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Like a sly devil, he crawled over me. Like a willing captive, I rolled onto my back and spread my thighs for his weight.
We moved in sync, my legs knitting around his backside and his hips prying me farther apart. With his cock braced against my pussy, he hunched over. “I should congratulate myself on wielding that weapon with finesse.”
“You have enough vanity to supply this continent,” I pretended to reprimand, arching and moaning as he leaned in and dragged his mouth over the sensitive bridge between my neck and shoulder.
His mirth vibrated against my skin, then darkened into a purr. “I take it you liked our little plaything?”
“Yes,” I gusted as he licked my collarbones. “I liked it immensely.”
However stunned, I had lost the ability to feel shame for anything we did or anything he brought out of me. I loved it all, wanted it all, needed it all. Like air and water.
Proof of the jester’s impact on me was not limited to my pulse. Further evidence manifested in the delicate pulse of my core, the walls of my cunt once again growing damp.
As a pampered soul, the jester knew how to spoil his lovers in kind. He probed my folds with the tip of his cock, the sound of rustling blankets filling the room, along with a collective tremor of leaves outside. But for some reason, the reminder of his many conquests sent an unexpected pang through me. Not out of envy but protectiveness.
On another moan, I veered back and framed his profile. “Why did you pleasure them?” When Poet’s gaze sobered in confusion, I slanted my hips, and he took the signal. Easing his cock backward, he pulled back several inches and simply sprawled himself between my legs, holding me as I held him.
“All of those courtiers back in Spring.” I shook my head. “Why?”
Poet hesitated, distant memories rising to the forefront. I had broached this subject long before we journeyed to Autumn, far back on a night in his Spring suite. He had explained his motives, but additional details were missing.
I cradled his jaw, heedful to keep my voice low and gentle. “I would never judge you. I just … I want to understand.”
Aside from simply enjoying sex, he’d told me his promiscuity had also sprung from loneliness and the need to release tension. It had stemmed from the pressure of keeping treasonous secrets from the Crown, not to mention the isolation from Nicu.
Yet how had Poet found gratification in people who would spurn his son? Why copulate with his adversaries willingly, much less erotically?
“Fame and acclaim, though not quite the same,” Poet rhymed while thumbing the oak leaf braid dangling among my loose hair. “Not every soul in Spring was the enemy. Isn’t that what we’re crusading for? Cadence. Posy. Vale. Eliot. In Spring, they weren’t the enemy.”
“That’s true,” I conceded.
“I chose my playmates carefully, targeting the ones who let certain sympathizing tendencies slip. Otherwise, I picked those whom I wanted to ridicule or strip of secrets. For that was the second motivation. Giving people orgasms tends to loosen tongues, which provides clout, bargaining chips, and leverage. Fucking provided a quick sexual fix, in addition to long-term advantages.”
“Yet you still pleasured them,” I pointed out.
“I dominated them,” he corrected, sweeping his nose against mine before curling his deceptive mouth. “And I pleasured myself.” That crafty grin dropped. “I turned them into the truest of fools.”
I shuffled, and Poet moved in tandem, comprehending each of my intentions. As I sat up, so did he.
The jester slung me on his lap and tangled my limbs around his hips. In kind, I scraped my fingers through his hair, skirted my knuckles over the stubble, and ran one thumb over the kohl smudged beneath his lower eyelids.
When he sucked in a ragged breath and clenched his eyes shut, my stomach flipped. Tenderness and sorrow overwhelmed my senses as I thought of him targeting people, tempting people, and tricking them. I imagined this man reaping ecstasy from each dalliance and every deception, yet always returning to a cold and empty suite, with no one there waiting, no one who knew his true self. Nobody for him to talk with.
Such was the life of a Royal. But whereas I had Mother, Poet had no family in Spring’s castle. For all his popularity, and for the fans and admirers who wanted him, he’d been entirely alone.
I pressed my forehead to his and framed his face. “I’m sorry no one was there to touch you like this.”
Another grin dabbed at his lips, this one caught between wistfulness and reverence. “Ah. But there’s the problem, sweeting.” His eyelids blasted open, flooding me with so much green. I gasped as he jerked me into him and hissed against my mouth, “No one elsecould havetouched me like this—”
On that final word, I flung myself into him and clamped my mouth over his. With a growl, Poet responded. He hitched me tighter around his waist and slanted his lips, fusing them to mine. We sucked in oxygen. Our nostrils flared, and his wicked tongue strapped around my own, tugging me into a passionate stupor.
The distended roof of Poet’s cock spread my crease, wetting my pussy. I’d barely uttered a moan, scarcely taken a moment to broaden my thighs and sink on his erection when the jester grunted in misery. He inched back with effort, gulping harshly, “You shall ruin me.”
“Then why did you stop?” I complained, lost in delirium.
Poet consoled himself by relishing my whine. “Now, now,” he panted, sensuously stroking my chin. “We can’t have a victory lap without sustenance. If you’re going to berate me about sleep, I get to pester you about food. When was the last time you ate?”
“Dinner,” I managed to answer. “I last ate at dinner.”
