Page 13 of A Taste for the Peculiar

“Look at me when it happens.”

Her eyes find theirs in the mirror, release building too quickly for her to stop. She can’t hold out any longer. They will destroy her if they don’t give it to her now, if they don’t —

“One.”

Pleasure screams through her, prying her lips apart, but his hand covers her mouth as she writhes in ecstasy.

“There you go.” They capture all her noises in their palm, holding her about the waist. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

There’s a crackling sound behind them, like something’s trying to break free. Lord Riften curses and guides their hand to the back of her neck to pull her toward him. Blue smoke floods between his lips like a stream of water, spilling over her jaw and down her chin. It’s more than she can swallow. It’s more than she’s ever seen, but she takes it wholly on her tongue. It’s even better than she remembered, better than anything she’s gotten on her own, and she gulps it down as the waves of orgasm crash against her.

His energy fills her, invigorates her, curls her fingers into his shirt when she turns to face him. She presses him back against the shelf, and he moans into her mouth, spilling his essence over her breasts.

She could bathe in it, drown in it, and it still wouldn’t be enough. She keeps drinking until the smoke dwindles to wisps. Only then does Lord Riften ease her away from his panting mouth. “Does that…satisfy you?”

No. She wants their lips, their tongue, their sounds. She wants a proper kiss. She wants to explore Lord Riften’s mouth, but they’re not here to satisfy her urges. They’re here to teach her. To feed her needs, not her desires.

She wipes at her jaw, but no smoke clings to it. It courses through her instead, leaving her body buzzing. “I’ve never seen that much.” Her fingers are still curled in his shirt, but she forces herself to release. “I didn’t know people could create that much.”

“Doing something this intimate produces more — or so I’ve heard.”

Lord Riften’s grin is lazy, but their skin is losing color. Carefully, Avirin guides them to the desk chair and hands them an apricot. They take it gratefully, eyelids heavy, as if they were the one who’d just come apart spectacularly.

Avirin tries to ignore the question fluttering in the back of her mind.

All of that just from watching me?

SIX

Avirin

Lord Riften’s lesson in the study has taken up permanent residence in Avirin’s mind. She replays that night every time she closes her eyes. It might have been her own hand, her own touch, but she was merely a puppet on a string tied around Lord Riften’s fingers.

She’s never felt anything like it — being completely in control, yet still so pliant and yielding. It’s strange. It’s not something she ever imagined she’d enjoy. She has never wanted to be moved by someone else’s hand, to be ruled under their fist, but when that hand belongs to Lord Riften, it’s suddenly intuitive and intimate.

Is this why society considers such consummation improper? Because it does consume Avirin. The memory of the study shoves everything else aside and fills her head with fantasies far more attractive than anything she’s supposed to dream of. Fantasies of Lord Riften meeting her gaze in the reflection, pressing their lips to her ear, brushing their fingers against her —

The post-chaise jostles, knocking Avirin into the window frame. She rubs her aching shoulder. It must be punishment for where her thoughts are — where she is, currently. Lord Riften has turned her into quite the rebel. Never before has she snuck away from her house for an evening, and even now, she presses back against the seat to stay out of sight.

She clutches a piece of paper between her gloved fingers. The letter was left fluttering outside her bedroom window, written in a swirling handwriting that leaves Avirin thoroughly besotted.

I hear the opera house is putting on quite an event this weekend. Join me, and I will introduce you to one of my confidantes. You’ll have dinner and a show.

- P.

He was at her house. He was outside her window. He has invited her to an event without a chaperone. The thought alone makes her palms sweat, but Avirin wouldn’t dream of staying home. A night at the opera is far more risqué than the balls and parties she’s used to, but she has to go. She can’t bear the thought of falling short of Lord Riften’s expectations, nor the thought of missing whatever tonight may bring.

Her thighs clench. Surely if her previous session with Lord Riften was so sensual, tonight’s lesson will be even stronger. She doesn’t know exactly what it will entail, but from what she’s gathered, Lord Riften will strip them both of their clothing. He will align himself between her legs. He will show her what a man does —

The carriage jerks to a halt, leaving Avirin scrambling for balance. She tugs on her cloak and shoves out the door before Mr. Brandiron has a chance to get down from his perch.

“Miss!” he calls. “Wouldn’t you like to be closer to the city center?”

“No, thank you!” Avirin shouts and bustles away.

Lord Riften had offered to collect her at home, but Avirin insisted on making her way herself. She doesn’t take the direct route to the theater, skirting alleyways and keeping her eyes down. The streets are full of the boisterous beau monde doing nothing to appear as scarce as she does. One drunken man stumbles into her, and she mutters an apology before she scurries around a corner.

You don’t belong here, the antsy voice in her head whispers. You second-guess every step you take. You’re going to look a fool in front of Lord Riften.