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A torrent of pleasure burst from my clit, from the place where Poet’s mouth clung to me. The upheaval spread through my being. My folds pulsated against his tongue. I hovered off the bed, and my mouth flew open, a long holler shuddering from my lips.
Poet kept brushing his tongue over me, caressing my pussy with gentle licks until I slumped, wheezing and incoherent.
Never before.
Never until him.
When I regained some presence of mind, I glanced down. The jester still knelt before me, with his arms looped around my hips. He planted a soft kiss on the tip of my clitoris and then stared back, his cheek resting on my shaky thighs, which had fallen off his shoulders a while ago.
My climax glistened on his mouth, the vision enticing rather than embarrassing. I watched as he deliberately licked his lips clean. Those eyes hooded. The irises brightened as my fingers flitted through his hair, as we gazed at one another.
Hush.
Too late. I couldn’t have obeyed if I’d tried.
27
Poet
I still taste her. I remember the breathtaking flutter of her pussy against my tongue, the wet ecstasy when she came hard and sweet on my mouth, the feel of her body clenching and then going limp from the spasms. I recall the aftermath of her gaze, peach with delirium and hazy around the eyes as she stared at me. Even now, I feel her limbs splayed around my head, the heat radiating from her beautiful cunt driving me to madness.
Seasons almighty. That sort of kneeling, I don’t mind. Ever.
It had elated me to discover that she was a loud minx, the flex of my tongue penetrating the impenetrable Royal and making her seep with pleasure. I’d dipped under her skirt and given her euphoria.
I could have talked her into anything then. The feeling had been mutual.
I would have stayed for as long as Briar had wanted. Alas, lingering for too long would have endangered her. So I tucked her in, kissed her nose, and slipped through the suite’s hidden panel. In fact, I marveled the guards hadn’t overhead, and whilst I could have covered her mouth and plagued her with pleasure all night long, I wasn’t about to risk it.
Yet fuck …
*
The second I blasted into my chambers, I took care of the aftereffects. I’d barely made it inside the room before ramming my back against the door and tearing through the clasps of my pants. My cock pitched from the fabric. The stem rose thickly, its sheath flushed a dark shade, and the crown enlarged.
Slickness beaded from the slit, proof that her pleasure had burrowed skin-deep.
I used my arousal to coat myself, then grasped that hellish, stiffened problem in my hand and began to pump. From the seat to the head, the weight of my cock broadened, pulsing with every firm stroke.
My head dropped against the door, a sequence of gritty noises fleeing my lungs. Briar’s wild cries rooted into my mind.
Bewitched, obsessed, and in over my head, I seized the throbbing erection and jutted up and down. My hips lurched, my aching prick slinging in and out of my palm. I rode my hand, casting my body toward it with such abandon that my wrist threatened to snap.
My skull thudded against the foundation. Heat vaulted from my sac to the roof of my cock. And as I licked my lips to preserve the sweet tang of her body, my soul detonated.
With the luxurious taste of her pussy on my tongue and the memory of her moaning my name, I pounded my waist toward my hand. And I came—hot, heavy, and heavenly. On a fractured groan, I granted myself a long-suffering release, warmth spilling from the crown.
Muscles straining, I groped my cock until I nearly bit my tongue in half from the climax, draining myself to the last drop. Then I slumped, my breath racing to catch up. Her own name dangled from my tongue, but I kept it in, kept it close, because she was mine.
And I was hers.
All hers.
Peeling my body from the door, I cleaned myself in the bathroom before returning to the bedchamber. Tipsy on the princess, I dropped face-first onto my bed.
Very well. I was destined for hell.
The Royal thorn had slayed me to the besotted edge of lunacy. During the banquet dinner, I’d somehow managed to strike that block of wood with my daggers, flipping them in my hands without cleaving my fucking pinky.
