Page 141 of Trick

But because I’d helped put a rift in Briar’s friendship with Eliot, I sought to mend the damage I had done. For that reason, I’d brought him here. I had told him already how my feelings didn’t extend beyond friendship, but we never achieved closure because he’d fled too quickly for me to finish. I needed to soften that blow.

Eliot’s knee tapped mine. “Poet?”

I dragged myself from those thoughts. “Eliot, I—”

“You saw the tension between the princess and me. I know as much. But that’s not all you’re troubled by.”

“Nay, the main reason I asked you to join me is twofold. You might say everything’s linked. And when is it bloody well not?”

“So there’s something more.” He licked his lips. “Poet, if you’re ailing emotionally, I want you to know I’m your friend. I listen as much as I talk. It would be a pleasure to hear your troubles—I mean, not a pleasure per se. Not that it’s a pleasure if you’re troubled.”

That wheedled a rueful grin out of me. “My plight doesn’t matter. ’Tis you alone I want to talk about.”

A fitful light kindled in his eyes—sudden, impulsive, and hopeful. “Me.”

“You,” I intoned. “The day I rejected you left something to be desired on my part. More than that, I hate to think it’s plaguing you.”

“You’ve been thinking about me?”

“Not in the way you expect.”

He leaned forward and snatched my hands. “If that’s true, I’m glad of it.”

For fuck’s sake. This was coming out wrong. And when the devil does anything ever come out wrong from me?

I slid my fingers from his. “Eliot, you shouldn’t be. It’s more complicated than that.”

“I care not.” On an exhale, Eliot lurched across the distance, clasped the back of my neck, and mashed his lips to mine.

Wicked. Fucking. Hell.

I froze as his mouth plastered itself against me, his lips puckered and trembling. Stunned, I waited him out, and waited, and waited. And then I did something stupid.

My hands drifted to his jaw and cradled it. Holding him like this, sympathy trickled through my sternum, as well as a dose of sorrow. I yielded, my lips loosening and molding with his.

A small, wanting noise cut from Eliot’s throat. Then his mouth moved with my own, fitting and folding in a slow pace.

I slanted and kissed him back. ’Twas sweet, how he moaned against the edge of my tongue when it glided between his lips. I flexed in, searching, pondering. His mouth gave with mine, our tongues sampling each other.

Yet my lips felt no spark, found no solace, lost not a shred of control. My mouth lagged, then stalled altogether.

Always, it was calmer with the minstrel, softer and easier than with the princess. We suited one another in many ways—all but one way.

He didn’t drive me to fury and frustration. He didn’t humble me. He didn’t stir my blood with his moans. He didn’t inspire me to thoughts I’d never had, to actions I never considered myself capable of.

He didn’t smell of tart apples. He didn’t have hair so red it glowed like a bonfire.

He didn’t collect illuminated manuscripts. He didn’t spend hours in the library until ink stained his fingers. He didn’t have a chin that crinkled when he was upset.

He didn’t make my son smile. He didn’t alter the speed of my pulse—then shatter it to fucking pieces.

He wasn’t her. No one else would ever be her.

Something heavy and helpless crushed my chest to a pulp. I unfastened my lips from Eliot’s and pulled away.

His eyes remained closed, his mouth swollen. But when his lashes fanned open, the fog in his pupils cleared. It gave way to clarity as he searched my features, his own cinching with a mixture of grief, remorse, and denial. He knew what I was about to say, as I knew it wouldn’t stop him from trying again, because he wanted to keep pretending for a few hours.

Alas. Broken hearts made faults and fools of us all.

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