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Now? Of course not. I shouldn’t have presumed.
“Does the woodland really do that?” But when he made no reply, I sighed and spoke to the jester’s back. “I’m sorry about Nicu. I meant no offense. I only thought—”
“Briar,” Poet warned, his shoulder blades stiffening the instant my voice reached him. “I wouldn’t continue if I were you.”
I bristled and stormed up to him, stopping inches from his tall form. “And I wouldn’t tell me what to do.”
“And for once in our lives, I’m serious: Stop.”
“Stop what? Look, I know I should have asked you first. It wasn’t my place without your permission, but—”
“Oh, fuck my permission,” Poet hissed, then rounded on me and whisked a finger against my lips. “We’re finished talking, sweeting. So very fucking finished.”
Then he grabbed my face—and his mouth slammed against mine.
18
Briar
His mouth seized me, the heat of his lips snatching my breath. An objection swelled and died in my throat, silenced by the deep angle of Poet’s head, the tilt of his jaw, and the taste of wine.
His fingers speared into my hair, blazing a trail through the roots. I grabbed his waist, intending to haul myself away from him. But those strong fingers clamped to the back of my head, the effect spine-tingling.
I shuddered, letting this happen, allowinghimto happen.
Unleashing a strangled whimper, my restraint broke and flung itself over the edge. I hurled myself into the kiss, slung my arms around the brackets of his shoulders, and hooked my hands behind his neck.
My body crushed against his. My breasts scraped the bared cliff of his torso, nipples rushing against his skin.
A hum vibrated from Poet’s chest and into my mouth. With a groan, he pried the seam of my lips apart. His mouth clutched mine, damp heat emanating between us.
We sealed together, our lips clinging, our tongues on the verge of threading. With abandon, my fingers raced up his scalp, urging him for it, for more, for right now.
He split me wider, about take me fully into the heat of him, to flex that tongue deeply, to draw me into madness.
My head swam. I anticipated it, felt the onslaught so near, the contact so close. Tremors racked my body, tearing me from my foundation—and flinging me to the ground.
I ripped my mouth from his. My palm sliced the air, aiming for his cheek and the promise of a resounding crack that would strike the treetops. In a flash, I imagined Poet’s head whipping sideways, a furious mark branding his skin.
But the jester’s serpentine reflexes saw it coming. He moved with inhuman speed and caught my wrist. And curse this rake, he did so without taking his eyes off me.
My palm ceased inches from his face. With my wrist shackled in his grip, Poet jerked me into him. “I didn’t know you cared,” he murmured.
His breath grazed my lips, hot and heavy. I gasped as that silken rasp cut a path through my clothes and stroked the crease between my legs. Warmth poured into that forbidden notch, a wet rush that coated my inner walls.
I shoved him back, wheeled away, and retreated.
If I kept going, and if I left the jester behind, my body would recover.
If I went even farther, and if I didn’t stop, he and I would be separated by the expanse of woodland, then eventually by the halls of Spring’s palace.
I made it as far as the meadow’s threshold. There, I gazed down at myself as if expecting to find a disaster. Heat dashed up my neck, but whether from desire or fury, I had no idea. I couldn’t pick through the sensations to tell which were right and wrong, which were me and which were him.
In the grass, Poet’s shadow pooled with my own, submerging him into me. He loomed, his soft shirt buffeting my rigid spine. The temperature brimming from his chest simmered from behind.
Agitation gripped my throat. My breasts pressed into the bodice, which suddenly felt tighter, rougher, so that my nipples pitted against the constrictive fabric.
Seasons forgive me. If I turned, the jester would see what he’d done.
