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His cock braced along my slit, heavy and hot. The sight and feel of him drenched me, so that I melted onto his crown. Poet’s eyelids hooded, yet his muscles tensed, holding back.
Instead of giving in, he hunched forward and ran the tip of his tongue over the shell of my ear. Then he whispered, “Don’t move, Highness. Or this jester will make you regret it.”
Goosebumps plied my skin. “What are you—”
His finger pressed against my mouth. “And no complaining.”
But when I let out a displeased grunt, he responded with a throaty chuckle. “Obstinate heiress.”
Quicker than I could process, the jester rose from the bed, the motion sinuous. I had barely uttered another protest when he bled into the shadows and stalked away. The toned muscles of Poet’s rear contorted with his movements, the view stalling my tongue. Seasons above, those dimples.
He sauntered downstairs. However, before the jester vanished, he turned his head slightly and placed a digit to his mouth, reminding me. Not a word, nor a movement. If I defied this rule, he would know. Even without being here to witness it, this man would know.
I heard the front door open, the clamor of rain blasting through the cabin before the partition shut again. He was going outside? For what? My brows furrowed, anticipation clashing with irritation. I lay sprawled on the bed, riled up by his insolence and the sight of his buttocks, now so far out of reach. The scoundrel had just left me here, with my legs spread and my core throbbing.
What would he do if I disobeyed? The notion inspired a tiny thrill to ripple across my skin.
Turning up my chin, I ground my elbows into the mattress and scooted myself closer to the headboard railing. A small rebellion, but enough to provoke him. With my theatrical jester, it rarely took much.
My lips curved. Then my smile dropped as the door opened and shut once more. The click of a deadbolt caused me to jolt, palpitations jumping into my throat. For some reason, that noise had sounded intentional and decisive. Final, like a jester approaching his target.
The sound of rustling filtered through the treehouse, followed by the wet flap of a bundle. He must have collected our discarded clothing. Yet that could not be the only reason, not when I’d been laid out like a banquet. Poet would never dismiss that in favor of tidying up.
No. He’d ventured outdoors for something more.
Suddenly, I could not decide whether it had been clever or folly not to heed the jester’s warning. Footsteps thumped up the stairs. I squirmed, then forced myself to be still when he emerged like an incubus.
The spectacle robbed me of breath. He stood there, dripping and ethereal, with rivulets streaming from his collarbones to his navel. Shadows threaded across Poet’s face and body, meticulously accentuating the smooth and hard parts.
The chiseled countenance. The gleaming pupils.
That athletic frame, hewn from rocks. That smooth plate of skin and sinew.
The tall body of a dancer, the feline agility of an acrobat, the serpentine reflexes of a viper, and the whipcord form of an assassin. Someday, he might kill me purely from the pleasure. Or we might vanquish each other at the same time.
Muscles stacked across Poet’s abdomen, and his cock lifted high from between the narrow slopes of his hips. The pome flushed. The stem glistened with arousal, the way it would once it pitched between my folds.
The view proved too remarkable to be real. My lips pursed; curse this man’s vanity. No one should be permitted to look like him, though my jester would disagree and call himself entitled.
Nonetheless, a selfish impulse overtook my thoughts. This man belonged to me. He was mine, and mine alone.
Poet’s gaze skewered through the room and torched a path across my body. His orbs engulfed me, from my toes to my face, before landing on the seam between my thighs. He traced every inch of my cunt like a fanatic, as if I was the one who could not be real. The magnitude of his attention turned me into a soaking mess, warmth heating my folds as well as my cheeks.
The pulse in my core intensified. From the patch of hair at my center, the crest of nerves projected like evidence of my desire. That, and the slickness leaking from me.
“Heavenly,” he murmured. “You are a goddess of Autumn.”
My skin flushed anew. No one had ever spoken to me this way. Even after all the things that had left his mouth, I hadn’t grown used to this. “I do not know how to take such compliments.”
“Aye, you do. Shall I remind you?”
I opened my mouth to … truly, I couldn’t fathom what I intended to say. In any event, words fled me the moment Poet noted my change in position on the bed. His eyes simmered, those irises the color of mischief. He tsked, his impertinent tongue clicking. “Misbehaving already, my thorn?” The corner of his mouth crooked. “How proud you make me.”
Equal pride thrust through me. However, I cautioned myself not to underestimate that indulgent expression. This jester meant to seek retribution.
Again, it had either been clever or folly of me. Clever, because I wanted him to overwhelm me with pleasure. Folly, because he would prolong the ecstasy to the point where it became torturous. We had played such games before, but the experiences always felt novel, and the outcomes were often unpredictable.
Yet not once had I regretted it. Thus, I restrained a grin and elevated my chin higher.
