Page 54 of Jailer to the Death God
“It’s not that.” I bite out the words.
The Queen considers me a moment. Then she draws the curtains over the carriage windows with crisp, decisive jerks. “I am so full of plans, decisions, and responsibilities,” she says. “And I am also full of grief—so much grief it makes me physically ill if I let myself think of it. Yet despite all that wretched fullness, I am empty, too. There is so much that’s dead inside me, Arawn, such pervasive cold and darkness.” She hesitates, then strips off her gloves and places her hand on my thigh. “I need to feel something else. And like you said, we have a little time just now. There are limits to what we can do, because the carriage may stop suddenly. But if you need something from me, don’t hold back on my account. Chances are I need the same thing from you.”
My voice is hoarse and jagged. “But last night, you said—”
“Last night was—confusing. But it’s not as if we plan to do this often. Just once, right now. Then never again.”
“Never again.” My fingers curl against her knee, gathering the fabric of her skirt, bunching it and pushing it up her thigh. She’s wearing stockings underneath the gown, and my fingers skim over the soft wool, forging a path up her inner thigh, into the heat emanating from her body.
Just before I reach the source of that heat, I find the edge of the stockings. Her warm, smooth skin.
This is what I need. To feel her.
I peel the stocking down, all the way to her knee. Her grip on my thigh tightens.
With the stocking out of my way, my whole hand closes on her thigh, sliding upward.
She scoots forward on her seat, adjusting her body to give me better access. At the same time, she reaches in and places her palm over the crotch of my pants.
The heat and pressure of her small hand over the bulge of my cock is more than I can take. This slow, tentative play—it’s not what I crave. I want to strip her body naked and rub every part of her against my bare skin. I want to rut into her like a beast. I want to ravage her, devour her, take payment in passion for her invasion of my life.
I look up, into her blue-gray eyes, all my fury and anguish centered in my gaze, my body quaking with repressed violence.
She returns my look, and her eyes flash with understanding. “Do it,” she says. “But remember I have to appear before the people later.”
I seize the little Queen’s thighs, shove her skirts up to her waist, and jerk her toward me, desperate for the fragrance I can smell between her legs. She stifles a squeal as I drag her center toward my mouth. I position her with her legs hooked over my shoulders, her spine curved against my thighs and stomach, her head propped between my knees. I grasp her rear, lifting her even more, like a cup I’m cradling two-handed.
She’s wearing panties. Silky, soaked. I let my fangs slide out and I tug the moistened fabric away from her sex, biting through it, jerking and ripping until it gives way entirely.
I spit it out onto the carriage floor and turn back to her.
And there she is—two plump lips shining and damp, with tender folds between them. At the top, where the folds meet, is a slightly raised nub, pink and delicate.
“This is not what I expected,” gasps the Queen. She has one hand braced on the edge of the seat I forced her to vacate. The other hand palms her forehead; she’s frowning, flushed, squirming, her hair tumbling onto the carriage floor.
I tighten my grip on her bottom and lift her a little more while I replace my devilish teeth with human ones. Then I plunge my face between her legs.
The flood of exquisite sensation that rolls over my body banishes my chains instantly. With a reckless groan of bliss, I lick deeper, inhaling the scent, savoring the taste. She is like velvety roses, like brown sugar, like honey and salt—the most delectable blend of savory richness and feminine sweetness. I bathe the outer lips all over, then plunge my tongue into her succulent depths as far as I can.
The Queen trembles in my grip, bracing herself with both hands now.
“Godsfuck,” she whispers.
I had almost forgotten about her, even though I’m devouring her. I was so immersed in the flavors I’m enjoying. But her pleasure is important as well, so I refocus my attention to the peak at the top of her folds. I know the function of a clit, and I’m eager to experiment with one myself for the first time.
“Tell me what feels good to you,” I murmur against the skin of her thigh. She tastes good there too, so I kiss the warm skin, a press of open lips, a quick glide of my tongue. The Queen releases a tiny, shrill moan.
That sound thrills through my entire frame, and my cock hardens more.
“Do you like this, little Queen?” I ask, and I bathe her sensitive nub with my tongue.
She mews. No words.
Perhaps that means yes.
That part of her is so tiny, yet so powerful. It renders her beautifully helpless.
I take a moment to enjoy the feel of her small, lithe body against mine, to revel in the spill of her pale hair, to delight in the tortured bliss on her face as she writhes on my lap. Then I squeeze her ass, lifting her sex to my mouth again.
