Page 96 of Healer to the Ash King
He exhales a long, shuddering breath and grips my upper arms. “Gods, Cailin.”
I tease open the fastenings of his pants, wiggle my fingers inside, and circle the hot, satiny length of his cock. I tug it out and touch the tip, pressing gently. One long stroke along the side, from base to head. The King’s hands tighten on my arms.
“Lately I’ve forgotten to make the proper obeisance,” I whisper. “Allow me to correct that omission now, Your Majesty.”
“I love those words on your tongue,” he whispers, as I remove my mask and sink to my knees.
I lick him first, relishing the smooth, salty heat of his skin. And then I run his length all the way into my mouth, taking him as deep as I can. He voices a shattered groan and reaches up to grip the wooden beam overhead with both hands.
I work him quickly, my head bobbing as my lips pump along his shaft. I tuck my fingers into his pants, cupping his balls. His whole body strains and heaves, and he makes the sweetest sounds—quick helpless moans of pleasure. The overhead beam of the booth groans with the pressure his powerful arms are exerting on it.
Just to torture him, I remove my mouth and fingers, and he cries out, his cock twitching helplessly, naked and yearning. When I slide him into the warm comfort of my mouth again, he nearly sobs as he comes apart for me. He quakes with the force of his climax, jetting heat across my tongue, down my throat.
I want to do this with him over and over for years. Forever.
He puts himself away and refastens his pants. But the glow in his eyes has only dimmed a little. Planting himself on the padded bench, he pats the triangle of space between his spread legs. “Come here, Healer.”
I sit down, nestling my ass against him. He hums with pleasure and tilts my head aside so he can kiss my neck again. Then he leans me back, supporting me with his left arm while his right hand rakes up my skirts, delving beneath them.
“Wicked woman,” he murmurs at my ear, as his fingers lightly caress my bare sex. “You knew I would want to pet this pretty little kitten tonight, didn’t you?”
My only answer is a soft moan, because his fingernail is teasing a certain delicate spot, circling slowly. His hand glides through my folds, and then he dips the two central fingers inside me, his palm pressed flat against my mound. I am helpless to that hold, and when he curls his fingers slightly and begins a rhythmic pumping motion, I voice several short, breathless screams because it feels so good—how does this feel so good?
I’m soaked and swollen, and the sound of his hand slapping against me is so loud I should be embarrassed, especially since only thin partitions separate us from the street. But I can’t bring myself to care. He is breaking me down, working me to the limit.
“Are you coming, kitten?” he breathes roughly in my ear. “I can feel you squeezing my fingers. Come undone for me, sweetheart. Come for your King.”
He nuzzles my cheek, whispering more filthy encouragement, and when he grinds the heel of his hand hard against my clit, I break. Spirals of glorious bliss twirl outward from his hand through my sex, my belly, along my spine. I arch, squealing softly, and he croons, “Yes, kitten, yes. Gods, I adore you, you beautiful thing.”
A deeper thrill races through me at those words. Mutely I seek his mouth, and he kisses me, accepting the last few whimpers and moans as I recover from the ecstasy.
Afterward, I replace my mask and let my skirts fall back into place, even though my inner parts are still wet and warm and tremulous. The King shows me a compartment under the padded bench where a special type of soap is stored. “It is mixed with alcohol, and cleans without water,” he tells me. We rub our hands with it before leaving the booth.
The street outside is bathed in clean night air, but as we walk past the pinkish glazed lamps, I notice that each one is redolent with royal incense.
“The smell of royal incense doesn’t bother me as much now,” I remark. “When I first came to the city, I hated it.”
“I dislike it too,” he admits. “Too rich, too cloying.”
“Then why not change it?”
“My mother chose the blend, not long after she married my father.”
“Oh.” I take his hand, squeezing it lightly. “Then I will learn to appreciate it.”
We’re out in the festival again, passing booths where craftspeople wave their goods aloft, shouting to passersby. There are plenty of items related to the Calling of the Favored, and I’m shocked to see a few different artists hawking “portraits of the Healer” and other items inked with my likeness—cloth bags, handkerchiefs, tunics, and tapestries. Many vendors offer golden “Healer ribbons” alongside their regular wares.
Now that I’ve seen the ribbons, I begin to notice how many festival guests are wearing the bits of gold fabric in their hair or around their wrists. It’s enough to make me blush deeply beneath my mask.
Perish darts aside and swaps a coin for a gold ribbon. “Tie it around my wrist for me,” he says with a wink. “I want the Healer to know I fancy her.”
“I think she knows,” I murmur, winding it around his forearm and tying a neat knot.
But my heart is wary of happiness. The Ruse Wake festival feels like an alternate world, like something from a beautiful dream. He adores me now, but how will he treat me tomorrow, when reality resumes?
Perish points out a memorial wall bedecked with colorful silken ribbons and bunches of flowers. “The people we lost during the invasion,” he says simply.
“Is the Ruse Wake for them?”
