Page 79 of Burn

I buried my face in the jester’s neck, half-scandalized, half-mirthful. Perhaps the near-death experience had made me bolder. Or perhaps the aghast looks of the soldiers were simply too funny.

Poet rested his forehead against mine while addressing the guards. “One word,” he cautioned. “One word about this, one single utterance to anyone in this court, and I shall know.” As a knight hastily opened the door to Poet’s suite, the jester added, “Unless my son is in crisis or the castle catches fire, we’re not to be disturbed until the princess says so. Only then may you alert everyone of Her Highness’s recovery and admit visitors. Disobey this command at your own risk, sweetings.”

The speechless guards bowed as Poet closed the door. I smacked his thick bicep while he stalked us across his chambers. “You are impossible.”

“You’re eternal,” he replied, nuzzling the spot under my jaw.

Never mind scolding him. My blood heated at the contact of his lips, which stroked and licked every sensitive crook between my shoulder and neck. Oxygen rushed from my lungs, a string of sighs trailing in its wake.

I clung to Poet, my head falling backward as he lapped and kissed, plying me with tingles. Only when my ears picked up the sounds of a handle twisting, followed by sprinkling water, did my eyes flutter open.

We stood in Poet’s bathroom. Or rather, one of the inlaid sections of his bathroom.

The opulent space featured dark soapstone walls reminiscent of a luxurious cave, antique fixtures with rich patinas that contrasted with modern details like a floor to ceiling mirror, plus a central shower with several spouts that rained like fountains. From the sides and overhead, the shower sprayed water, the deluge splattering the tiles.

Steam fogged the room, humid tendrils curling into the air. A spiced fragrance saturated my lungs.

Not bothering to divest us of our clothing, Poet carried me deeper into the mist. My gasp bounced off the walls as the water struck my skin. Warmth raced down my body, turning my nightgown and Poet’s shirt into filmy layers.

My erect nipples poked through the fabric, and the dark patch of hair concealing my pussy showed beneath the garment. The jester’s eyes flashed green as they scrolled over my form. His expression could have set a cauldron to boiling, and his muscles flexed under the wet shirt, his own nipples two hard disks and the grid of his abdomen clenching through the drenched material.

Then another kind of wetness dripped from me, the slot of my legs pooling with arousal. The temperature building in my pussy must be radiating into Poet’s groin, because his cock swelled. The rigid length primed against my clit, inciting a throb within my folds. By Seasons, the friction stole what little oxygen I had left.

My mouth hung open in anticipation. I expected the jester to lift my nightgown, unbuckle his pants, and stroke that cock into me.

Instead, he pressed my spine against a tiled wall, between a pair of showerheads. Then he carefully lowered me to the ground. Seeing my confused expression, Poet traced his teeth up the shell of my ear. “Grab the spouts and don’t let go.”

I did as he bade, groping the nozzles flanking me. Satisfied, Poet fenced in my body and proceeded to kiss every inch of my flesh. Lazily and sensuously, he dragged that wicked mouth down my throat, between my collarbones, and lower to my bodice. Sinking to his knees, he scooped one breast in his palm and strapped his mouth around the nipple.

I cried out, my head swerving backward. While the shower submerged us from numerous angles, the hot cavern of Poet’s lips sealed around the pointed tip and sucked, hauling on my breast through the fabric. My fingers choked the fixtures, and I squirmed against the wall, my pussy clenching and growing slicker.

Humming against my nipple, Poet switched and attacked the other disk. As he did, the jester palmed the backs of my calves, then grazed my thighs, his trajectory throwing shockwaves over my flesh. At last, his hands snuck under the nightgown, where he cupped my naked backside and tacked me deeper into the wall, preventing me from thrashing.

And when he released my nipple to glance up, I knew what this man had meant by showing me. In his grave expression, I saw it. This wasn’t about him. He’d been powerless to heal me himself, but he could help me recover. That infinite look on his face—love, passion, reverence, possession, and kinship—sealed the gash in my chest. As if bonded, everything he felt coursed through me as well, these feelings requited beyond anything I’d ever known.

He hadn’t lost me. Nor had I lost him.

From a hook in the wall, Poet retrieved a cloth. After lathering it with an aromatic bar of soap, he reached under the nightgown and dragged the material over my pussy, bathing my aching folds. I whimpered, unable to resist rolling my waist against the textile, the gentle abrasion stunning.

With his free hand, the jester raised the hem of my garment and mashed it against my hip. He watched foam build over my crease, suds running down my thighs while he cleaned me. His pupils dilated as he concentrated on the task, the tempo of his movements drawing moans from my mouth, each one quaking into the balmy air.

Belts of steam surrounded us, water dashed everywhere, the torrent drowning our clothes and hair. Everything grew hotter, heavier, headier. Was there no end to what this man could do to me? If I did not die from treasonous acts, I might just perish from his touch.

Or perhaps I underestimated what I could withstand. Perhaps that was this man’s point.

Poet circled the cloth over my clit and rowed it along my seam. Desperate for more, I swiveled my pussy into the cloth, chasing the stimulation. No matter how much I longed to, I kept my grasp on the nozzles and ground my folds into the fabric. The rush of sensations depleted me of air, exhalations rupturing from my lips, my cries resounding through the bathroom.

Poet made a gritty sound of approval. Yet his motions were tender and gradual, and I matched them. Together, we drew out the minutes, prolonging the euphoria until I was delirious.

He rubbed the cloth, meeting my rhythm. My pussy leaked onto the textile, my arousal mingling with the suds. The sleekness of it only made the motions more slippery, juxtaposing with the cloth’s texture.

I whined under Poet’s ministrations, the crescendo accumulating in the rift between my limbs. Yet somehow, I resisted. He’d intended to show me, and so I yielded to the calm juts of his wrist. Taking over fully, he worked me into a frenzy, swiping my cunt until I could take it no longer, until I needed more, needed all of it.

Sensing that, Poet obliged. He withdrew the cloth and angled a nozzle in my direction, spritzing my folds and rinsing the foam. The splash patted my clit, tapping the stud just so, overwhelming me anew. Fresh sobs poured from my lungs, because this felt unreal.

The gentle pressure struck my clit, then dipped into my opening, then returned to the kernel inflating from my body. This happened over and over and over. Engulfed in a flurry of sensation, I chanted into the humid air, and Poet heard me.

Deftly, he angled the valve deeper, targeting me and striking true. I moaned, wailed, and then fell momentarily silent. My muscles seized as pleasure gushed from my pussy to the rest of my body.

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