Page 45 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
“Human talent is a precious gift, a worthy bargain, especially if the talent is plied with both heart and mind behind it,” he says, approaching the easel, circling around it. “And when it’s—”
He stops speaking. Draws in a quick breath.
Stares at what I’ve created for him.
It’s me—my face and shoulders, crafted with creamy hues of rose and peach and milky white—all the colors of my skin. In the painting I’m flushed and dewy, my brown eyes glossy and dilated, my hair in damp auburn curls around my cheeks and temples. My shoulders are lifted, my collarbones sharply delineated, my neck arched. It’s me as I looked in the mirror last night, when I came on his fingers.
The Sugarplum Faerie is still staring, the lollipop hanging forgotten between his fingers. His lips are compressed, his eyes wide and bright.
“It’s not what you wanted,” I breathe, my heart sinking. “I can make you something else, something better—”
“No.” His sharp tone makes me jump a little.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Very deliberately he places the lollipop on the table where the paints are set up. Then he stalks toward me, his wings lifting and stirring like gauzy petals caught in a storm.
He cups the back of my neck, hauls me against him, and sinks his mouth to mine.
His lips are faintly sticky, and sweet as candy. A breath of orange-and-peppermint air flows through his lips into mine. I let my tongue slip out and travel over his mouth, tasting him, but I don’t venture near his sharp teeth. They still scare me a little.
“You blessed genius,” he whispers. “The technique is exquisite, the artistry superb, but thesubject—damn me, it’s perfect. How did you know?”
“I didn’t know,” I breathe. “I suspected, but—I’m so glad you like it.”
“Like it?” He cups my face in his hands, impulsively kissing first my forehead, then my nose, then both my cheeks, until I can’t help giggling. “I adore it. I worship it. The way you put yourself into this for me—in Faerie that has meaning, and I want you to know I value it.”
“Well, you did save my life.”
“And you tried to run from me afterward.” A mischievous, serrated smile widens on his face. “That was fun, wasn’t it? I do wish you would run from me again. Not here, of course—it’s no fun indoors. Maybe while we’re traveling…”
My pulse skitters again, arousal blended with fear and excitement at the thought of me running blindly through the forest, dodging branches, while he stalked me, hunted me, chased me down, and—
He bites his lip, grinning. “You’re imagining it, aren’t you? Picturing what I’d do to you when I caught you. You want that peril, that passion—I can smell your sweet wetness.”
“You can?” I swallow hard, pressing my legs together.
“Oh yes.” His fingers curl around my shoulders, and he leans in, his breath feathering against my ear. “I want to bathe you with my tongue, lick you all over, but especially there, between your legs. I want to savor all that sweetness flowing out of you. What I did to you last night was barely a taste of what we could enjoy together.”
I can hardly breathe. My head is swimming, my world tilting into a glorious whirl of color and sensation where he is the only thing in focus—his pretty face, golden eyes, cinnamon freckles, and soft pink hair.
“Why me?” I falter. “Louisa said you’ve had many Faerie women—”
“And men. Faeries of every gender and species. Humans too.”
“—and she said you’ve been to—to orgies—you’ve had multiple partners at once—”
The glow on his face dims. “It’s true. I understand if you don’t want me, if you think I’m too—well-used.” The smile flickering across his mouth doesn’t reach his eyes. His hands fall from my shoulders, and he turns away. “No harm done. You should eat something, and then rest. You’ve been working all day.” His tone is light, almost brittle.
I could leave it alone. The shy Clara, the one who stands by and observes, but doesn’t join in—she would let the matter drop, before it became too intense, too intimate.
But I shed one layer of that Clara with him last night, and I’m determined to push through the old veil of resistance again.
“That isn’t what I meant at all,” I say firmly.
He keeps looking at the painting, but tension thrums in the tight lines of his shoulders and arms. “No?”
“I only meant—how could someone like me be appealing to you? When you’ve had so many more intriguing people?”
