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I had been keeping him awake, he’d said. The notion shouldn’t invigorate me, but it did.
I might be inexperienced, but I wasn’t naive after spending time in Spring. I knew what he meant.
But I also knew my place. And while I couldn’t control the drumming of my pulse, I could control everything else. So I refused to entertain the comment by asking him to clarify, to imply it mattered. Instead, I lifted my chin like any Royal would. “I was thirsty.”
I expected mischief or mockery, some form of additional teasing. However, Poet continued to stare at me deadpan, looking anything but amused.
Then I remembered the nightgown. Despite the darkness, the funnel of light piercing through the window illuminated everything important, most notably the garment’s sheerness. The fabric was little more than yards of film, its diaphanous folds accentuating the swells of my breasts and the straight lines of my hips.
One sleeve hung off my shoulder, baring the skin there. Worse, the neckline plunged further than any male, other than a physician, had ever seen.
My unbound hair cascaded around me. To be sure, the red must be breaching the murk, as my freckles certainly were, because they always did. I didn’t need a mirror to guess this.
My nipples poked through the nightgown, the pointed tips evident. Heat scorched my cheeks, and I crossed my arms, but it was too late.
Midnight glossed the kitchen and etched the lines of Poet’s face. He’d certainly seen men and women wearing less, yet his gaze roved from the nightgown to my hair. In fact, he watched me like he’d done before dinner, except his eyes were a dozen shades deeper.
His fingers remained fastened to the counter, as though someone had bolted them down. Because of this, the ribbons encircling his wrist strained, in danger of snapping.
If I had kept my own ribbon, perhaps I’d still be one of his targets. An unbidden part of me wanted to unravel one of those bracelets, to claim it as my own, to throw him off guard.
No one marks me unless I want them to.
Something must have unspooled across my face, because Poet broke from his position. With deliberate slowness, the jester released the counter and sauntered my way like a panther.
Foreboding and anticipation seized me. My buttocks pressed harder into the ledge as he approached.
Stalling inches from me, Poet tipped his head down. His intakes and my outtakes amplified in this room. If I requested it, he would stand aside and let me pass. Yet the words drained from my consciousness, and every righteous inclination I’d been bred with fled my mind.
With his eyes nailed to me, Poet extended his arm past my shoulder. The telltale scrape of earthenware breached the silence, and only briefly did he look away to concentrate on something, the action bringing his profile into sharp relief.
Splashes resounded. Then his gaze found me again, and he raised a cup between us, offering it. Absently, I took the vessel, gripping it as Poet tapped his own cup to mine in a mock toast.
“Need something to wet your tongue, do you?” he inquired, then lowered his voice to the faintest whisper. “So do I.”
My throat bobbed. A week ago, I would have ordered him to watch his mouth in my presence. But now, the jester’s comment oozed beneath the nightgown and stoked the blood churning through my system.
It was true that males didn’t notice me—not like this. As a princess, courtiers and noblemen surveyed me with interest of the ambitious and practical sort. Technically, I was the most eligible and regal match any gentleman could make. That was how the court looked at me.
As something to be attained. As a path to sovereignty.
But men hadn’t looked at me as Poet was doing. Like I wasn’t something but someone. Someone with curves and lips, with words and wants.
Never had a man made me feel so keenly aware of the shape of my mouth or the weight of my breasts, which hung heavily and erect under the nightgown. Never had a man visibly devoured me like this, like I was somebody to crave, to consume. Never had a man made me feel desired, beyond all measure of civility.
From the moment I walked in and saw him, I should have covered myself, should have preserved what remained of my modesty. However, a rebellious need eddied through me. It twined up my thighs, the molten sensation flooding the private slit between my legs.
Many of his admirers dreamed of finding themselves sequestered with him in the dark. Many would have coveted the chance to catch his eye, to have his undivided attention.
Poet’s gaze fused with mine. Together, we lifted the cups to our mouths and drank. Water sloshed down my throat, and Poet’s neck pumped, the combined sounds gushing through my ears.
Those pupils glinted at me over the rim, then sunk to my mouth as we lowered our cups. Wetness coated my lips. Of its own volition, my tongue swabbed at the corners, a gesture his eyes traced.
Poet’s chest inflated, his abdomen hitching. “Have you had your fill?” he whispered. “Or would you like more?”
So much happened under the gown. Fluid dripped into the recess between my thighs, my pulse hammered like an unbridled thing, and my gaze strayed across his slightly parted mouth. Those soft arches glistened, so very near, so very fiendish.
So very wrong.
