It takes an unspeakable amount of willpower not to budge. Sweat beads down the backs of my thighs. Defensiveness and a noxious thrill shimmy along my arms, urging my knuckles to curl. The swine moves slowly…too slowly, the motions fluid and intentional. Faeries can maneuver a lot faster than that, unless they’re in the mood to play.
I force myself to breathe evenly and feign sleep. I prepare to pounce first, stab second, and ask questions last.
What I’m not prepared for is the phenomenon that comes next. A masculine weight leans nearer, hovering over me. I sense an arm stretching past my body. That’s when slender fingers glide across my hip, brushing the curve of bone.
It’s all I can do not to buck, out of repulsion or some other forbidden reflex. Certain Fables reminisce about the Folk’s bawdy ways, describing their twisted revels, debaucheries, and orgies. I’d be reacting a whole lot differently if I thought this creature was fixing to split my thighs and weasel on top of me. I’ve had practice busting an uninvited bloke’s nuts before he gets the chance. But that’s not what this creature is doing. It’s not my tits, nor the cleft between my legs, that it reaches for.
Nope. It’s reaching for the only greedy thing I prize above an orgasm and a certain blue feather.
My eyelids flip open. Reeling my lower body, I hook my thighs on to Cerulean’s waist and flip him over quicker than a griddle cake. Then I land right on top of the fucker.
13
My limbs fall astride his narrow hips, my whip taut against his larynx, the ends gripped in my fists. The whole thing happens before I’m done exhaling. Our stomachs pump, beating against one another. Lithe muscles flex under me, outfitted in storm-gray trousers and a matching linen shirt with another deep V in the neck.
Cerulean’s rumpled hair curls at the ends, the obsidian-blue layers parting around his face. I meet that gaze and wink, elated with myself. He stares up at me, impressed and breathing too shallowly for a normal Fae. Behind those lips, I glimpse chiseled teeth.
The position spreads his neckline wider, revealing an ivory torso and a dark cherry nipple. He’s trim, willowy. Yet his body contracts beautifully, powerfully, not a frail bone in sight.
My eyes have a mind of their own, tracing that exposed nipple, a naughty disk of pink that tightens under my gaze. “It’s not polite to stare,” Cerulean murmurs, and if it sounds gruff around the edges, it’s not on purpose.
I burrow the whip deeper into the Fae, forcing his throat to contort. “Careful,” I get in his face and parrot his words. “Very careful now. It’s also not polite touching what isn’t yours.”
“Indeed? I had no idea,” Cerulean ridicules. “However, what if I told you I was going to give the whip back?”
“I’d say you’re full of Fae shit. But you already knew that.”
“And where did you learn that frisky, savory, rowdy little bed trick? You have no idea how curious I am.”
“I’ve got experience putting swine in their place, including the ones who got ayesfrom me. And I’ve got even more experience staying on top.”
“Is that a fact?”
I yelp. The cottage capsizes, the ceiling pivots, and I crash onto my back. In a flash, Cerulean switches our position. He lands gracefully between my thighs, which splay wide around his waist. He uses the whip to brace my hands above my head while I growl a string offucksandyou’s.
Cerulean tips his head. “What was that, again? I didn’t hear you the first time. Fuck who? Muah?” He clucks his tongue when my knee jabs at his groin. “Now, now. What has my phallus ever done to you?”
“Nothing, and it never will.”
“That much you can be certain of,” he promises, revulsion pinching his tone. “I don’t fuck humans. I merely fuck with them.” He rolls his eyes at my thrashing. “Keep this up, and you’ll defile my handiwork. Those dressings won’t redress themselves.”
Baffled, I turn into a sack of flour, my muscles slackening. What dressings?
I take a gander and register two facts. One, I’m wearing nothing but my short, flouncy drawers and thin bandeau. Two, strips of cloth protect my cuts and that hornet sting, which must have injected some kind of venom into my blood, and that’s why I’d collapsed here.
A blanket covers the pallet, though there hadn’t been one before, and my navy dress and cloak now slump over a chairback. The garments have been cleaned of grime, the gashes mended.
In the kitchen, a steaming buffet weighs down the dining table, the platters steeping the house in gamey, yeasty, and fruity aromas. A chaotic grumble lurches from my belly.
He did not do this. He did not. It makes no sense.
I swing my gaze to Cerulean, a dozen questions crowding my tongue. With his head slanted at an exaggerated angle, he studies my features as though he’s never seen a human before, as though searching for flaws. That blue gaze is so direct you’d think he had nothing to hide, despite his elusive veneer.
I register the weight of his body slung over mine, the slopes of his hips nestled in the slot of my thighs, my limbs steepled around his waist, and my breasts pitching into his torso. It would be easy for my nipples to pucker against the skimpy material. It would be natural for them to brush his chest and graze his own nipple, still peeking from that linen shirt.
Everything about this moment is awful. Everything I’m thinking is unforgivable and coming out of nowhere…or maybe it’s coming from somewhere, a deserted place I can’t stand, dredging up the sensations of loss and longing again.
Our bodies press hard, oxygen pumping in and out. Because I’m scarcely covered, his linen skims my bare flesh, the material thin and the texture finely woven. My throat bobs, and his eyebrows knit in consternation. He absorbs my expression, reflecting it back to me as we stare at each other, searching, searching. For what?
