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Upright and secured in his arms, I rose higher and came down hard on his lips. Kissing him felt reckless, scary, invigorating. My tongue swiped his as I adhered myself to him.
His naked chest pushed through the open jacket and abraded my bodice. It reminded me of his whipcord frame rippling as it had whisked those daggers. My nails clawed at the garment, fumbling to get it off his shoulders.
Yes, this had to end sometime. But perhaps I could mark him first.
Poet must have sensed what I wanted, because the room shifted as he strode across the rug to the bed. He laid me atop the pillows, hovered like a specter, and muttered into my mouth, “Too easy, sweeting.”
His denial caused a torrent between my legs. True, ridding him of the vestment wasn’t necessary. Instead, my fingers dashed between the panels, my touch sliding over the ridges of skin.
The fireplace burnished his pectorals in a hot gleam. I swallowed, prideful. However much they feared being the target of his sharp tongue, every person at court wanted the jester like this, looking at them with a frenetic light that bordered on possessive.
He soaked in my features, as if waiting for my approval. The vision sent eddies of pleasure through me.
That look was mine.Hewas mine.
We had done so much, but his gaze told me we weren’t even close. Nowhere near so.
Poet crawled on all fours, moving as he always did. Like a vapor, fluid and lithe.
I met him halfway, rising enough to grab his face and seal my mouth with his. That forbidden tongue struck mine, the tempo spine-tingling.
My stomach flipped as he folded himself over me. I dissolved onto the mattress, and my legs split around his waist, which settled in the gap of my thighs. His frame covered my body, the weight of his hips decadent, spurring me to bend my knees high.
The jester inched backward, his arms bracketing on either side of my head. His pupils bloated as he studied my countenance. “Are you wet?”
The request whispered like satin up my limbs and reached their nexus. So much arousal gushed from my walls that I felt myself blush, yet I spoke without wavering. “I am.”
“How wet, my thorn?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then may I find out?”
“Yes,” I heaved.
Like this, his touch slipped under my skirt, coasted along my legs, and gathered the dress’s hem in his fist. He rucked the material to my waist. With the garment bunched around my hips, coolness prickled my limbs.
In stark contrast, I felt the heat of his hand even before it stole into the slot of my undergarments. The temperature there rose, considerable degrees warmer than the rest of me, and it set my walls to throbbing. I squirmed, that intimate place needing, wanting, aching.
“Open them wider, sweeting,” he instructed, his voice gravely.
My thighs broadened, parting and allowing his arm to sink into the vent.
His digits brushed through the curls, a gentle scrape that drew a gasp from me. Poet’s eyes flared as he traced my core, fingers skimming like quills.
I bit my lip, stunned by a profusion of bliss and anguish. My backside rutted into the mattress as he etched the delicate folds, wetting me more, coaxing dampness onto his hand.
Then he cupped me, his palm bracing over my bare cleft. My mouth dropped open on a silent moan, and I leaked onto him.
Poet leaned in to kiss my cheek, then strummed his mouth against my gaping lips. As he did, his hand pressed firmer, burrowing onto my core. The pressure incited a maelstrom, and my body smeared his hand.
Against his skin, my clitoris thrummed. The bud at my center pounded.
“Wicked fuck,” he rasped. “Feel that?”
The intimate pulse of my clitoris thumped against his wrist. Yes, I felt it so much. But I whimpered, unable to answer him.
We concentrated on the steady drum coming from me, the slickness that welled from the rift in my thighs. Fully clothed, I couldn’t have felt more naked, more riveted, more alive.
