Page 71 of Bitter Burn
“And even if I didn’t want to fuck you tonight, which I very much do, my wife does, and after what she went through, I’m rather inclined to give her whatever she wants.”
I look at Isolde, who is awake and staring at me with subspace-glazed eyes. She reaches for me, the blanket sliding down to reveal marked arms and shoulders, and I take her hand with mine and kiss her fingers.
“Let’s not waste the night,” she whispers.
“Are you sure you can?” I ask. She’s still slumped against Mark’s chest, her expression made up of equal parts lingering euphoria and post-scene languor.
“This might be our only chance.” She falters a little as she speaks, and I know why. Because she doesn’t just mean our only chance while I’m here at Lyonesse but our only chance at all. Our last chance.
I look up from her face to Mark’s. His smile has faded, but his expression is otherwise neutral.
“I don’t want you to think me miserly, Tristan,” he says. “I’ll share my toys. Why don’t you slide a hand under the blanket and feel what I got to enjoy in front of the entire club tonight?”
When I catch Isolde’s eyes, she’s already nodding, shifting under the blanket to spread her thighs in Mark’s lap and finding my hand once again. But when she tries to pull me straight to where I’ve been ordered to go, I rebel a little. I pull my hand free and drop it onto Mark’s knee, warm and anchored with heavy muscle, and then slide it under the blanket to find her foot.
It’s been too long not to savor this. Not to feel every part of her.
I pull the blanket aside so I can watch as I graze over the incline of her foot to her ankle and then from her ankle to the curves of her calves, which are shockingly firm. The three of us watch as I make it to her knee and then replace my fingers with my lips, kissing the tender spot right where her thigh begins. I nuzzle the soft skin just above it.
Her legs are parted enough for a wandering hand but not for more, and Mark arranges her so that she’s got her back against his chest and her legs draped and hooked along the outside of his knees.
Mark slides a hand down her stomach to her pussy and pushes two fingers in with no preamble at all. She’s still wet from earlier, both her own arousal and his satisfaction, and when he pulls his fingers free, they glisten with pearly ejaculate.
He doesn’t ask and he doesn’t have to. I part my lips and accept his fingers like a sinner awaiting communion and then shudder at the taste. Sweet and a little bitter, the two of them together, something I’ve only tasted a few times, and yet a taste I’d recognize until my dying day. It tastes like the only thing I could ever want. It tastes like true love.
“You want to clean her up?” Mark asks softly, and I nod, dip my head immediately to her cunt. I can’t breathe when he lets me do things like this. When he lets me play breeding games.
At the first trace of my tongue, Isolde gasps, squirms until Mark finds her rope-bitten hips and holds her firmly in place. I appreciate it because I want my own hands free. I press my thumbs to the soft outer labia and spread until the pulsing lights outline the slick hole and the small pink berry at the top, nestled under its hood. I lower my mouth again and kiss her cunt like I have seduction in mind, unabashedly making love to it. I can taste Mark inside her; I’m greedy for it, and I swirl my tongue to find more of it. I use my thumb to plug her opening while I service her clitoris and then suck my thumb when I pull it free.
I want to fuck where Mark has been. I want it so badly. I want to go bare inside her and pump her so full that she’s dripping. I want Mark to go bare inside me…I want him to breed me like he paid for me.
“Tristan,” Isolde breathes. “Please.”
“If you make her come, you can fuck her,” Mark says, magnanimous and casual.
I flick my eyes up to Isolde’s, and she manages an assenting smile through her whimpers. I waste no time and return to my work—not that there’s much left to do. I use my tongue to caress the tender pearl of her clitoris, I fill her with my fingers, turning them so I can gently press upward, and she starts quivering almost immediately.
Her hands find my head and press me closer; with my hair trimmed this short, I can feel each and every fingertip, the warmth of her palms. She’s holding my mouth against her pussy, trying to buck against Mark’s iron hold, and the noises she’s making are the noises of unutterable agony, of torment beyond reckoning.
I’m so hungry for more of her taste, for more of those noises, that I don’t stop as she shudders and bucks even harder, even more jerkily, my name on her lips between her broken groans. I grab the insides of her thighs and suck harder, lick faster, feeling her on my chin and my nose, wishing I could get closer, taste deeper, be part of her.
When she finally goes still, her hands loosening on my head, I force myself to stop. I rest my head against her thigh, my mouth still brushing against her flushed, wet cunt, and close my eyes as I breathe her in. She’s slumped back against Mark’s chest, panting, and I hear Mark crooning something to her, sounding pleased.
We stay like that a moment, me kneeling between both of their thighs, Isolde enduring the aftershocks with small hitches of her breath. And then Mark says, “I think the table will serve your purposes quite nicely.”
I know which table he’s talking about, a padded leather one in the middle of the room. There’s also a bed, neatly made with satin sheets and outfitted with hooks and cuffs, but the table is closer. If Mark means to watch from his chair, then the table would afford him the best view. And judging by the way he settles back and crosses an ankle atop his knee as I stand and lift Isolde into my arms, he’s planning to watch from right where he is.
Isolde rests her head against my shoulder as I carry her, and even if I don’t have Mark’s appetite for pain or control, I still feel the thrill of gratified ego when she’s like this. Isolde Trevena, a saint of the Church, the tightly wound murderess who never unclenches her fist around her rich girl poise, is now sweet and pliant in my arms. It makes me feel like I’ve done something right, like I’ve given her a gift maybe.
I lay her on the table and don’t bother with any of the assorted accessories, toys, and restraints in the discreetly joined cabinets nearby. I work on unbuckling my pants, my hands shaking, and then pause when I hear Mark’s voice behind me.
“Shirt, socks, and shoes too, Tristan. We’re not heathens. It’s only polite to be as naked as she is.”
He certainly wasn’t worried about being polite when he fucked her on the stage tonight, with his pants still hanging off his hips, but I’m pretty sure politeness isn’t actually the point; getting to look at me without clothes on is the point. My breathing speeds up as I unbutton my shirt and toe off my shoes. I bend down to work off my socks, and when I straighten, I see that he’s propped his head against his hand and is staring at me like I’m the provided entertainment for the evening.
A flush burns from inside my skin, along my chest and cheeks and throat, and I don’t know what to do when he looks at me like that. I’ve never known what to do.
I’m physically incapable of denying him anything he wants when he looks at me like that.
