Page 165 of Burn

Poet shuddered, his torso pebbling and his nipples erect. Empowered by this reaction, I burrowed my teeth into his plush lower lip and nibbled.

With a vicious snarl, Poet heaved his mouth into mine, sealed around my tongue and sucked. The hot wrap of his lips consumed my whimper. And then we were moving again.

Slipping his palms inside my drawers, the jester gripped my buttocks and steered me across the rug. As his feverish mouth clutched my tongue, we swayed into motion, Poet prowling me backward until we reached the built-in bookcases flanking the pile of blankets.

Uttering another harsh noise, he whipped me around and mashed my body against the shelves. Volumes trembled from the impact. Errant strands of hair flew around my face, which Poet swiped aside, the better to clamp onto my lips.

While his tongue swatted my own, the jester oozed his fingers to my pussy, flicked aside the gusset of my drawers, and sketched the swollen folds. I whined, my cleft leaking through the textile and seeping onto his digits. With a hum, Poet drew back to watch the effect.

His pupils dilated at the sight of my naked cunt peeking through the sheer fabric. The lack of hair exposed my distended clit and the tight line of my core, all of which dripped onto him.

“Wicked hell, Briar,” he muttered while etching my intimate flesh.

My mouth opened on a slender cry. I gripped the overhead shelf and bucked my hips into his hand, both of us mesmerized by the sight, how the teasing abrasion of his touch wetted me thoroughly.

Unable to stand it, Poet grabbed the waistband of my drawers, intending to bunch the dainty material down my limbs. Instead, I jolted forward, brushed my mouth over his, and gusted out, “Rip them.”

Unbridled could be gentle, frantic could be affectionate, and passionate could be poignant. There was no shame in urgency and no fragility in sweetness. We could be both, do both, and have both. And now I understood this.

With this man, I could have everything.

Not needing to be told twice, Poet fisted the lace trim and yanked. The undergarments frayed, the shearing noise filling the stacks. Unveiling my private crease, I stood before him in nothing but the scarlet ribbon, the garter harnessing my thorn quill, and the laurel crown atop my head.

The jester relished the image, his dark gaze consuming me. One palm braced my cheek, his thumb lightly stroking the crescent of brown and gold foliage painted around my eye. “Mmm. I do believe this will become my favorite way to fuck you. Whilst you’re wearing nothing but a crown and a weapon.”

“Don’t forget the bracelet,” I reminded him. “Your target on me.”

Composure lost, Poet snared my mouth, the sumptuous flicks of his tongue dissolving my knees. Deeply, he kissed me into the shelves and coasted his fingers once more to the drenched vent of my thighs. Instantly, he must have felt the drum of my pulse there, my pussy throbbing for him, because a growl wracked his muscles.

He lurched back, those green irises hooding, intent on observing what he did to me. An agonizing flurry of sensation coiled in the narrow slot of my body as he feathered his digits along my rift. I whined and squirmed, needing more friction.

Yet something better stole my attention. Poet’s cock shoved into the front panel of his pants. Through the haze of pleasure, I imagined that long, hard stem of flesh and its bulbous head, all of it ruddy and straining for me. The fantasy sent a jolt through my cunt, which poured freely now.

Reaching out, my fingers broke open the flaps of the jester’s pants and batted them aside. As usual, he wore nothing beneath the garment. Between the slope of his pelvis, the jester’s flushed cock rose into view, high and hard, the crown bloated and the slit tight.

I had once thought he wouldn’t fit, that I wouldn’t be able to accommodate his girth. How elated I’d been to be proven wrong.

While he traced my cunt, I eased the pants from his hips. Poet stalked into me, granting my arms closer access until they shivered down the toned muscles of his navel. I glimpsed the taut profile of his buttocks and the faint scars he’d cultivated over the years. In response, he grazed his black fingertips from my pussy to my navel, then down again.

Bared to one another, we siphoned our hands. My fingers caught the stem of his erection and pumped him from the heavy sac to the pome, urging fluid to the surface. Poet’s lips hung ajar, his features ravenous, yet those fiendish eyes glinted on me, and his own digits toyed with my clit, his thumb delicately skimming the crest.

We stared at one another and took our time, the movements hypnotic and reverent. Feeling, touching, giving. Never once holding back.

No restraint. No modesty.

The firelight blooming across his physique caused my mouth to water. At length, I released Poet’s turgid cock and charged forth, the momentum detaching his hand from my core. Lunging to the opposite shelf, I stamped the jester into the facade, snatched his throat in my mouth, and sucked.

The jester emitted a harsh noise. Invigorated, I drew his flesh between my teeth and swabbed his pulse. Then I devoured the rest of his upper frame, dragging my lips and tongue down the center of his body, wandering across his pectorals and sinking to the grid of muscles that contracted above the sexy plank of his cock.

Parched, I yearned to sink my ivories into this man, to strap my lips around every inch of flesh and make him lose control. In his proximity, I wanted a thousand reactions, a thousand dark pleasures, a thousand endearments, and a thousand emotions.

Slow. Fast.

Soft. Rough.

Sweet. Wild.

My lips traveled, attentive and devout. I lavished his nipples as if they were his mouth. I strummed my tongue across his clavicles as though they were lifelines. I nipped his throat as if my own breath was stored there. Poet’s chest beat in shallow pants, indicating that a string of obscenities and encouragements teetered on his lips.

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