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“Tell me,” he intoned. “What am I doing?”
I panted so hard it was difficult to speak around the shallow mouthfuls of air. “You’re holding me.”
“What am I holding?”
“Oh, Seasons. I …”
“Share it with me, Briar.”
“My core,” I answered. “You’re holding my core.”
“Indeed, Princess.” Poet lulled while his fingers slid lazily up and down my crease. “What else?”
My head flapped from side to side. “The words are crude. They’re too vulgar.”
“No,” he uttered. “Not from your mouth, nor from your body. They’re sexy, as is the feel of your arousal against my hand. The words are real, and they’re exquisite. ’Tis a blissful torment.” He kissed my chin. “Now again. Tell me what I’m holding.”
“My pussy,” I whispered finally, the answer sleek on my tongue, passionate rather than crass. “You’re touching my pussy.”
“That, I am,” Poet crooned, his digits grazing through the sprigs of hair at my juncture, then circling the entrance and swirling my wetness. “And what does it feel like? What is it doing to you?”
“My pussy is aching and … and it’s wetting your palm.”
“That, it is,” he murmured. “And have you ever touched this delicate pussy before?”
The confession dripped from my tongue. “I have.”
A hiss escaped him. “Did you make yourself come?” My face detonated with heat, but when I inclined my head, Poet asked, “How did it make you feel?”
“Strong,” I blustered. “Invincible.”
“That’s right.” And this time instead of asking, he whispered, “I’m going to touch you now.”
“You are touching me.”
“Nay, Briar. I haven’t begun yet.”
My insides jumped, adrenaline teeming through me. I nodded, and my hips rose off the bed, thrusting tenderly into his palm.
Poet husked, caressed my lips with his, and obliged. Though, not as anticipated.
Not with his hand.
I growled in aggravation when he released my core. Small pants rattled from my lungs as Poet kissed a searing path down my neckline where the tops of my breasts inflated, and then he slid to my quavering stomach. On the way, his nails grazed my hips, the motion plying me with goosebumps.
In burning light of flames and candles, the jester coasted off the bed and lowered himself to his knees. My breath hitched. Somehow, my fitful body drew its own conclusion about what was going to happen.
Poet’s fingers glided under the skirt and massaged my inner thighs until they relaxed. Then he teased the lace trim of my undergarments before rustling them in his grip. The dainty cloth slipped past my hips and knees, the fabric running over my flesh, tickling my calves, and vanishing past my toes.
The material dangled from the tips of his fingers before the jester dropped it to the ground. He strapped his hands around my ankles. And in one firm tug, he slid me to the mattress’s edge.
My limbs steepled, my soles planted on the rim, and my body spread. The pads of his digits smoothed across my heels, up my shins, and behind my knees. Hooking my limbs over his shoulders, he scooped and lifted my backside. Those cunning eyes descended to stare at the cleft between my legs, the bright flash of his gaze making the ache worse, the slit wetter.
Never had I been stripped bare and splayed apart like this, yet the moment felt instinctual, the force intrinsic. I wanted this. My chest rose and fell in rapid succession as Poet took in the sight of my exposed core—my pussy—every flushed part visible to him.
His molten gaze caused liquid heat to flood my insides. “There we go, Princess,” he exalted. “Such a lovely cunt. So very open and pretty.”
“Poet,” I entreated. “Please.”
