Page 54 of A Taste for the Peculiar

Avirin closes the space between them, stoking the heat in Pye’s stomach with every step. When she reaches him, she lifts her hands to the top of his shirt. She doesn’t look down as she undoes the buttons, her face hovering before his, her breath warm when their noses brush.

He lifts his hands to aid her, but her movements are steady. She does not need his help. She knows what she is doing; she knows what she wants. So Pye does not interfere, tracing delicate lines on the backs of her wrists and basking in the feeling of being undone by her.

She reaches over his shoulders to unbuckle the clasps at the base of his wings. Once everything is loose, she looks away from his face, following the path of her palms up the planes of his stomach. She leaves a warm trail as she lifts his shirt, guiding the fabric up and over his head until it falls to the ground.

He remains still. Her eyes scan his chest, his arms, his stomach, taking in every inch of ink embedded in his skin. Her fingers wander them all, taking extra time over the hawkmoth wings spread across his chest.

She’s never touched him like this. For all their time together, Pye was focused on her, and he thanks the gods for that. He would never have survived being under her attention this way, withstanding the curious calculation of her gaze and the inquisitive journey of her hands. If Avirin had touched him like this before, Pye fears he would have forgotten any notion of virtue if it meant another second of her interest.

She brushes his nipples and lingers on the metal that protrudes. Her hand moves instinctively to her own ears to feel for the small holes. “I’ve never seen…”

Pye does not rush her. He has all the time in the world for this, a willing experiment who sighs when she thumbs his piercings.

She bites her lip. “May I —”

“Anything.”

She looks up from beneath her lashes, and then, she cranes her head to circle his nipple with her mouth.

He sucks in a sharp breath. She hesitates, but at the look in his eyes, her tongue swirls speculatively around him. Pye reaches for the wall to brace himself, and her eyes dart toward the movement before she sucks him more roughly.

Unadulterated want pulses through him. Her mouth is warm and wet, teasing the metal until it knocks gently against her teeth. Pye’s head hangs lower. Her hands trail down to his waist, teeth scraping his nipple as she works open the buttons of his pants.

Pye’s mind threatens to blank, but he remembers himself, reaching into his pocket for the vial of vibrant, purple liquid. He sets it on one bedside table. “For after.”

Avirin’s eyes light up, swarming with desire that has finally been set free. “On the bed,” she instructs.

A shiver darts up Pye’s spine. Her newfound certainty is firmly in place, and Pye is her humble acolyte. They don’t drop her gaze when they sit on the edge of the bed, and when she steps between their knees, Pye runs his hands up the back of her thighs to aid her climbing into his lap.

She holds Pye’s face for a moment before she eases them back against the pillows, and her hands move to one of his wrists.

A strip of fabric knots around it. Through the dark, Pye can make out one of their cravats tying them to her bedpost. Soon, their other wrist is secured as well, and Avirin straddles their hips with moonlight pouring in behind her. It cuts through the thin fabric of her chemise, outlining every luxurious curve of her body.

Pye groans.

“You know…” Avirin reaches for her bedside table and retrieves a small, black daybook. “There’s quite an assortment of reading material in that library.” She opens the book with one hand, glancing between the pages and Pye’s wrists while she runs her fingers over the restraints. “And I suspect they can’t all be blamed on the former tenant.”

Pye grins lazily. “You found my notes.”

It’s been years since Pye last wrote in that journal, but at one time, it was their constant companion. During their nights in the brothels, they filled the book with anatomical drawings, manuals for bondage knots, and ingredients for abortive potions.

“They’re very detailed.” Avirin flips another page. “Almost as good as having you to guide me.”

“That close, is it?”

A smirk flits across her face. “There are things in here I could never have dreamed. All manner of things we can try, my lord.”

She picks up a scrap of paper from the nightstand and tucks it into the daybook. Pye’s body grows hot. Other bookmarks peek out from every angle, and he wants to know exactly what interests her. He wants her to read it to him. He wants her to direct him while he sucks bruises inside her thighs.

But then the book is gone, and she looks smug, like she knows the torture she’s inflicting. “Tonight, though, I thought we might take our time.”

Pye’s antennae twitch at her arousal. “Are you certain you can wait, my lady?”

Her eyes narrow, and Pye can’t help the smile slinking across their lips. She does not relent. “You seemed quite happy to make me wait all those months. With your lessons. With your honor.”

When she sneers, his hips buck. Taunting Avirin does something to Pye, a wicked thrill that makes him salivate. There is nothing like the sharp look she gets, revealing the prickly nature that she has always been taught to disguise. It’s a reward when Pye finds the right knob to wind up. Never too much; just enough to pluck her strings, to stoke her fire, to spur her into action.

He will gladly take any punishment she sees fit…and perhaps she would let him punish her, too. Is that what she’s marked in the pages of the book? Does she enjoy it when Pye torments her? Does she touch herself to the thought of him making her behave? Making her cry? Making her beg?