilian’s face lit up. “That’d be wonderful.”

“You don’t mind leaving the castle? I’d come with you, of course, and have two knights accompany us.”

“As long as you’re with me, I’d go anywhere.”

Richard’s heart clenched. If only he could be Lilian’s. He hadn’t heard from Queen Dahlia in recent weeks, and he should send another missive, press her for a betrothal to her daughter, but he was stalling. What he, the Baron of Somerdale, should do and what he, Richard the man, wanted to do were very different things.

Somerdale was a short ride from the castle. The town stretched between the hill and the eastern bank of the River Somer, the path lined with blooming trees and strawberry fields.

The scent of flowers and ripening fruit accompanied them as they rode toward the houses on the other end of the fields. Lilian sat in front of Richard, his feet hanging off to one side of the horse as he wore a forest green, hooded robe, which came down to his ankles. The dressmaker Richard had ordered to the castle had tailored it for Lilian in the fashion of the Spring Court. Lavish embroidery decorated the front, and the sleeves ended in delicate frills. It cut an androgynous figure and underlined Lilian’s ravishing beauty.

It was the first time Lilian left the castle since his arrival, and Richard watched for signs of fear but found none. Lilian’s growing confidence was a relief. His moments of shakiness had become rare, which brought Richard great joy. Lilian was flourishing.

Reaching Somerdale, Richard greeted the townspeople on the streets with a raise of his hand. They bowed, and judging by the excitement on their faces, he hadn’t visited Somerdale enough in recent months. The people liked seeing their lord, and Richard had been too preoccupied with the war. He should’ve visited more frequently.

The artisan quarter was clustered around a small square. The biting smells of tanning and dyeing wafted between the buildings, and the creaking and clacking of looms rattled the air.

Their first stop was the potter. Richard knocked on the half-open door of the workshop, and a female voice answered, telling him to come inside. Miss Bennett, a stocky woman in her sixties, was sitting at her potter’s wheel. It clattered as she worked the treadle, the noise mixing with the slapping sound of water meeting clay. The smell of damp soil filled the hut, strong but not unpleasant. Miss Bennett positively beamed when her eyes landed on Richard, recognition sparking in them.

“My lord.” Miss Bennett got to her feet and bowed, her gray hair plastered to her head by the sweat of hard work. “What an honor to receive you.” She looked at her hands, which were muddy with clay, and went to wash them. “I’m sorry my lord, I must’ve forgotten you were planning to visit…”

Richard reassured her that he hadn’t announced his call and that she didn’t need to fuss over him. Miss Bennett didn’t listen, frantically whirling through her shop to clean the items on display.

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