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Not enough. Every time the jester’s conniving lips made contact, I wanted them deeper and for longer. And I wanted them everywhere.
My steepled knees tried to trap him, to clamp him to me. But the jester held himself aloft, as though baiting me to break my own barriers, to tear free of invisible bonds.
It stoked the flames. With a frustrated grunt, I gripped his buttocks harder, the action an entreaty for more.
A shudder tracked down his body. That’s when I felt the firm ridge stretching between us. His cock thickened, straining in the tight wedge of space between my core and his hips. It rose high, like it had in the meadow and as we’d been dancing.
I felt every inch of his erection, from the solid base to the rounded head. He’d been like this for a while, I realized.
Encouraged, I used one of his moves against him. I licked the pleat of his mouth, my tongue swiping across the fine slit and tasting something tangy.
With a throaty hum, he dove in. His chiseled body covered me, and his inflamed mouth crushed to mine, sucking the air from my lungs.
On a gasp, I yielded my lips under his. We seized each other’s faces, angling the kiss to deeper effect, our tongues flaying one another.
I should be flustered by the broad length straining between us. Instead, my head fogged, and my inner flesh ached. As with our first kiss, I shocked myself by arching into his cock, grinding into the shape and tension of it.
Poet growled. His tongue pitched into my mouth, the motion punctuated with a nudge of his waist, knowing what I yearned for and offering a sample. In that very spot, static bolts lanced through me. Seasons, it felt so good.
Everything below my navel dissolved. I melted, my folds soaking the undergarments beneath my skirt. Yet I didn’t care.
More. Please, more.
I told him this with my legs, which gripped his hips. I told him this with my lips, which fused with his.
And he listened. Without pause, Poet descended along my throat, his lips grazing the column. He nuzzled the crook between my neck and shoulder, then sucked deeply. The destructive effect charged between my thighs, so that I felt the tempo of his mouth there, too.
I whimpered. My nails clawed through his hair, which only made him pull on my skin more, more, more.
Humming, Poet snatched my wrists and stamped them to the rug while continuing his onslaught. He alternated between suckling and tracing his tongue along my throat, swiping between my clavicles and skating across the underside of my jaw.
An outburst of sensation ratcheted down my spine and accumulated in my pelvis. My head bowed backward into the floor, and inconsolable moans jumped from my lips.
My breasts came next. His lips sank and tugged at the flesh rising from my breastband, the wet strokes of his mouth stirring my blood into a frenzy. The skin of my nipples toughened, the tips poking through the material. I wanted his mouth there, his tongue drawing circles around the bare shells until they darkened, his lips folding over the exposed crests until they were raw.
Instead of ushering the material low, that notorious mouth clamped onto one breast over the fabric. And then he sucked me into him, claiming the nipple through the embroidery. Intoxicating pressure encased the stud, the flat of his tongue swept over the peak, and the heat of it seeped into the garment.
The force of his mouth lured inarticulate moans from my lips. All the while, his broad erection plied between my parted thighs. My waist lifted, hooking over his hips to catch the sinuous lashes. The skirt fell around my stomach, revealed my drawers as I rowed my pelvis against his. Dear Seasons, the bridge of his cock skidded against the crease in my legs, throwing shocks of pleasure through my walls.
My head snapped back, and my mouth gaped. “Oh.”
Poet dragged his lips to my ear. “What is it, sweeting? Do you like that? Does it make your lovely cunt feel good?”
No, I didn’t like it. And it didn’t feel good.
It was bad. So very bad.
“Yes,” I moaned.
Taking that as a sign, Poet removed one hand from my wrist and snaked it between us, his fingers maneuvering against the clasps of his pants. The fabric shifted and slumped open.
Poet returned his grip to my wrist and sank his hips deeper into me, which sprawled my thighs farther. My thoughts misted, eclipsed by a haze of stimulation and need. He wouldn’t enter me, but he was about to do something else.
I’m going to toy with you, make you feel good in another way.
I bit my lower lip to stifle another moan, but the noise came out regardless.
Poet heard it. He broke away, those pupils bloated fully now, black swallowing the green. The jester poised himself against the aperture in my undergarments. His gaze locked on mine, and with languid motions, he slung his waist forward.
