Page 85 of Bitter Burn
The last spank earns us a guttural moan, and Tristan and I make eye contact. His sides are heaving, sweat gleaming in the notch below his throat, an outrageous erection tenting his trousers. I reach into the waistband of my sweatpants and give my own dick a few quick jerks as I watch Isolde panting with her red backside up in the air. Her loose sweatshirt has worked its way up enough that I can see the curve of her left breast.
“Such a good girl, wouldn’t you agree, Tristan?” I let go of myself so I can use both hands to cradle her sweaty, tear-stained face.
“Yes,” answers Tristan hoarsely.
“I think we should give her a real reward now.”
Tristan groans and then moves his leg so that hers are free again. She doesn’t take advantage of her new freedom, just lying limp across his lap until he starts toying with her pussy. I can’t see what he’s doing, but I can hear it, how wet everything is, and I can see the effect on Isolde. With slow, dazed shudders, her body starts chasing his touch.
“Show me how wet she is,” I demand, and Tristan complies immediately, holding up two glossy fingers. “Taste her,” I add, and he closes his eyes with pleasure as he licks his fingers clean. I pull in as deep a breath as I can manage, searching for some shred of control.
It’s not about me—yet. I want to give them this.
“Her clit now.” I go back to looking at Isolde, nuzzling my nose against hers. “It’ll be easier if you slide your hand underneath her hip. Yes, like that. And then you can use the fingers of your left hand to give her something to come around.”
Her breath stutters and falls out of her like she’s never exhaled before in her life, and when Tristan starts fingering her in earnest, she turns into a beautiful spread of quivering muscle and poppy-red skin.
“Will you come for him?” I ask her in a murmur. “Will you show him that he was such a good boy for spanking you?”
She nods frantically, her mouth parted in a desperate kind of need, and I can see a sliver of pink past the white line of her teeth. What I wouldn’t give to stand up and push my erection past those flushed lips, to rub against her soft, slick tongue.
Just a little longer. Them first, them first.
Tristan, sweetheart that he is, seems unbearably close to losing it in his pants while Isolde soaks his hand and shamelessly tries to fuck herself on his fingers.
“You’re making us so hard, darling,” I tell Isolde, pressing my forehead to hers. “You’re so good. Tristan can’t stand it, how good you are. Can you let Tristan give this to you? Can you show him how grateful you are?”
She nods against me, gasping, and her lashes flutter to her cheeks as a soundless scream freezes her chest. Then several deep, pulsing quivers ripple through her body, down to the soles of her feet and out to the ends of her twitching fingers. When she finally finds her voice, it’s with a sharp wail, a swear word, Tristan’s name.
Tristan watches with a rapt and hungry expression, his eyes fixed to where his fingers are still wedging her open, his legs more and more restless under her body. As she goes limp once again, I kiss her warm, damp mouth and then her temple.
“Beautiful girl. You should see Tristan now. He’s not even lucid after watching that. Take a deep breath. There. And another.”
Tristan is licking his fingers clean, still staring at her cunt.
I move my mouth to her ear. “I think you could return the favor if you wanted, you know.”
She has her head on her arms now. “With a spanking?” she asks in a mumble.
“I do think he’d like that, but I have something else in mind. Do you remember when you first came to the penthouse, years ago, and I told you what the hole in that table was for?”
Her eyes slide open, suddenly much more awake. “You want him to…”
I nip at her ear. “I want you to do it to him. I’ll show you how. Don’t worry.”
She inhales at the pressure on her abused bottom when I help her sit up. Tristan shifts, as if in a sweetly ironic protest at her feeling any kind of pain, but I shake my head.
“We’ll spoil her in a minute. But right now, you need to get undressed.”
He glances between Isolde’s flushed face and mine before he reaches down to unlace his shoes and pull off his socks. He stands, and his hands are shaking as they move to unbutton his shirt, so I step in and help, enjoying immensely the uneven movements of his chest, the sweat on his throat, the rapid flick of his bright green eyes. Like he senses danger but can’t tell which direction it’s coming from.
Astute of him, because as I unbutton his shirt, Isolde presses herself against his back and starts unfastening his trousers so that he’s now pinned in place by people intent on stripping him naked. She struggles a little to tug the zipper pull all the way open, and I tut as I watch her struggle.
“That’s so embarrassing for you, puppy. You’re so hard she can’t even get your zipper down. What are we going to do about that?”
Tristan’s head falls backward when I reach into his pants to trap his erection flat to his stomach so Isolde can finish. I go back to his shirt, working open the final three buttons until I can slide the entire thing off his shoulders and tug it free with Isolde’s help.
His chest and shoulders are beautiful, muscled and smooth, and his stomach is sleek and firm. The dark hair on his chest—and the hair leading from his navel down—could be painted on, it’s that graceful and pleasing. I have a rueful moment where I think of my own body, scarred and marked, and compare it to his unblemished form. Clearly God couldn’t bear to mar one of his loveliest creations, even through a literal war, an armed incursion into our club, and a love affair with the same assassin who once sliced her ambivalence into my neck.
