Page 88 of Bitter Burn
“It’s not a trick, I promise.” I take her hand and guide it between my thighs, making sure to spread my knees farther apart so that she can reach where I want her. I press my fingers against hers, sliding them just…there…and pushing one of her fingers against my rim. I exhale as she breaches me, and Tristan exhales too, his eyes avid on where her hand disappears between my legs. “That’s it,” I tell her as she works more lubricant inside. I make eye contact with Tristan when I say, “Make it so he can glide right in.”
No one needs to be touching him for his toes to curl this time.
I smile with one of the slow smiles that I know he finds particularly bewitching and watch as his arousal bobs into the air again. “Would you like that, puppy?” I croon. “To fuck me? For me to ride you until I come?”
For her part, Isolde seems unbearably turned on while she fingers me, her nipples furled tight and her breathing fast as she plays with the muscled opening and explores inside. My erection flexes between us, very interested in what’s happening, and I drop my head backward when she adds a second finger, my stomach shuddering right above her curious touch. It’s been so long, since Eliot, and I’ve forgotten how it feels, vulnerable and honest and obscene. I’ve forgotten the immediate fever of it, the goose bumps, the clammy sweat. The heat and gravity of a newborn star cradled deep in my pelvis.
“That’s enough,” I grunt. “Hold him up for me.”
Tristan’s eyes are pressed shut, like watching will kill him, and even Isolde looks like I could knock her over with a feather when I swing a leg over his hips and reach down to wrap my hand around hers. Together, we hold him straight while I lower myself. Until I feel the hot, plush tip of him at the gates.
Fuck, it’s a lot, and I know it’ll be a long slide down to the bottom. Even lubed up and teased open, I can feel the resistance, the bracing against it, and the deep tongues of pain licking from where we’re pressed together.
But even though it’s been eight years, it would take a lifetime to forget my best party trick. I take a deep breath, embrace the sweet bite of anguish, and bear down. My hole opens, and I impale myself with one swift, slick glide.
Tristan sounds like he’s been shot underneath me, and my own ragged breathing isn’t much better. I’m straddling his hips, my hands flexing instinctively at his stomach as I shiver my way through the shock of having that massive thing tunneling into me, and air is hard to come by, impossible to draw all the way into my lungs. The aching organ resting against his abdomen is now tumescent to the point of pain. I can feel my heartbeat in the shiny, flared tip resting above his navel.
“Sir,” Tristan breathes, eyes still closed. “I can’t last. Please, I can’t do it. I’m going to come.”
I drag my hands up his quivering stomach and chest, back down again. I reach behind me to feel the hard, trembling muscles of his thighs. “You’ll last,” I say. The words are taut, strung as tight as I am. “You’ll last for me. Won’t you? Long enough for me to take what I need?”
He nods miserably, twisting his head on the pillow. I can see every cord of his neck, every vein near his temple.
“Good, baby. Now your job is to stay still and let me use that nice dick of yours.”
Isolde is kneeling next to us, the crumpled hand towel by one delicate foot, her mussed hair covering her breasts and her hands in knotted fists on the tops of her thighs, like not touching us right now is taking all her strength.
I take pity. “You can touch him if you’d like. If you think he can stand it.”
She wastes no time, moving right next to Tristan and passing her hands over his chest and shoulders and arms. It’s not for him, this touching. It’s for her, for her pleasure, and who can blame her? He’s irresistible, an intoxicating combination of primal human power and hopeless acquiescence, particularly tempting to monsters like Isolde and me.
(I don’t blame myself either, in case you were wondering.)
I lift a little experimentally and sink back down again, shifting, leaning and tilting, bracing my hands on his stomach until I find the angle I want. It only takes a few seconds for that long-forgotten shock of bliss to arc through me. I shudder and fuck myself back on Tristan to feel it again.
“God, puppy,” I mumble. “That’s so good. You feel so good right there.”
Letting him inside my body seems to be some kind of torture beyond anything held inside Lyonesse’s armory, because Tristan is barely breathing now, the skin around his lips white with strain and every sinew beneath me stretched as if he’s on a medieval rack. Isolde is captivated by this, her hands tracing over his tight tendons and bulging veins, her lower lip pulled into her mouth. Her eyes stray to where we’re joined, over and over again, and I move a hand between her thighs to see if her clit is swollen again.
It is, a firm pearl, needing only a graze of my fingertip to wring a whimper from her lips.
Ah, why not? Why not indulge every depraved fantasy I’ve had since I hired Tristan? I grab Isolde by the waist and lift her—the added weight driving me down hard onto Tristan and making us both grunt—and then set her down on Tristan’s stomach and push her back. Her legs fall open on either side of ours, and her back is pressed to Tristan’s chest, her head next to his on the pillow.
I look down and run my thumbs along the soft crease between her sex and her thighs. When I press my thumbs into the middle, she glistens. As pretty as morning dew on a flower.
She parts her legs even more, trying to lift her hips and mostly failing since the surface she’s lying on is comprised of strained-and-panting Tristan. I smack her clit once, not in admonishment but just because I like watching the pain sparkle and dance all over her skin. I like seeing that haunted look in her eyes, the one that says how did you know? And then I anchor her with a hand on her hip, while my other hand lines everything up, the indecent length of me with the hole I dream of at night.
That first press of hot flesh on flesh is enough to make my control waver. With my bodyguard wedged against my prostate and my wife spread out like an unspoiled feast in front of me, I don’t know that I’ll make it any further.
I want this though, enough to fight off the fevered need shivering up my cock and stabbing deep into my belly, and I push myself in so that the entire head is squeezed tight in her channel.
The small movements of Tristan breathing underneath her are enough to make me rock in and out of her, only by the barest degrees but enough for me to appreciate the shine she leaves on my dick every time it slides farther out.
I gather some of that shine onto the pad of my thumb, press it against the sensitive knot above her pussy, and rub until she’s squirming, until she’s inadvertently taking more and more as she seeks the pressure of my touch. Finally, my self-control ends. I’m halfway into her cunt, a dark and ruinous rapture is building around where I’m speared on Tristan’s body, and I’m so very aware of the glittering night slipping away from us, of the entire world pressing in at the glass walls of my home. Of Tristan’s plane ticket to Montreal and of Cashel’s new ring.
Now is all we have.
I take Isolde by the hips and drag her down, all the way down, so that I spread her open, so that her thighs are draped over mine. The wet welcome of her pussy is worth fighting wars over, absolute proof that the story of Troy and Helen makes complete sense. I would raze cities and defy gods to feel this again.
