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If she were a courtier, I could have stayed in her bed. I would have recovered in the valley of her legs, with my head on her navel, our bodies in a position to go another deep round once she recuperated. We would have been naked, coated in sweat, and shouting by that point.
I would have placed myself at her mercy, breaching that small, ripe barrier inside her. After that, I would have made love to her leisurely, then harder. If she fancied, I’d have used one of my nifty little trinkets on her. If she wished, I would have shown her passion from every angle, every position.
Oh, but I longed to fuck her sweetly.
This week of lusting in fits and starts whilst partially dressed had been a torment. I had been a wreck for days, with no comprehension of a single cursed thing that occurred outside those slivers of time with Briar. With my brain and body preoccupied, who knew what sloppy counsel I’d offered the Crown at the Peace Talks.
Yet it was more than that. I wanted to make her happy.
Tossing amateurish, uninspired, and frankly maudlin options like baubles and bouquets out the window—hardly Briar’s style or remotely what she cared about—I seized on the one gesture besides the physical that I could offer. She’d griped to me about heirs and heiresses being banned from the Peace Talks. Tradition for tradition’s sake, etcetera, etcetera.
She had tried not to let the implication show. Yet however blunted, I had noted several times the envy in Briar’s voice, all directed toward me for being allowed to join the Talks.
But had she, or any previous offspring in history, ever tried to debate the matter? Nay. Briar lamented, but she tolerated the rules out of a stale notion of custom and respect. In which case, compliance wouldn’t change a thing.
The next morning, I strode into Basil and Fatima’s antechamber unannounced and requested an audience. The subject was a tricky affair. I couldn’t show my true intent without rousing speculation that I favored Her Royal Highness.
Instead, I arrived on the pretense of discussing the Lark’s Night carnival. Since I’d plotted the discussion in advance, the topic unfolded as if by accident. My point of attack involved playing dumb and stacking innocent questions at their feet.
Did a doctrine exist stating Royal successors couldn’t attend the Peace Talks until coronated? Did Spring not pride itself on being a progressive kingdom? Did the elder Royals suppose they had nothing wise to offer, nothing their offspring wouldn’t eventually learn on their own?
Would the Royals say these Peace Talks inspired their heirs and heiresses? In what capacity? Do tell.
’Tis a shame Winter and Summer felt less compelled to bring their heirs to Spring, was it not? One would think they considered it unimportant, that if their colts weren’t allowed to view the Talks as part of their breeding, why bother honoring this court with their presence at all?
However, Autumn had brought its daughter. At least one Season understood the magnitude of these events. Too bad the others hadn’t set the same example.
It might show goodwill to reward Autumn for such fealty. It might influence the others next time, would it not? But naturally, I had no suggestions on the matter. What did I know of princesses?
By the way, wasn’t tonight the final meeting? The one dealing with the least vital matters? Not so heavy-handed as to keep sacred, surely.
On that note, I wondered whether there was an exemplary way to provide closure to the Talks—something in addition to the final speeches, not altering tradition but adding to it.
What could that be, oh knowledgeable Crowns?
In the interim, I may have imagined Briar’s face twisting in ecstasy whilst I sucked on her clit. I’d needed a visual to keep me motivated.
It took two hours, three flagons, and a dozen of my wittiest puns to manipulate the Spring Crown. They drew the conclusion I’d hoped they would, and I praised their wisdom.
What an excellent idea they had, inviting the Princess of Autumn to participate in the final Talk. However did they come up with it?
Dusting myself off, I strutted from the antechamber and headed for the first place I suspected to find her.
Low murmurs resounded from the archive library. At this hour, fewer visitors lingered, which was likely why she’d chosen to be here now. I slipped between the statuesque black shelves overflowing with ivy, disappeared into the recesses, and located her.
She faced one of the stacks, with those red tresses lazily bound at her nape. A high-collared hickory jacket hugged her frame, and a skirt flounced beneath, both pieces woven of tapestry. Like this, she resembled a proper university scholar—upright, studious, and corruptable.
When I’d sidled through the library and slipped that note onto Briar’s desk after she saw me with the nobleman, it had been easy to pinpoint her. Reputably, she’d been spending quite some afternoons here.
Between the tall rows, the princess rifled through a shelf of tomes and tubular cases holding rolled documents. As I tiptoed behind her, my shadow bled across the gold-leaf spines. The instant my silhouette darkened the shelves, Briar straightened.
My arm snaked past her shoulders, and my fingernails flashed as I plucked an encased scroll from the shelf. I tilted my head, my lips brushing her earlobe and producing an enticing ripple across her flesh.
Low and lush, I murmured, “Read this one.”
She quivered and whispered, “Why?”
“It chronicles a smutty, forbidden love story.”
