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My frustration could use a release. Swapping orgasms with her would massage away the tension of today’s meeting and whatever else churned inside me of late, including the instincts that had caused me to harass the princess not once, but twice.
I debated where to take Cadence for a repeat offense of our last bout, when two things happened. First, thoughts of the princess swept my attention from the other female, the fantasy Briar’s glare eclipsing the reality of Cadence’s grin. Second, a dulcet voice wrapped itself around my waist, the sound enamored and hopeful.
“Your speech was magnificent,” he said.
Eliot. Fuck.
His presence drizzled into my skin, seeped into my conscience. Because I couldn’t give him what he wanted, I had to fix this problem.
That didn’t make it any easier to turn and face him. He glowed at me, the eagerness to please splashed across his face. If I opened my arms, he would step into them.
Seasons. All this from one chaste kiss.
Curse me for not recognizing that hectic look of desire earlier. I’d beheld it from Lord Peyton’s bride before my head vanished under her skirt and my tongue sank into her cunt. Then a week hence, Lord Peyton himself as I wrapped my lips around his cock and sucked the marital stress out of him.
In any event, I couldn’t do this here. I couldn’t reject Eliot whilst bubbles swarmed all over the fucking place.
I offered him my hand. “Walk with me.”
Eliot accepted it. I led him to a private section of the garden, a crescent of orchid shrubs where the full moon glazed us in silver.
An admirer had intercepted me here yesterday, whilst Briar had been watching from her window. Remembering that, I released Eliot. He probably thought I intended to finish what we started with the kiss. He couldn’t know that I did mean to finish it, but not in a frisky way.
I held his gaze. “Eliot—”
“Poet, do you think music would complement your prose? I was fixing to compose something, turning ideas in my head, but would that make it a full composition and not prose anymore? And shit, this isn’t coming out right.” He scraped his fingers through his hair. “I’m not saying I’ll jot anything down, but if I did, if you wanted … I mean, if you agreed … would that disrupt the narrative?
“I don’t want my lute to kill it, only make the prose nicer. Or perhaps, you’d rather I compose something for your verse. Can both work in tandem, like a collaborative effort?” He cleared his throat. “Can they blend together?”
I treaded carefully. “That depends.”
“I’d surely like to do that for you,” he rushed ahead. “I mean, for the poem.”
Lovely Eliot. He had earned an onslaught of fans, those whose tastes leaned toward role play. However, the sirens and serpents of this court had failed to devour him, having underestimated his resolve. I’d heard about the knight who took Eliot’s virginity.
The minstrel became cautious after that, refusing to let anyone abuse his affections further. These days, he didn’t fall under a person’s spell often.
But when he did …
If Eliot weren’t as pure, and if I were a lecherous prick, I might explore. I might stalk him into a corner, silence that tireless mouth, and sample the heat brimming there. With lips like those, he had the makings of a sumptuous kisser and an enthusiastic bed partner.
The court would approve of us. Lovers of equal skill. Showpieces for this world to fawn over. He would be right for me, and I him—if my pulse were able to beat that way, to that rhythm.
A jester didn’t commit himself, nor lie about his feelings. As much as the prude princess liked to think she knew me, my sex sprees had limits. Ruining Eliot wasn’t on my agenda.
Besides, my heart was spoken for. I had room there for only one person.
I’d been gazing at Eliot for too long and with too much misdirected affection. I was sure of it, because he stood there, all brightness and lightness, encouraged by what he saw.
“Eliot, sweeting,” I began.
“Poet. If a man calls another man ‘sweeting,’ is it the same as when he says it to a woman?”
“I call everyone ‘my sweeting.’ I call everyone ‘my lovely.’ I call everyone anything I please, for they are all the same to me.”
“Oh.” He frowned rather cutely. “Right. What I meant—”
“Eliot.” I brushed his hair aside, stupidly thinking to comfort him. Even in the dimness, I saw the blood charging up his skin. It deterred me long enough for him to graze his pinky over mine, and his eyes dropped to my lips.
