Chapter 220: Lip Service and Poor Life Choices

Also accurate.

So I swirled the rest of my drink, wiped powdered sugar off my tits (there was quite a lot), and wobbled elegantly to the stage.

Now—about this dress. It's not really a dress, it's more of a threat. Scarlet silk, slit up to the hipbone, backless, neckline in denial. Tied together with two knots, hope, and a prayer to the Goddess of Wardrobe Malfunctions. If you breathe wrong, it files for divorce.

Anyway.

They pair me with some local farm girl. Blonde. Barefoot. Freckles like she’s been kissed by the sun and too shy to talk to mirrors. She's wearing a peasant shift like it’s armor, clutching the hem like I might bite—which, fair.

She glances at me, then down. Then back at me. Then goes pink. All the way to the ears.

Perfect.

"Name?" I ask, already halfway into a pout.

She whispers something like “Linna,” but it gets eaten by the crowd's whooping. Doesn’t matter.

“You kiss good, Linna?” I grin. “Or are you one of those girls who close their eyes and apologize after?”

Her jaw drops. Adorable.

The drumroll starts. The judge—a bald man with wine stains on his tunic and lipstick on his bald spot—waves a grubby hand.

And then it's on.

I grab her by the hips and pull her in close, real slow, like I’m going to whisper something filthy into her ear. And maybe I do. Her knees go soft.

Points for style.

She looks like she’s about to faint. Or flee. Or both.

So I tilt her chin up with one finger. “Breathe, sweetheart. It’s just lips. I won’t bite unless you ask nice.”

She exhales a tiny oh gods and then I kiss her.

And it’s... oh.

Soft. Warm. Slightly trembling. She tastes like plum wine and honesty. Mouth hesitant at first, then—surprise—eager. She finds her rhythm. Finds mine. Hands clinging to my shoulders like I might vanish.

We’re still kissing when the drumroll stops.

Still kissing when the cheering starts.

Still kissing when the judge clears his throat and says, “Time’s up, ladies.”

I break it with a smirk. She’s flushed. Dazed. Slightly unsteady.

I tug her close one last time and whisper, “Any time you want a rematch, I’ll bring the plum wine.”

Then I blow a kiss at the judge, wave to the crowd, and saunter off barefoot through the dust—feeling like a goddess, smelling like sugar and sin, and very much hoping the prize is something useful.

Like a ham. Or a room with a door that locks.

Because Linna is still staring. And honestly?

I might not be done with her either.The fire crackled. The ham sizzled. The Dragon grumbled.

"That wasn’t fair,” he muttered, halfway through his third slice. “You’re a Seebulban-grade pleasure slave. The rest of them were—what—village tartlets with flower crowns? You’re three leagues above the competition.”

I smirked, stretched out on the stolen picnic blanket like a goddess on laundry day, one leg draped over the other, still barefoot, still glowing with wine and lipstick smugness.

“Three leagues?” I purred. “Darling, I was three leagues above them before I was housebroken. Before temple training. Before the auction block. Before Madam Zoobaya even taught me which parts go where.”

He gave me a look. “You learned that in the temple?”

“No, but I learned how to look like I did. There’s a difference.”

He stabbed at the ham with unnecessary violence. “Still cheating.”

“Oh please,” I said, plucking a grape from the bowl and popping it into my mouth, “you didn’t even see the contest.”

“I didn’t have to see it. I heard what you said about it.”

“That’s not the same as seeing it. Ask Linna.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is she the one who fainted into the goat trough?”

“She swooned. There’s a difference. It was very romantic.”

He made a noise that could’ve meant disgust or envy—it was hard to tell with a mouthful of pork. “You traumatized a farming community.”

“They’ll recover. Think of it as educational outreach.”

He snorted. “You should be banned.”

“I am banned. From three counties. Four if you count the kissing priestess incident.”

He sighed, curled his tail around his hoard-sack like a possessive miser, and chewed another bite. “Still cheating.”

I grinned. “Still delicious.”

He paused mid-chew. “You mean the ham?”

I winked. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”