The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 510: Whispers and Wicked Games (1)

"Oh?" Serelith drawled, letting amusement color the air between them. "The Lone Wolf can be a lady after all?"

Cerys jumped as if stung. "I—I just thought a pin would keep the layers from my eyes," she sputtered, tugging at the braid like she regretted every petal. "Shut up."

Serelith's smile broadened; teasing this stoic swordswoman was like coaxing a song from an oiled hinge—satisfying precisely because it was difficult. "Adorable," she pronounced, and relished the deeper flush climbing Cerys's neck.

Boots crunched behind them. Serelith felt the sound first in her spine, a soft vibration that announced he's here. She pivoted—and there he was, stepping through the arch of hanging willow branches as if the world itself had decided to paint him in every warm color it owned. Dark travel cloak, nothing fancy, yet the way it framed the easy line of his shoulders made her breath snag. His curls, hastily bound, spilled a few rebellious strands that plucked sunbeams and flung them at her heart. And that smile—crooked, quietly cocky, meant for the two of them alone—set butterflies sprinting.

"Well, aren't you two breathtaking?" he said, sweeping a playful bow that made the sword at his hip tap the haft of a saddle waiting behind him.

Serelith's inner scholar noted the simple weapon: undecorated scabbard, no jewels, just honest steel polished to mirror. A deliberate statement—useful, humble, nonthreatening to the courtiers who feared a prince's blade just as they feared his laugh. Always the balance, she thought with a flutter of admiration. He played the jester because power grew sharper the quieter it hid.

"Shall we?" Mikhailis extended an arm that somehow invited and challenged all at once.

The argument over mounts flared as predictably as sunrise. Serelith claimed victory via two clean rounds of rock-paper-scissors—though the way Mikhailis's hand conveniently lagged a half-beat hinted at chivalry more than chance. She slid onto the bay gelding behind him at first, but then paused, a mischievous thought sparking in her violet eyes.

"No, wait," Serelith purred, leaning closer, her breath warm against his ear. "I want to ride in front. But…" Her fingers trailed down his arms, guiding his hands to the reins. "You'll be the one holding the reins. I just want to feel… secure."

Mikhailis's brow arched, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Secure, you say?"

She shifted, her slender frame settling against his chest, her back pressing flush against him. His arms wrapped around her, strong and warm, and his hands gripped the reins just beside her waist. Under the dark cloak, her body nestled perfectly against his, and she felt the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat against her spine.

As the horse began to walk, each gentle sway brought a subtle, teasing friction between them. Serelith felt the solid warmth of his chest behind her and the soft, thrilling press of his hips against her lower back. A faint shiver danced down her spine, and she shifted slightly, her back pressing closer, feeling his breath against her ear.

"Comfortable?" he murmured, voice low and teasing, lips just grazing her ear.

"Perfect," she whispered, her own voice a soft purr. "And you?"

"Very…" His hands tightened on the reins, and as the horse's gentle gait continued, she felt it—felt the firm, unmistakable pressure against her lower back. His body reacted to her, and a wicked smile bloomed on her lips.

But then, Cerys's voice cut through the warm, tense quiet. "If you two are done playing at lovers on a festival stroll, we have a path to follow."

Serelith's lips curled into a faint pout, but she couldn't resist teasing further. She leaned slightly forward, the subtle shift pressing her hips back against his lap, feeling the unmistakable hardness trapped beneath his trousers. A soft, breathless chuckle escaped her. "My, my… someone is quite eager," she whispered.

Mikhailis's fingers tightened on the reins, but his voice remained smooth. "Well, I wonder why."

"Stop it, the two of you!" Cerys's voice came again, sharper this time, but Serelith could hear the faintest note of jealousy in her tone.

But Serelith's mischievous streak refused to be dampened. She adjusted herself, the slight movement drawing another subtle brush of that firm pressure against her. But then she felt something more. As she shifted again, a soft gasp caught in her throat—she felt his length, so achingly firm, pressing between her thighs. Still trapped beneath his trousers, but the heat, the size, was impossible to ignore.

Her breath quickened, her heart racing. Was it accidental? Or… did he know? Her eyes flicked to the side, catching the faintest twitch of his lips—oh, he definitely knew. A rush of heat pooled between her thighs, and she bit her lip, struggling to maintain her composure.

But Cerys seemed oblivious, her gaze focused on the winding forest path ahead, the rustling leaves, and the soft, dappled sunlight. Serelith's mind raced. A wild idea sparked within her, a reckless hunger she couldn't ignore.

"Mikhailis," she whispered, her voice low, barely more than a breath. "Faster. Make the horse move faster."

A brief pause, and then his hands flexed, a faint, subtle tug on the reins. The bay gelding picked up speed, its stride quickening, and the added motion only heightened the maddening, rhythmic pressure against her. Each bounce, each sway of the horse's gait, sent a sweet, teasing heat fluttering through her, and she felt herself growing damp, her thighs clenching instinctively.

"So beautiful, this forest," she murmured, just loud enough for Cerys to hear, her voice a masterful mask of casual conversation. "The glow-orchids, the sprites flitting among the leaves…"

"Oh, yes," Cerys nodded, her attention shifting to the trees, completely unaware. "The children here call them 'forest lanterns' because they light up at night."

Serelith's lips curved, a wicked, mischievous smile, but her voice remained calm, steady—a perfect mask over the chaos brewing beneath. Her hips shifted subtly, just a gentle, almost innocent adjustment. But the heat was there, the hunger unmistakable, and Mikhailis's hand at her waist tightened, his fingers pressing against her just enough to guide her. His lips brushed against the curve of her neck, a warm, teasing touch that sent a shiver racing down her spine.

Her breath hitched as she felt the thick, solid warmth of him, still hidden beneath the fabric, but pressing insistently against her slick, aching heat. Her heart raced, a wild, delicious panic blooming in her chest. One more shift—one more subtle, teasing grind of her hips—and she felt the heated, throbbing tip slip against her entrance, just barely, just enough to tease. A faint, slick warmth spread between her thighs, her body responding instinctively.

"Mmnh… M-Mikhailis…" she whispered, her voice trembling, her cheeks burning with a deep, rosy blush. But her voice remained steady as she turned her head slightly, catching Cerys's curious glance. "Oh, and did you see the new tapestry they're hanging in the grand hall, Cerys? Absolutely dreadful choice of colors—clashing blues and golds."

Cerys sighed, crossing her arms, oblivious to the tension building beneath the calm conversation. "I know. It's like the weaver was colorblind. Who even approved that?"

Mikhailis's fingers dug into Serelith's waist, a faint, desperate squeeze, and she bit her lip, her voice unwavering even as her hips rocked in a barely perceptible rhythm. "Probably some overpaid minister with a taste for garish designs. You should have seen the look on Lady Hilde's face when she saw it—like she'd swallowed a lemon."

Mikhailis leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear, a hot breath that sent a sweet, electric shiver down her spine. "Do you want it?" His voice was a low, hungry growl, a rough edge to his whisper.

"Yes…" she breathed, her voice a desperate, needy plea. "I need… please…"

"Oh please, Lady Hilde always looks like that," Cerys scoffed, her voice light, her attention caught by the passing scenery outside. "Honestly, that woman has never smiled in her life. I once heard she drove a court jester to tears."

"Hmm, a tragedy," Serelith murmured, her voice smooth, even as she shifted again, the thick, throbbing warmth of Mikhailis pressing insistently against her slick, soaked entrance. "Perhaps she's allergic to joy."

A soft, wet sound whispered between them, her slick warmth easing the way, and then—slowly, deliberately—he slipped inside her, inch by inch, stretching her with a sweet, maddening ache. Serelith's voice trembled, but she kept her tone light, her fingers tightening around his arm. "But you know, Cerys, you should have seen Sir Edmund trying to dance last night—like a drunken goose."

"Oh gods, please no," Cerys laughed, oblivious to the shuddering gasp that Serelith muffled against Mikhailis's shoulder. "I remember the last banquet. He nearly kicked a duchess in the face."

"Indeed…" Serelith's voice quivered, but she masked it with a laugh, a faint, breathless giggle that melted against Mikhailis's ear. Her body trembled, her walls clenching around him, each slow, deliberate thrust sending sweet, scorching sparks through her core.

SLAP!

"MMNHH—!" Serelith's muffled cry surged against Mikhailis's chest, her hips instinctively bucking, pressing herself even tighter against him. Her slick, warm walls clenched around him, each pulse of her body drawing him deeper. But her voice remained steady, even as her body quaked. "Cerys, did you ever consider taking up painting? I feel like it would suit you."

"Painting?" Cerys raised an eyebrow, leaning against the window frame. "I can barely draw a straight line. I'd probably create some kind of abstract monstrosity."

SLAP!

"Ah—!" Serelith's voice cracked, but she turned it into a breathy laugh, her violet eyes fluttering shut, a faint sheen of sweat on her brow. "Abstract is in fashion, you know. Just say it's 'symbolic of societal decay.'"

"Oh, please," Cerys groaned, rolling her eyes. "The only thing decaying in this kingdom is Sir Edmund's dancing skills."

Mikhailis's hand slipped lower, cupping the curve of Serelith's rear, giving it a firm, teasing squeeze. His fingers tightened, his voice a low, dangerous whisper against her ear. "You're amazing…"

Her lips quivered, a faint, desperate smile curling. "M-More… I… I can take more…" But her voice rose again, clear and composed. "Cerys, tell me—do you think Lady Mariette's new hairstyle suits her? I thought it looked a bit like a pigeon's nest."

Cerys snorted. "A pigeon's nest is generous. More like a collapsed haystack. Who told her that was fashionable?"

Serelith's nails dug into Mikhailis's shoulders, her body rocking in slow, subtle, rhythmic movements. "Oh, you'd be surprised. She actually told me it was inspired by some Elven court trend."

"Elves?" Cerys laughed. "I've met elves, Serelith. They'd never wear something so… so…"

"Ridiculous?" Serelith offered, a faint, breathless giggle escaping her lips. "Yes, I quite agree."