Trick (Foolish Kingdoms, #1)

by Natalia Jaster

“What precisely do you have against fuck? ’Tis a lovely word. I do have a fetish for lovely words.”

“Have you ever lost control with someone?” He burrowed closer, his tone dropping another octave. “Have you ever wanted to?”

Briar—a brisk, no-nonsense name. Despite its lack of flair, it was confident without trying hard. ’Twas the sort of lasting name that held its head high and withstood the elements. Indeed, it suited her. If a man groaned that name, the sound would be guttural—a husky eruption of noise.

What a shame to squander rapturous red hair on a shrewish personality.

Accepting secondhand information was a disservice to one’s own point of view.

How easy would it be to dismantle the braid, to unravel it like a brushfire and tangle my fingers in that blaze? What would she do, and how would she sound, if I pulled those flames from their roots?

He would be right for me, and I him—if my pulse were able to beat that way, to that rhythm.

I’d mentioned this to her before: Jesters didn’t lie. I should have amended that rule: Most of the time.

“I am a princess,” she declared. “I can make you do whatever I command.” “From any other mouth, that would sound like a dominant-submissive kink.” “From any other mouth, it probably would be.”

“Your eyes, how they shout at me.”

You know what your problem is?” My lips slanted. This should be interesting. “You have no one,” she said. My smirk dropped like a drawbridge.

“Do you know the difference between a hard kiss and sweet fuck? One is deep, the other is long. A nobleman will give you a choice between the two, but a jester will give you both.” My voice burrowed into the gritty crawlspace left between us. “And he’ll do it at the same time.”

“How’s this?” she challenged in a whisper. Applause. Because sometime between last night’s hall and this night’s garden, she found her nerve. And I lost mine.

Peel away the princess, and there lived a woman. Peel away the woman, and one discovered a heart that either raced or stopped, depending on what a man said or did.

It felt terrible and wonderful, bad and good, greedy and essential.

Others. That was also the problem, that we allowed ourselves to think of anyone as an other.

I’d never left the castle without a blade. Isolated routes. Deceptive nights. Mercenary assholes, political assholes, and drunken assholes. You understand.

“You are a wordsmith, therefore a liar. I know what your tongue is capable of.” And I knew an opportunity when I heard it. I prowled forward, lowered my voice, and let the words drizzle down her skin. “Now, now,” I husked. “You haven’t begun to learn what my tongue can do.”

When she laughed, the sound crept into me like a vine—a cord that could easily take root and germinate all over the forsaken place.

“I am a princess,” she clipped. “I cannot afford to be myself.”

attention, as I’d been growing up. As such, Tumble and my son became inseparable. With Nicu isolated and cloistered from other children, Tumble gave him

I straddled two worlds: public and secret.

You’re my prisoner, Papa!” “And I surrender willingly. You have no idea, my love.”

sobbing

I felt his scrutiny, the texture of it like a serrated knife angled against my throat.

“He’s my heartbeat. He’s my greatest achievement.” He narrowed his eyes, slitting them like blades, and his voice sliced through the room. “He’s mine.”

A fool is a man who believes glory can be found at the tip of a sword instead of on the tip of his tongue. ’Tis a person who judges with their eyes closed. ’Tis people who invent aberrations from speculation and rumors. ’Tis bred from ignorance. That is life’s cruel trick.

“How did you achieve that?” “I’m Poet,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“But what’s allowed and what happens aren’t always the same.”

I was the most eligible and regal match any gentleman could make. That was how the court looked at me. As something to be attained. As a path to sovereignty. But men hadn’t looked at me as Poet was doing. Like I wasn’t something but someone. Someone with curves and lips, with words and wants.

I shall only say this. Had we been alone in the cottage, that night would have turned out differently. Had the princess given me a trace of permission, the counter would have been swiped of its dishes. Had she given the slightest indication, she would have been hauled off the ground—and that fucking water glass would have shattered to the floor.

There was Poet, utterly enamored with his son. There was me, utterly stricken by it.

He stood there like a misstep waiting to happen, like a compulsion I could get used to. My breath hitched, suspended on a precipice. That’s how it felt to be near him—unsteady and unpredictable. If I lost my balance, the fall would be steep, and the landing would hurt.

“I’ve developed a fetish for your strength of will. It does things to me.”

“Be foolish with me, Briar.”

Poet had seen me loud. And now I’d seen him quiet.

“We’re finished talking, sweeting. So very fucking finished.” Then he grabbed my face—and his mouth slammed against mine.

And in my weakness, I found a new type of power—the means to shut him up.

I wanted our bodies entangled, our mouths enfolded, our minds emptied.

In the dark, fed up and pent up, I couldn’t tell anymore if we were kissing or fighting. Though, I hardly gave a shit. All I cared about was making her feel it—every ounce of painful pleasure.

I wanted to kiss her again. I wanted to do more than kiss her. I wanted to target her for reasons other than ridicule. I wanted to drag her to a shadowed corner, wrench up her skirt, and take her until she combusted. I wanted to make her beg, to make her plead for more. I wanted to ply her slowly, deeply. I wanted to shred her moans to pieces. I wanted to make her come long and loud with my name on her lips.

I wanted to make her pleasure my sole ambition, to fit myself inside her until she branded my skin.

I linked my fingers behind me and paused on the stair below her. “I enjoy looking up to you like this. Do you enjoy looking down on me?”

This woman was becoming a vice, a fixation, a stimulant—something indulgently bad for me. And I did enjoy things that were bad for me. But more than that, I enjoyed being something bad for her.

“Anything that matters takes time.”

that innocent were a Royal? And if that stuffy target

I squinted at him. I suppose you think you’re clever. His mouth twitched as he stared back. I suppose you think you’re right.

He could spread the textile like a curtain. He could slip those fingers inside me right here, right now. He could do to me what I’d done to myself while thinking about him. He could fill the root of my body so smoothly, so easily.

I wanted to pull this female from the roots, expose her for the goddess, warrior, and ruler she truly was.

I’d always been the one to seduce, to claim whatever conquest suited my fancy. I was the merciless jester whose tongue everyone feared, envied, and coveted. But none had ever dominated me the way she had.

You’re a plague and a fantasy. You’re there when I’m tossing and turning in bed, twisting the sheets into a heated mess. It’s you who I picture moaning beneath me, above me, in front of me. I’ve pumped my cock to those desires, and I’ll keep doing so until long after you leave this place. I won’t stop until you’ve drained me dry.” The humid words rose from my mouth. “I won’t stop until I’m so lost in your memory, your hand will tingle whilst I come.”