Page 48 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
“I… I…”
“Words, darling.”
“I can’t tell you. Not yet. But if I’d known this was possible—this would have been one of my fantasies.”
His cock flexes inside me, and a little thrill runs through my clit. “Oh, god, Finias, I can’t take any more—please, I need to come. Please.”
Another twitch, deep inside, and he moans. “Since you said my name so sweetly… go ahead, sugar. Fuck yourself on my cock.”
With a soft cry, I grip the table with both hands and I obey him. I fuck myself on him, shamelessly, noisily, shrill gasping moans bursting from my lips with every thrust. He never lets go of my hips; he follows my rhythm, surging upward when I descend. He’s groaning—he sounds more young and vulnerable and broken than I expected—he’s losing himself in me, and I love it, I need it, I—
Oh—it’s—
God—
I can’t I can’tI can’t—
It’s too much, it’s too beautiful—it’s an explosion inside me, glittering shrapnel raining along every nerve.
I’m caught in the violence of the orgasm—I convulse soundlessly, rigid, my hands spastically clutching his thighs. He tucks three fingers against my clit, and a second wave of excruciating bliss hits me, carrying me out of my body—almost. Almost, because when his hips buck compulsively upward and he comes, gasping and groaning, I feel it. I feel him pressing my clit with those careful fingers, his thighs shaking under my hands. I feel him wrap his other arm around me, across my breasts. His chest heaves against my back.
He lifts me then, tilting me forward until my front is pressed to the table and he’s standing erect, still inside me. There’s a soft whirr, and in my peripheral vision I see his wings snap out wide. He was sitting on them, but he’s flaring them now, stretching them.
“Your wings show your moods,” I said faintly.
“Sometimes,” he admits. “I try to control it. Sometimes when I’m aroused, or coming, they want to rise too.” He clasps one cheek of my bottom, easing himself out of me. “Fuck, sugar. I can see my cum inside you.”
My pussy spasms a little at the comment, at my name on his lips.
“It’s oozing out of you, Clara,” he says quietly. “Would you like to taste it?”
I inhale, ready to say no; but I want to.
I want everything.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He dips a finger at my entrance, and I put out my tongue.
He’s creamy, vanilla-sweet with a hint of cinnamon and—maybe a twist of brandy?
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “Sugarplum Faerie indeed.”
“I can be rather addictive.” Finias chuckles, swipes another dollop, and places it on my tongue. “Would you like more?”
But before I can answer him, a violent crash resounds through the house.
14
Throughout the evening, Finias keeps pacing and fretting about Clara not eating or drinking enough.
“She is fine,” I tell him. “She does this sometimes. When she gets into her creative zone, it’s best to leave her alone.”
I wander around his living space, touching every one of the candy jars until Lir, draped on the sofa, growls, “Is it possible for you to be still?”
“Of course I can be still.” I plop onto the sofa, and he scoots farther away from me.
I try not to move. I really do. But despite the day’s travel, my body is buzzing with nervous energy. I jiggle first one knee, then the other. When I manage to force both knees to stop moving, I start rocking a little, back and forth, while picking at the hem of my overdress.
