Page 16 of A Taste for the Peculiar

Lord Riften lowers their voice to a whisper and gestures toward an empty chair. “Take your seat, Lady Avirin.”

She sinks down into the chair next to Samuel.

A proud smile slinks across Lord Riften’s mouth. “Looks like someone else knows how to follow instructions as well.”

Strange heat crawls between Avirin’s legs. She tries to distract herself, searching for Lord Riften’s chair, but it’s nowhere to be found. There are only two seats in this box, and both are currently occupied.

“No need to worry, Lady Avirin.” Lord Riften sinks to the ground before them and parts Samuel’s knees with his hands. “There’s a place reserved for me. Isn’t that right, Samuel?”

EIGHT

Avirin

Impossibly, Lord Riften maintains control when he kneels. It’s like a spell has been cast over the balcony, stopping Avirin’s breath as music swells from the orchestra pit.

Lord Riften’s nimble fingers undo the front of the man’s trousers, and Samuel whimpers. When Lord Riften brushes the hardened length between Samuel’s legs, they cluck their tongue. “How long have you been like this?”

Even in the darkness, Avirin can see a blush spreading up from Samuel’s collar. Lord Riften’s words seem meant to humiliate him, but from the subtle shifts of Samuel’s hips, it almost seems like he enjoys the shame.

When Lord Riften flicks the bulge between Samuel’s legs, Samuel yelps. Lord Riften asks again, “How long?”

“Hours.” Samuel pants, the truth drawn out of him. “Days. Ever since you sent the letter to meet you here.”

Slowly, Lord Riften pulls off his gloves, and Avirin realizes her head is swimming. She clamps her fingers around the arm of the chair to keep herself upright, and Samuel does the same, both of them trying to hide their squirming. There’s something hypnotic about that, how her body responds like Samuel’s does, their chests rising and falling in time while their gazes go glassy.

The opera continues below as Lord Riften undoes the final button on Samuel’s trousers. “And have you touched yourself since you received my letter?”

“No, Sir,” Samuel whines.

Avirin shudders, as if she were the one under Lord Riften’s fingers. How does Samuel keep from fighting it? He’s about to be exposed to her, and he accepts it, allowing Lord Riften to do whatever he wants.

And why can’t she look away? She knows she should, but her eyes are glued to where Lord Riften teases the fabric of Samuel’s clothes. Why does it make her feel liquid and hot? Why can’t she bring herself to use the codeword? Why is she salivating at the thought of —

“Lady Avirin.” Lord Riften’s voice drizzles over her senses, leaving her sticky and warm. “Has anyone ever bared themself to you? Have you ever seen someone else stripped of their clothing?”

Her gaze clings to Lord Riften’s bare hands braced on Samuel’s thighs. “No.”

Lord Riften quirks a brow. They can’t know she’s not being wholly truthful, but the thought is exhilarating enough to force her to continue.

“Only from a distance,” she says breathlessly, “when someone would relieve themself behind the stables.”

Lord Riften trails fingers along the opening of Samuel’s trousers and brushes his skin. Unwittingly, Samuel’s hips buck, and Lord Riften closes a fist around him. Samuel groans, head tipping back as the music swells.

Avirin doesn’t know where to look: the arch of Samuel’s neck, the smirk on Lord Riften’s face, or the thick appendage pulled from Samuel’s trousers. She can’t reconcile seeing a lord touching another man like this. This isn’t done. This isn’t allowed.

Lord Riften drags their thumb against the tip of Samuel’s length and smears something wet. “Do you know what this is, Lady Avirin?”

Samuel covers his mouth to muffle his sounds. Lord Riften leaves him on display, tormenting him with Avirin’s lessons.

Her thighs clench as she glances toward the balcony curtain. Someone could find them like this. Someone could see, yet she can’t stop herself, her body thrumming when she looks back between Samuel’s legs. “His…” God, she’s never said any of the words aloud. She’s hardly thought them. With a swallow, she manages to whisper, “His…member.”

Lord Riften chitters with amusement. “That’s one way of putting it. For our purposes, we’ll use some other language.” They circle their thumb around the tip again. “Samuel, why don’t you give her some examples? Ask for what you want.”

Samuel grips the chair beneath him. “Please touch my cock, Sir.” He says it so easily, his voice keening. “Please, Sir, please put my dick in your mouth.”

“Good boy,” Lord Riften murmurs.

It cracks like lightning deep in Avirin’s stomach. She squirms. Why does she crave the words herself? Why is she caught in the thrall of Lord Riften’s praise?