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That didn’t make it any less difficult to keep quiet. Warily, I unwound my shoulders and let it go for now.
The group excused Poet for his evasiveness. However, the biased traitors ganged up on me when I tried to skip my turn, too. I peered into the well’s pupil and issued a modest hope. “I wish for each of you to get what you want.”
Eliot grinned. Posy and Vale seemed moved by my gesture. Predictably, Cadence pruned her lips, all but calling me a show-off.
Meanwhile, Poet’s brows knitted. He watched me in dissatisfaction, possibly even suspicion, as if I’d given an unsavory answer.
We sat around the well, with our backs propped against the gritty stones and our legs fanning out. To my detriment and happiness, Poet and Eliot sat on either side of me. I kept them apart, as they boxed me in.
Their nearness uprooted multiple sensations. A stab of longing. A pang of remorse. I squirmed, unclear which male produced which reaction and willed myself not to lean in any partial direction.
Except Poet complicated the matter. Shrouded from view, his hand lingered by my knee, the proximity turning me into a star—a white-hot, pulsating flash.
I slid my leg nearer, bumping his wrist. His fingers spasmed in place. Indecision stilled him, or perhaps surprise.
Then his digits flexed and slid over me. The heat of his palm seared my skin to the point where I thought he might feel it, might feel everything turning molten inside me. All this upheaval from a simple touch. It ignited the rift between my legs, streaks bolting from his fingers to the private notch at my center.
Now that he’d made contact, Poet held onto my knee, caught me in his grip. His hold grew firm lest I should retreat—away from him, out of the labyrinth, or into the wild. Who knew where or how far I’d have to go to wedge enough distance between us.
After another moment, a single thumb stroked my flesh. It swayed back and forth in a languid, titillating caress.
Sensual intoxication liberated my tongue. “Why are we different? What makes us that way?”
“The Seasons,” Posy volunteered.
“Our ranks,” Vale added.
“Obviously, that’s not what Her Highness meant,” Cadence said, surprising me.
“She meant beyond those things,” Eliot supplied. “Titles and bloodlines, Seasons and breeding didn’t stop us from coming here. Not that those things disappeared in this labyrinth, but she’s talking about the rest of it—engaging with each other, confessing our desires, sitting here without regret. Not yet, at least. The night isn’t over, but that it started in the first place proves we’ve underestimated ourselves. That’s what she means.”
As my limbs relaxed, Poet’s hand drew higher. It burned a path from my knee to my upper thigh—lightly, slowly, intently. My exhalations hitched, as if caught in a hook. The world narrowed to that place where his fingers glided, pushing up my skirt until it rumpled around the gulf of my legs.
Cool air stole under the cashmere dress and rushed against my open thighs. My throat bobbed. The disarray of my clothing could be seen in daylight, but in the dark I sat unveiled without anyone realizing it, like a secret hidden in plain sight.
Simultaneously, I wanted to clench my thighs shut and spread them wide. I nudged my limb closer, giving him better access as my breathing tapered. I might have detected Poet’s own outtakes accelerate.
He spoke with nonchalance, even while his tone deepened. “I’ve heard the worddifferenttossed around too many times to make it count. ’Tis bullshit, sweetings. You need to definedifferentfurther. Tastes, manners, looks, smarts. I’ll play the devil’s advocate.”
“Naturally,” Eliot remarked.
“Can you blame him?” Posy joked. “He does it so well.”
“We’re different for endless reasons and the same for just as many,” Poet continued. “Therein lies the incandescence. There’s the true harmony.”
“Because there’s more to discover,” I summarized, trying to keep my voice steady.
“More to savor,” Eliot finished.
I flopped my head toward him. Eliot rested his brow against mine and smiled, unaware of the boundaries I straddled. His touch and the jester’s touch were obscured from one another.
I grinned back, grateful for them both, giving myself equally to them, if only in this spot.
Poet bunched the fabric of my dress in his fist, crushing the cashmere in his grip. I couldn’t tell if he was stopping himself, tormenting us both, or waiting for me to decide.
Either way, deprivation and temptation clashed.
At last, he released the skirt and sketch his palm over my inner thigh. His index finger brushed the skin from side to side, the pattern melting my core like wax.
