Page 74 of Bitter Burn
“Are you going to kneel there dripping onto the table all night?” Mark asks over his shoulder. “Come on then.”
I scramble off the table, and then Mark instructs me, with the same offhanded voice he’d use back when I’d serve him after his injury, to take off his trousers.
I do, almost dizzy with déjà vu as I kneel to unbutton his waistband and then tug the zipper all the way open. But of course when I did it before, there was no inflamed wife in his arms, kissing heatedly at his jaw and neck and throat, no blond hair tickling my hands as I carefully worked the trousers down around his hips.
When I stand up, he’s fighting off a smile as Isolde attacks him with hard, sucking kisses. “I think she likes this little fantasy I’ve conjured,” he says sotto voce and then says, “Don’t worry, dearest. We’ll take care of that cunt again. We’re going to send Tristan right to St. Peter, and then I’m going to make you scream. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like you’re making a sales pitch instead of making good on your promises,” she accuses, and that earns one of his rare, true laughs, all the way from his stomach.
“You’ve got me, pet. I want you nice and amorous before I ask if a certain act is still within your limits.”
Isolde lifts a brow into a perfect arch. “My limits are the same.”
“So being penetrated anally is still something you’re interested in?”
She and I both freeze.
Mark continues. “And being penetrated by two people at the same time? That’s still acceptable?”
Isolde looks over at me. I know I’m looking back, but my mind isn’t registering any other information right now. All I can think of is Mark’s dick nestled tightly in her ass. The feeling of him moving inside her while I’m there too.
“Yes,” she says. “Fuck. Yes. I want—that’s still acceptable. Sir.” The words come out in short stutters. I’m barely upright.
In the next scatter of light from the window, I can clearly see the dark flush on Mark’s cheeks.
“Wonderful,” he says. The word comes out like it’s been dragged over gravel. “Then let me make good on my promises.”
He sits in the chair with Isolde in his arms and arranges her so that she’s facing him. With the precision of a seasoned assassin, he angles himself with one hand, grips her hip with another, and with a quick movement, she’s impaled. Her hands flex on his chest like the paws of a cat caught by a sudden landing; she shivers and her head drops forward.
Mark meets my confused gaze and nods at the small side table next to the chair without breaking eye contact. “Everything you’ll need is in there.”
“Aren’t you… I thought…”
“You thought I was that poor a host? To set the table for a rare delicacy and then make you watch as I took it all for myself?” How he manages to look so disdainful when he’s peering up at me, I have no idea. It’s a skill I’ve only ever seen displayed by tailors and drill sergeants. “Now, to that drawer. The lube is what we’re concerned with at the moment.”
With shaking hands, I open the drawer to find lube and a rechargeable wand vibrator. Mark talks me through the next part with the indifferent voice of a bored professor, but I can perceive all the subtle little frayings of his self-control. The rasp in his voice, the swallow of his throat, the way his hips press ever so slightly up into Isolde as he watches me slick my fingers with lube and step behind Isolde.
“Okay?” I ask her in a murmur, and she looks back at me over her shoulder. Her hair hangs down her back, and it swishes as she looks. Mark—without really meaning to, it seems—reaches up and catches a lock between his fingers.
“Yes,” Isolde says. “Just—slowly.”
I nod. “Slowly,” I promise.
I press a fingertip to the thin skin between her cheeks, painting over the pleated ring with the lubricant, swirling until I find the center, the place where the tight muscles can be made pliant and ready. I drop my head to kiss her shoulder and—standing between Mark’s planted feet once again—invade her with tender patience.
She straightens, her head falling forward again, her hips moving a little to accommodate the unfamiliar pressure. She’s had her ass played with before, with me and with Mark, but as far as I know, it’s only been a finger or two and some slender toys. This is the first time she’s gone further, taken something wider and longer, and I want to make sure she’s as comfortable as possible.
It’s probably a good thing to take my time anyway, because simply the squeeze of her around my finger has me dragging in long, heavy breaths, my hard organ bobbing and seeking.
I slide my finger out to the last knuckle and gently knead at the opening, using my free hand to stroke her arm and shoulder. Mark sweeps her hair over one shoulder so that it hangs in front, giving me the length of her back to caress at my pleasure.
Her breathing is a little jagged as I continue, with every atom of patience my body can muster, to gradually massage the tension away, to make the intrusion feel natural and welcome, to accustom her to the fullness and pressure. And slowly I can feel it, the forgiveness, the tractability. It’s easier and easier to move my finger.
Mark, inhumanly observant, cradles Isolde’s head in his hands. “That was three easy breaths in a row. Ready for two fingers now?”
She nods at him, and he keeps his hands around her face as I carefully introduce the second finger, taking time to tease and push at the nerve-ridden circlet before sliding a little deeper and crooking there.
A short hiss comes from Mark, and with a frisson of erotic surprise, I realize he can feel the work of my fingers, that I can wring a reaction out of him as well as Isolde. I slide deeper in, to the point where Isolde’s body is no longer an airless squeeze but hotter than hellfire and softer than an angel’s wings.
