Page 105 of Burn

Heat and tension compressed between my walls. I whined, unspoken pleas vacating my lungs because I needed more, and wanted more, and fought for more. Yet however much I held back, Poet’s skill made this impossible. And I knew enough about my body to recognize the signs of a climax.

The escalation. The temperature.

The devastation. The transcendence.

Yet I did not wish for it to be over. I would have begged for more, if I could utter a coherent word. Whenever I tried, only hoarse sounds flew from my lips.

The drenched clutch of my pussy told Poet how close I was to oblivion, and the broadening width of his cock signaled how near he was to the same nirvana.

My folds clung to his driving cock. They surged together, his pelvis and mine, colliding and agitating. Inside my walls, everything condensed and shook, the strain accumulating with every jut of the jester’s waist. My blood simmered like the contents of a kettle, and so I gave in.

Like a wild princess, I charged forth with my jester. I pounded my hips with his until we were yelling. Down here, we could do this, disarm ourselves and lose our voices.

No one would hear us. No one would find us. No one would see us.

Mine. Yours.

At length, Poet’s lithe movements put me under a spell. The whisk of his hips unlocked my joints, urging me to let go, to give him leave. I unraveled into the chaise, helpless to resist, and let him ride my cunt.

Hissing in satisfaction, the jester set his entire frame into motion. He cast his hips between my thighs, his cock stroking my pussy with short, shallow jabs. I seized the nape of his neck and held on, my breasts jostling, my body unspooling along with my whines.

The crown of his erection struck a slender place that triggered every sexual corner of my being. My skin ignited, pressure coiled in my pussy, and my clit throbbed. Everywhere, I quivered.

My moans were punctuated by the rhythm of Poet’s cock, and his groans matched the same tempo, so that we became one violent and continuous shout. Blackness swarmed my vision. Heat gushed from the slit of my thighs.

And I went up in flames. Euphoria blew through me like a storm, ripping me apart. Warmth burst from the pleat in my limbs, my pussy gripping Poet’s thick cock. My spine curled inward, hunching toward the jester, the better to see his exquisite face slacken.

Seething, he lashed his body once more, twice more, then stalled. Watching me climax, Poet came with a rumbling bellow that tore through the vault. His waist shuddered, spurts of fluid draining from him and filling me.

Molten heat poured from us, his cock encased in my folds, both rippling with pleasure. All the while, our moans tangled, long and loud. And as the lingering orgasms vibrated through us, our damp chests slammed together, his pulse thrumming with my own.

It took considerable time for our hips to stop rowing, for the aftershocks to ebb. Wheezing, we waited for the palpitations to slow, his distended cock still primed inside me.

Slumping into the cushions, Poet gently detached my leg from over his hip. He planted a breathless kiss to my knee, then nipped the flesh until I gasped, before trailing more kisses up the side of my body. When he reached my lips, we grazed them over one another, the movement tender yet firm.

That was us. Precious but durable and lasting, like the emblems in this vault, like history itself.

Poet ripped off the mask and stared at me, his gaze equally covetous and vulnerable. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

From my jester, nothing came out.

Yet I sensed what he longed to say, and what he hoped to hear in return. Smiling, I cradled his face close to mine, and I whispered, “Mine.”

And his fiendish lips tilted into a grin. “Yours.”

33

Briar

“You look like you’ve been fucked within an inch of your life,” Cadence remarked with a sideways smirk while ransacking my lingerie drawer.

Meanwhile, Vale plucked a pair of lace-up heels from my shoe recess and perched on a bench. She tucked her feet into them, the oyster white contrasting beautifully with her dark skin. “Moot point,” she commented. “Briar always looks like that.”

“But more so these days,” Posy said while shimmying into a chenille gown imported from her own closet. “Sex in a confidential setting will do that, especially if it’s with a jester who knows how to contort his body in as many ways as Poet.”

They did not know the half of it. The number of angles in which Poet had bent, arched, and twisted me in the relic vault lingered in my mind like a recurring fantasy. I might have been smiling openly to myself without realizing it, although I’d remained willfully quiet on the matter.

But now I wheeled from the rack of event attire that my seamstress had delivered. “How on earth did you know—,” I queried, then remembered which Season I was dealing with.

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