Page 46 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
He traces the top of the canvas idly with a pointed black nail. “Doing a thing over and over can be pleasurable, but without real emotion, it drains the soul. I’ve always been popular at orgies because, as I told you, my cum is a different flavor every time I orgasm. At parties and revels, everyone wants to sample me. They work on me ceaselessly, wringing out my pleasure, but I’m merely a novelty, a party trick. A joke, sometimes. They want my delicious release, but not me.”
There’s a soft pathos in his voice. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grape-sized orb, which he crushes into powdery rainbow dust between his fingers. Instantly the paint disappears off the used brushes, and all the little stray daubs of color on the worktable evanesce. The brushes return to their holder, and the paint pots tidy themselves into neat rows in their case.
“Eventually I became so jaded I couldn’t come at all, despite the wildest and most depraved stimulation,” says Finias. “So I changed my ways.”
“And that helped you?”
“Yes. But the difference is not the sexual acts themselves.” He turns to face me. “I’ve done every possible act a hundred times or more. The difference is the person with whom I choose to be intimate. I’ve become much more selective in the past few years. I don’t regret my decades of debauchery—I had fun, but I need something else now. I need to connect to someone first, before I fuck them. Much as I tease my cousin for his near celibacy, I do respect his choice. There is a wisdom in it—taking care to save your keenest moments of pleasure to share with a being who sparks more than a passing lust. And you, darling, have charmed and intrigued me since the moment I first saw you. It’s your scent, your skill, your spirit—all of that, and somethingelse—damned if I know exactly what it is.”
He chuckles, with a look of merry confusion.
I can’t restrain my own smile. I let it flood my face while I take a step toward him.
“Did that answer your question?” he says, low, his gaze warming.
“Definitely.” I press my hands to his pale chest, and his breath hitches. His wings give a quick, rippling flutter.
“You have depths no one has explored yet,” he whispers. “And I intend to be the first to explore them, if you’ll allow it—as much as we can, anyway. The timing is shit, of course.”
“The worst possible timing.” I tilt my face up to his.
His kiss blooms across my mouth, trickles along my throat like honey, races warm through my veins. I’m flushed, flooded with molten desire, forgetting everything except the feel of his hard, smooth body beneath my palms, the graze of his nails against my back, through the gown. I want to tear off my clothes and bare myself to him again.
But as I sway my body into his, with a little moan of eagerness, he breaks away, panting, and holds me at arm’s length.
“No,” he says firmly. “First you will eat, and drink. You haven’t taken care of yourself today. Have you even paused to piss?”
I wince. “Once, I think?”
“Come with me.” He takes my hand and hurries me along the hall to a small washroom. “Relieve yourself. Now.”
“It’s strange to me that the Fae have these bodily needs too,” I muse, stepping inside, surveying the washstand and toilet.
“Do your business.” He gives me a stern look. Somehow he looks even more handsome with that sober expression than he does with his usual laughing demeanor. I’m intrigued, so I decide to push him a little.
“I’m not a pet,” I tell him. “You can’t command me to piss.”
“Yes, I can, because you’re a naughty human who forgets to care for yourself. Which means I must see to it that you do. If you don’t get busy, I’ll vanish this door and watch you until you’re done.”
I give a little panicked screech and shut the door.
He chuckles from the other side. “I could remove the obstacle, you know.”
“Don’t,” I beg. “And don’t listen, or I won’t be able to go.”
“I’ll go wait at the end of the hall.” Soft footsteps retreat, and after a moment I’m able to relax.
When I come out of the washroom, he’s halfway down the hall, smirking. “How were you holding so much liquid in that little body?”
“You liar!” I push his shoulder. “You said you wouldn’t listen.”
“I said I’d wait down the hall. But yes, we can lie. Comforting, isn’t it? That’s one more way we’re like you mortals.”
“Not comforting at all,” I mutter, re-entering the work room. The tray he brought is still on the table, so I lift the lid. There’s a steaming portion of tender-looking meat, some boiled potatoes with butter, and a handful of green vegetables I can’t identify. Some sort of leaves, sauteed and crispy at the edges.
“This looks delicious. But what about the Prince and Louisa?”
“Oh, we ate hours ago,” he says. “It’s actually quite late. Nearly midnight.”
