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My fingers tingled with the urge to finish the job. The embellishment altered his features from impish to devilish. Transfixed, I watched him apply the makeup.
Poet’s hand froze. His pupils halted on something in the mirror. I’d been so focused that I hadn’t noticed my reflection inching into his periphery.
While staring at me, he set down the eye brush and waited. Dozens of options crowded my tongue.
I can defend myself. I don’t need your protection.
“Jester,” I began, the formality tasting bland on my tongue. “It’s my turn to thank you.”
Poet rose and faced me. The robe parted and hung off the brackets of his shoulders, the panels gaping around his torso. He took measured steps, the look on his face electrifying every pulse point I possessed.
Pausing in the doorway, the jester braced his elbow on the frame. In a low register that leaked steam, he said, “No need, Highness.”
The reply grazed my throat like the tip of a plume. It wasn’t a suggestion as much as an insistence—cursive engraved into stone.
***
Beneath my canopy an hour later, I replayed each moment, from his praise to his shadow draping over me in the doorway like an ornate dagger—lavish and lethal.
The recollections brought our kiss to the surface, the hard pump of his tongue, the hectic pace of his mouth, and his possessive grip on my backside. I thought of his fingers hooking around my knee and pitching me into him, splitting my thighs open around him and fitting us like missing pieces. While our hips were beating together, his mouth had enacted the same rhythm as his cock, his tongue probing me so deeply I’d felt it to my soles.
If his lips could do that to mine, what could they do to the rest of me?
The question urged my fingers down my stomach, then further to my navel, hips, and thighs. I swallowed, the sound audible in the cloaked room. My hand descended, sneaking toward a place that caused my cheeks to bake.
Embarrassment, curiosity, and need drew my touch beneath the nightgown. I glanced sideways at the chamber door, then swerved my head to the ceiling. My thighs steepled, the flimsy garment slipping down the inclines of my legs until the hem puddled around my hips.
Beneath the covers, the open gown exposed the naked crux of my body and accommodated my wandering hand, bidding it entrance. My teeth sank into my lower lip. The illicitness of it slowed my ministrations. Yet a warm throb lured my fingers nearer, and nearer, and nearer still.
My digits brushed the patch of hair springing from my center. A small noise quivered from my throat, and a new disturbance sprinted through my core. The throbbing built in intensity, accompanied by a terrible ache that caused my walls dampen.
I needed to feel more, know more, seek out more. My hand swooped in and cupped my private flesh—and I gasped.
A disjointed “Oh” fell from my tongue as I added more pressure, my palm massaging the cleft. Somehow, my body knew what to do. I undulated my hips slowly, riding the friction at an experimental pace.
Disorientating sensations gathered where I rubbed myself. Tingles bolted up my spine. Hot fluid poured from my walls. But instead of staunching these feelings, every stroke elevated them, disturbing and frustrating me to the point where they weren’t enough. My flesh crackled as though lava flowed through my veins.
Briefly, I had known rapture in Spring’s forest. I’d sampled it, been granted an introduction. And while I knew women could reach the same heights on their own, that they could do this to themselves, I hadn’t imagined it could be this profound.
This spurred me deeper. As my fingers traced the slot of my thighs, a tiny whimper escaped my lips. And then I entered myself, my finger slipping between the sprigs of hair and through the soft, wet seam.
The excruciating warmth had my body sizzling. My mouth fell open on a silent moan, the shock of stimulation draining my thoughts.
My insides fluttered apart, the channel spreading and then sealing around my finger as it probed. I stroked in, penetrating myself and then withdrawing, the abrasion breathtaking.
With my palm bracing the mound of flesh and my finger plying between the folds, I began a steady rhythm. I followed the sensation, each pass depleting me of oxygen and coaxing more slickness from my core. My thighs parted wider, my soles planted on the mattress, and my toes curled into the sheets.
Then I added a second finger.
The cry I’d been withholding broke from my mouth, the noise fracturing as I filled myself to the brim. Liquid coated my fingers as I pumped into the recess, and streaks of pleasure jolted up my limbs.
Using my feet for leverage, I bucked against my hand like a wanton. My wrist ground into my core, and my fingers pitched inside over and over, working myself, soaking myself.
The pleasure accumulated until I was drenched. Inarticulate noises threatened to rend from my lips, yet I kept them in. I panted under my breath as I searched with each lurch of my fingers, chasing something continuously out of reach.
And then I imagined him.
I remembered the way his body moved on the training field, when he hefted himself up and down from that branch, how his torso contracted, all skin and sinew. His athletic buttocks had clenched the way it might while snapping between a lover’s splayed legs. Heavy, thick outtakes had thrust from his lungs, matching the tempo of my hand as it siphoned in and out of my entrance.
