Page 7 of The Puppeteer and the Poisoned Pawn

The throaty groan soaks my panties, stripping me of any ladylike ideals I have left. I’m licking the length of him, up and down, tasting, swirling, worshiping every terrible inch. And the more I do, the harder he pants. It’s fuel to the tingling between my legs. I start to moan while I choke him down, letting his tip touch the back of my throat.

“You’re such a good girl,” he utters.

I need this. Right here, I can forget, I can believe it never happened. And I’ve even managed to drown my rage and fill it with pleasure. Greystone growls at my rhythm, using my hands to grip his base. He’s writhing, fingers weaving into my hair, completely at my mercy.

“Like this?” I ask, pulling away gently.

“Yes.” He smiles, eyes hooded and drunk. “You’re doing so well.”

I take him in my mouth again, this time ravenous, faster, deeper.

“Sweetheart, you’re going to make me—lose it.”

But I don’t stop. I remove one hand to touch myself, rubbing between my legs until I’m chasing an inferno of pleasure. I let out a breathy moan, and Greystone is tightening his fists, grunting.

“You want me to spill in your mouth, sweetheart?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Then I need you to come for me, rub your pretty little clit right in front of me. Can you do that?” His tone is authoritative and laced with thick droplets of lust. I moan against him in answer.

“Because when I kiss you again, I want to taste the mark I leave in you. That you areoursto keep.”

I explode. Completely taken over with a firestorm of euphoria, bliss, agonizing pleasure that could easily be mistaken for a drug. And the sound that rumbles up my throat is cut off by his cock filling me up.

Greystone jerks, gasping as he spills over my tongue, both salty and sweet. When he stops pulsing, he pulls himself out, mesmerized as some of him leaks past my lips.

With the pad of his thumb, he wipes away his hot liquid.

“Swallow.”

One gulp and it’s running down my throat. All of him.

Greystone hums his approval, lifting my shivering body from the floor, tucking me under the covers, and spooning his body around mine.

“You’re not alone in the dark anymore,” he whispers.

3. Demechnef Training

“I’m sweating in weird places.” Niles catches up to my left, jogging like he’s moments away from dropping dead.

Dessin was gone by the time I woke up, meeting with the war strategists to plan how we’re going to save DaiSzek. Leaving me to fester in my disappointment, my solitude, my silent wrath.

Warrose got the rest of us dressed, fed, and out of the mountain to train. Chekiss was sent to the library; his lungs, after years of drowning, could never withstand physical conditioning. He’d rather read about war strategy. Sharpen his mind with whatever Demechnef could offer.

Warrose leads us on a slow jog through rocky terrain. We’re equipped with hiking boots, loose moss-green tunics, and soft black pants.

“Same,” I tell Niles. I’m covered head to toe in sticky sweat, panting like I’m about to cough up a lung, and we’ve only been running for seven minutes.

“Pick up the pace, Ruthie,” Niles hollers over his shoulder.

I glance back at Ruth to see her descend into a fast walk, shaking her head. I slow down, waiting for her to catch up. “I’m done.” She waves her hand, shooing us away.

Niles and I both come to a stop.

“Are you hurt?” Warrose is suddenly cutting between us, trudging up to Ruth as she plants herself firmly on the ground, completely out of breath.

“No.” She shakes her head. “But women aren’t made for exercising, which is why we fast and control our meal intake.”

---