Page 13 of Sons of Sorrow
He pushed his cock inside me. It was all I could do not to scream. I pressed my head against the wall, my fingers splayed over the warm wood. He was laughing. Sylvain was laughing under his breath with every torturous thrust, even while his hands, his lips, his ridiculous extra appendages set my body afire, inside and out.
As if I had any chance of surviving beyond a scant handful of minutes. I’d never been pleasured like this before, the most sensitive parts of me being stimulated in concert. Sylvain curled the fingers of one hand around my throat, tweaked my nipple with the other. And the vines — gods, the vines followed suit, connected to one mind, commanded by their master, their prince.
I threw my head back and wailed, making a spattered white mess against the wall, ruining this perfect, ancient wood. Sylvain bucked once, twice, then pushed himself all the way in, groaning, his breath hot against my ear, his muscles straining against me, straining to hold me.
We stayed that way for some moments, two sweat-laden statues, him sculpted out of marble, me held in place by his strength and his alarmingly erotic potted plant. I panted, caught my breath. The vines around my wrists politely receded, allowing me to sweep the back of my hand across my forehead. I turned my head, enough for a glimpse of Sylvain’s dewy, glowing, satisfied face.
“You’re terrible,” I whispered, still trembling, still snared in his trap.
“I know.”
“You’re incredible,” I added, meaning it from the bottom of my heart.
“I know,” he answered, this time with a smile.
Gods. I could only hope that the entire palace didn’t hear me screaming.
6
I openedmy eyes to the twittering of morning birds. A shaft of sunlight peered through the drapes, casting a puddle of warmth on my cheek. I yawned, stretched, shifted along the silken sheets. Sylvain crossed the bedroom floor carrying a lacquered tray with a lovely spread of local delights.
Wait. Didn’t I hear the door to his bedchambers click a moment ago? That was part of why I’d woken up. He’d just come in with breakfast.
And I wasn’t one to reject the pure decadence of being served breakfast in bed by my fae prince boyfriend, but something about this was awfully fishy. Not breakfast itself, though, no tuna or salmon or sardines, only an array of delicious pastries, teas, and pressed juices.
“Breakfast is served, oh sweet summoner.”
My mouth watered as I surveyed the tray Sylvain slid onto the bed between us. Soft, sticky honey buns served with clotted cream, and jams made from the Verdance’s fruit and flowers. A small assortment of sliced cheeses, accompanied by nuts and a dainty variety of fried meats.
“You do spoil me,” I told him, reaching for a glass of juice. “But if I didn’t know any better, Prince Sylvain? I’d say you were hiding me in your bedchambers for a reason.”
Sylvain flinched like I’d just accused him of murder. Weird how he could successfully pretend to be a Prince of Summer when we first met, lying to me without batting an eyelash, and here he was flailing miserably over breakfast.
In most other cases, Sylvain was a terrible liar, though I had noticed that he would only ever overcompensate and fumble when it came to the smallest, silliest things. Finishing the last diet soda in the mini-fridge in our Wispwood bedchambers, for example, before promising on his mother’s honor that he would embark on a deadly quest, all to replace it.
“This was meant to be a gesture,” Sylvain said, all grand and bloviating. “Something one does for one’s beloved. As one does. Is breakfast in bed not to your liking, little human?”
This adorable goof was definitely lying about something.
“It’s not that,” I said, munching on a bit of honeyed bread, doing my best to keep talking and not just moan myself into a state of sugary bliss. “We took a secret entrance through one of the back gardens to get into the palace this time. Which was very cool, but I haven’t even seen your mom and Yvette yet. It almost feels like you’re hiding me from them. Or them from me.”
“Preposterous,” Sylvain said, his chest expanding practically with every syllable. “Why, I shall take you directly to meet them once we are finished with breakfast. And performed our ablutions. And made ourselves presentable.” He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Mother loves me to pieces, but she’ll box my ears if I show up looking grubby.”
I sipped on my mango juice, one eyebrow cocked. Maybe taking me through the secret passage was just Sylvain’s way of showing me another cool thing about the Amber Pavilion, and nothing more.
“Fine,” I said, building a stack of cheese and sausage on another slice of bread. “This is very nice, Sylvain. I do appreciate the gesture.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, half exasperated, half pleased, tearing into a rasher of bacon.
We cleaned up, washed up, and got dressed. For me, that meant an undershirt, a casual jacket, and jeans. Normally I’d throw on the Wispwood threads I’d become so accustomed to, the sleeveless ranging getup with the cloak. But it was chillier here in the Autumn Court, and we weren’t planning to get into another scrap with pumpkin people. At least I hoped that was the case.
For Sylvain, naturally, that meant going mostly au naturel, just a pair of leafy trousers which he’d dressed up with a matching leafy capelet. A shorter cloak compared to what he wore the first time we visited the Amber Pavilion. A casual cape, if there even was such a thing.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I told him, nudging open his bedchamber door. I peered down the corridor, despite knowing I couldn’t see all the way to the pixie gardens from there. “Where do you suppose that little rascal is? Shouldn’t we have Satchel with us when we greet your mother? It only seems polite.”
Sylvain chuckled, pulling the door shut, tugging gently on my wrist. “Satchel will find us when he finds us. Let him have his fun.”
“You’re right,” I said, smiling, stumbling along after him. “Little dude deserves a break every now and again.”
