Page 109 of Trick

I’d been drinking from a chalice when his silhouette halted beside me. Then he leaned his chin over my shoulder and blew insolence into my ear. “Ten minutes hereafter, I shall have you moaning.”

I almost choked on the nectar.

Andten minutes hereafter, ensconced in a shrouded hollow, my head slumped back as Poet feasted on the curve of my neck, his tongue lashing my skin raw. One arm banded around my middle, fastening my spine to his chest, while the other hand dipped under my raised skirt and cupped my damp center.

His wrist pressed into my clitoris, and his fingers sketched the outlines of my folds over the drawers. The contact hurled sparks through my bloodstream. My arm reached up and back, so that my fingers clamped the nape of his neck for balance. I needed, wanted, demanded.

Poet obliged. He sucked on my flesh and rolled my clit with his wrist, teasing it into a frenzy. Then he palmed my mouth to quell the moans.

***

Someone was following me.

As my heels clicked against the polished floor, my spine chilled.

A blot of color flitted in my periphery but made no sound. I halted several feet from the archive library door, then swerved around. My eyes skipped across the corridor but found only iron chandeliers and lupine pots.

I must have been wrong. It was the middle of the day, and I was exactly where people expected me to be. Clearly, I was overreacting.

***

Atop an unmanned turret beneath the evening sky, the jester’s hands scorched my flesh. My nipples studded, pushing firmly through my bodice. The crests became so tight, I squirmed for relief, aching for the enclosure of his mouth. Modesty fled me, that need baring itself to his perceptive eyes, which simmered in response.

Poet waited for me to change my mind, made sure that I meant it. While holding my gaze, he unlaced me. Every thread fell limp under his fingers, every tug pulling at my sanity. The cumbersome chore had us panting until the dress loosened.

My breasts quivered free as the fabric drooped, barely concealing me now. Unbidden, my sheepishness took over. Despite all we’d done, my clothes had always stayed on.

I moved to cover the slumped neckline, to brace it higher. But Poet cupped my chin and framed my profile with his free hand. “Look at me, sweet thorn.” And when I did, his expression halted my fingers. “I want to see your body. I want every beguiling part of you on my mouth. But most of all …” His breath sailed across my lips. “I want to see every truth about you—everything raw and real. I want you to destroy me.” He ducked his head and met my gaze. “Show me those lovely secrets, and I promise, I’ll honor them.”

The words brushed my skin like feathers. My arms fell to my sides.

Fastening his gaze to mine, Poet draped a single finger down the bodice’s center, slowly peeling the material from my body. The panels flapped apart, and the laces spread.

My breasts pushed from the fabric and spilled into the night. The air rushed at them, brushing the taut skin.

Poet’s eyes dragged from my face to my breasts. They pitched out between us, small and capped in points, which darkened from his attention. Those irises flickered like burning wicks, heat and reverence consuming his gaze.

He cupped my breasts, the sensation of his hands balancing their weight swiping the oxygen from my lungs. A moan wrung from my mouth as his thumbs circled wide and then narrowed to the centers. He sketched the mounds, swept across my nipples, and pinched the hard nubs, turning me into a quivering mess.

Poet shook his head and muttered, “Wicked fucking hell.”

Life exploded as he bent his head. The first breast strained into the hot cavern of his mouth, his tongue curling around the pellet, lashing it delicately. I cried out and arched into him, my digits spearing through his hair. He lapped at me, sucked on me, his tongue plying my nipple with streaks of pleasure.

When I could barely utter a coherent word, he switched to the other breast. His kisses covered each inch of flesh, the damp heat of his lips taking me in. On a hum, his mouth cinched around the bud and licked, and I made every raw and real sound possible.

***

While waiting for Poet in one of the gardens, I wandered into an iron rotunda, its gate having been left open. Rose bushes threaded through the area. Thorns barbed the stems, in sharp contrast to the soft petals.

Spring bred the greenest trees on our continent, as well as the most fragrant blooms. Their perfume saturated the enclosure, wiping out any other scent in the vicinity.

Caught in the aroma, I stepped nearer. The pad of my finger extended toward one of the rose spikes.

A hand shot out and clamped around mine. Glancing sideways, my gaze hooked onto Poet’s, our fingers halting less than an inch from the thorn. Mayhem and protectiveness flashed across the jester’s features, silently warning me that I’d been close to making a grave mistake. I had forgotten what the flowers in this Season could do to people.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Poet lifted my knuckles to his lips, then spoke against them while staring at me. “Never those.”

***

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