Page 102 of Burn

The room spun, objects and shadows whirling in my vision. In a flash motion, Poet wheeled me away from him, and my back slammed against his chest. I gasped, the maneuver knocking the air from my lungs. For an instant, I had overlooked how quickly and deftly this jester could move. And how creative he could be.

Sliding his digits around the front of my neck, Poet gently but firmly urged my head back, until my scalp pressed into his collarbone. He dipped his jaw, heady exhalations scalding the line of my throat as he spoke against it. “Don’t move until I tell you to.”

Anticipation shimmied up my inner thighs. Love, lust, and longing coalesced inside me. All three squeezed my heart, roused my blood, and struck the wet rift between my legs.

While facing the tapestries, I felt the first lap of his mouth. Those parted lips gusted heat onto my flesh, then skated along the rim of my throat. And I went limp. Sinking into him, I emitted a string of fluttery noises as Poet etched my skin, sketching me from my shoulder, to my nape, to my jaw.

Moaning, I reached back and hauled my fingers into his hair, bolting him to me. That mouth indulged, opening and seizing on the delicate crook of my neck. A yelp blasted from me as the jester sucked my skin into the hot well of his mouth, his tongue sweeping over me.

The closures of my corset loosened. While his mouth worked me into a frenzy and his fingers gripped my neck, his free hand had dipped to the bodice, the flaps coming undone and flaring open under those skilled digits. My breasts spilled from the gap, the garment hanging at my sides.

Poet hummed like a night prowler—a deviant, unseemly, prohibited figment of lore. Proper princesses did not fantasize about such beings. Proper princesses did not sweep their heads farther back, granting their seducers greater access to their pulse points. But I hadn’t been proper for a long time.

And so I keened enthusiastically as he released my throat and thumbed my nipples with both hands. Circling the pads of his digits, the jester caused the tiny studs to pucker. His groan rippled along my shoulder, which he drew on harder, sucking and licking and tasting as if dominated by an indispensable craving.

His fingers pinched my nipples, darkening and stiffening them to his satisfaction. My moans broke through the vault, the sound rising in octaves. Any second, and I might dissolve into particles. It would not be the first time, nor the last. Every sensuous encounter with this man took me apart, then put me back together, so that I discovered a new piece of myself along the way.

A distant shaft of light illuminated the recess. In a restricted archive such as this, outfitted with props and a variety of surfaces, I could not expect this jester to remain idle.

With his mouth attached to my neck and his palms spanning my breasts, Poet walked us forward. We swayed to the chaise, where the tapestries encircled the seat like observers, as if the almighty Seasons were watching us. Though even if that were true, I would not care. The pressure of Poet’s mouth and the wet heat of his tongue transported me, melting my inhibitions like wax.

I would make love with him anywhere. I would let him fuck me until the world faded into a vine of smoke.

Ushering me before the chaise, Poet unlatched his mouth from my throat. A sigh floated from me as the jester planted a soft kiss to the swollen area. His palms traveled from my nipples to the haphazard corset, his digits shedding the vestment from my shoulders.

At a concentrated pace, Poet stripped the bodice. The prolonged act seemed ceremonious, despite the urgency of our respirations. We panted through it, paying attention as he progressed to my drawers. I glimpsed his black fingernails while he bunched the sides of my soaked undergarments, then pushed them down my quivering thighs. The scanty material sagged to the floor, and I nudged them aside with my toe.

As Poet exposed me to his gaze, he dragged his hands over my flesh like a sculptor, charting the sensitive areas. The touches urged whimpers from me, the contact painfully erotic. At his disposal, molded by his fingers, he made me feel sexy and extraordinary.

Priceless. Precious.

Like something irreplaceable.

His turn. The need to see my jester, to see his carved body, like one of the statues encased in this vault, drew arousal from my slit. Between my thighs, the flanks of my pussy clenched.

My restless feet shuffled. The jester radiated heat behind me.

Don’t move until I tell you to.

Before I could defy that request, Poet stalked around my body. Putting himself on display, the jester faced me from across the chaise, his mask and jawline piebald in the half-light. I relished the look darkening his irises, from impish clover green to the shade of a dark forest. A sinful wilderness, the depths of which could engulf a person. He stared as if I was an appetizing target and a danger to his self-control, his pupils reflecting my naked breasts, my straight hips, and my glistening cunt.

Forgot how you affect me, is that it? Allow me to remind you.

Then he did. With devastating slowness, Poet undid the clasps of his vest. Every cobbled muscle flexed as he divested himself of the article, the motions sinuous and teasing. The sight reminded me of how he danced.

I felt a blush warm my cheeks. The jester was stripping for me.

His toned pectorals contorted, the contours of his whipcord frame smooth and strong. My digits prickled. I wanted to touch him everywhere. But if I started, I might never stop, and I would keep him down here forever.

Poet held my gaze, his expression intent. One by one, he plucked at the cords of his pants. The low waistline slumped around his narrow hips, then buckled under his grip. The vent spread open, and his cock sprang from the gap, lifting flush against his abdomen.

It rose between the V, the column thick and the roof wide. From here, I glimpsed the slit of his crown, a thin delineation much darker than the rest of his length. His veins inflated, and the sac tucked under his cock weighty.

This was how I affected him. This was the result.

Seasons forgive me. I’d had that glorious appendage in my mouth, clutched between the folds of my core, and buried so deep in my pussy. Yet it was never enough.

The jester lowered his pants to the ground. Despite the close fit, the garment fell with little effort. I savored each rigid inch of his erection, the bulbous crown expanding under my gaze.

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