His words landed like a punch to the gut.
I jolted, abandoning the man's cock. "What did you say?"
No, he couldn't know. Nobody knew. If he knew, a lowly lord from the Court of War, then who else knew?
"Never mind." I brushed his words aside, hoping to ignore them while I considered their meaning. "Do you want me to suck your dick or shall we talk more nonsense that neither of us cares for?"
Giving him no chance to reply, I wrapped my fingers around his heated length through the silk, but it wasn't enough to distract him. Questions glittered in his eyes, theories running through his mind, truths he thought he knew, stories he'd heard.
Fuck.
I yanked his silk undergarments down and slid his cock between my lips. Whatever words that had been about to tumble from his mouth, he choked on them instead. His hands plunged into my hair, his hips rocked, and his cock stroked the back of my throat, thick, hot, salty, and everything I needed to chase away the alarming rush of fear his accusation had unleashed.
Quinton moaned. I took that to mean whatever he thought he knew, he still wanted this, and licked him from balls to tip, then used the tip of my tongue to lap his slit and gently suck his tender head.
He made some kind of grumbling demand, and his fingers knotted in my hair, and the big man thrust, sinking himself so far down my throat I struggled to fight the gag reflex.
He looked down, perhaps alarmed at his own actions. I grinned around his cock. I could take it. And more. His expression shifted from concern back to wide-eyed demand and I wrapped my hand around him, sucking and stroking, listening and feeling for his shudders and moans and how his body signaled its wants.
Seduction was an art, like any other. His body told me what his words could not, and I gave him what he needed, but not too much. Just enough to keep him teetering on the edge of pleasure.
"Oh, yes—" He moaned, head back, cock buried in my hand and mouth.
I had him slick and sensitive, primed like a bow's string, ready to break.
A scream shattered the night. It was no ordinary scream, its sound tragic and broken.
Quinton yanked himself free and stumbled away, tucking his dick out of sight. "What was that?"
I reeled, light-headed, and wiped my mouth dry. He wasn't the only one in need, and my own cock demanded to be sated.
Another scream erupted.
My night had begun to unravel, through no fault of my own. And rather than enjoying sucking cock, I was beginning to lose my patience. I wiped a thumb across my lips. Whatever the scream meant, it had nothing to do with us. Not all was lost. All I needed was to focus Quinton on the delicious prospect I was offering him.
I met Quinton's gaze, which was no longer full of hunger. His body was still hungry, though. He'd sampled what my tongue could do and wanted more.
"It was probably nothing," I said, then made sure he watched as I adjusted my trousers, trying to alleviate some pressure. He might not want to suck me in return, but I'd settle for getting off in one of his large, rough hands, if that was all he'd be willing to give.
"Let's go somewhere else," he growled.
That wasn't going to work for me. I needed witnesses.
I reclined on the bench again and spread my arms along the back rails, displaying everything he could have—almost had—countless lovers, talents at the tip of my tongue that would ruin him for anyone else, and a body that didn't quit. All he needed to do was step forward, forget the screams, and get on his knees. He wanted to ride me like there was no tomorrow, and there was no use his denying it.
The Court of War didn't hide their expressions, they wore them like badges on their shields.
I dropped my hand again and rubbed my pinched erection, then swept my tongue across my top lip. Quinton tracked every gesture as though he were a starved man presented with a feast. His cock would be demanding it find its place between my firm lips again, and maybe my ass too, but we'd get to that later. If he did as he was told.
Light flooded from the palace, igniting the gardens. Torches blazed along the terraces, shouts barreled into the night.
Clearly, my chosen location was no longer appropriate for everything I'd had in mind.
I prowled to my feet. There was another hidden part of the garden we could explore, just a few moments' walk away. Except, when I reached for Quinton, I motioned with my right hand, forgetting my missing finger.
He stared at my hand, and the gap where its missing digit used to be.
Then looked up, into my eyes. And he knew who I was, knew too much.
Such a shame I had to kill him. Maybe I could kill him while we fucked. I hadn't experienced that pleasure in a long time, and never alone. Although the thought of such an act didn't sizzle through my veins like it once had. If anything, I'd hoped all of that was behind me, at least for a little while longer.
"The fool?" someone shouted from the terrace. "Where's the court fool?!"
I sighed. What had the queen done now? Stumbled naked from her chambers, returned to the ballroom as pickled as a gherkin? Could I not get a few hours of peace?
"Here!" Quinton bellowed. "He's here." He stepped back, the knowledge of who I was written all over his face, turning him fearful. What did he think he knew about the traitor's son, about me?
I clicked my tongue, tut-tutting, and approached him in a slow dance all of our own. "That's your sexual awakening ruined."
Quinton's eyes widened. Indecision, doubt, fear—he was too easy to read. The guards had seen us. My chance to lure him away had passed, but I'd have a second chance later. If he knew what a traitor's son meant, then he couldn't ever leave the Court of Love alive.
When I stepped closer this time, he didn't back down. "If you want to know that pleasure you're so desperate for, warlord, come find me after this is dealt with." I tested his lips to see if he'd move; when he didn't, I brushed a ghost of a kiss over his mouth. He tasted of desert spices and hot, exotic nights. I knew he was hard without touching him, could see the thirst in his kohl-lined eyes.
The moment his lips parted, I sauntered from his side, leaving us both frustrated in more ways than one.
Four palace guards spilled down the terrace steps. There was a moment between one step and the next, where the fear that had earlier skittered through my veins returned, and tripped my stride.
I should have known the ambiance was wrong, should have felt the tension in the air, seen it in the way the guards clasped their swords and how the guests hung back, not in awe, but in fear. But Quinton's revelation left my mind reeling.
The guards rushed in. The one to my left kicked my legs out, and before I could bark a protest, I fell to my knees, hands locked behind my back.
"Wait—what is this?" I writhed, instincts kicking in too late to fight.
"The queen," the guard to my right panted, his face in mine.
Had King Rowan snapped under the weight of all the rumors? Did he believe I'd bedded her, hence the rough handling? "Easy, she's in her chamber. I haven't touched her—"
"'Touched her'?" The guard's lip curled. "You filthy whore, you murdered her!"
For the second time in a matter of moments, a man's words knocked the air from my lungs. I blinked at the guard, like the fool I apparently was, and tried to untangle the foreign-sounding words he'd just spoken to me. "Henrietta's dead?"
"You can't slither your way out of this one, Fool." His iron-fisted punch struck my jaw. The blow tore me from his companion's hold and flung me facedown, where thick darkness greeted me, and the wave of fear pulled me under.