Page 89 of Bitter Burn
I rock into her—I can’t manage a real thrust, not like this—and it makes Tristan rub along the inside of me, a euphoric slide both inside and out. I move again, resting the palm of my hand over her sternum, essentially pinning them both in place while I use them to make myself come.
“I’m obsessed with your cunt,” I mutter to my wife, moving harder now, my dick fisted almost entirely by her tight, velvet channel as I rock between her and Tristan. “I think about it all the time. How wet it is. How tight. How hot it feels on the inside.” I lean forward, just a little, just enough that every time I go deeper, her clit is massaged by my body. “I can’t blame Tristan for wanting it. I want it too. Even if it belonged to someone else, I would still be consumed by it. How many times have I made you ride my lap at Lyonesse because it’s the only thing on my mind? Not managing the club or wooing new members, no, it’s that soft, tight opening between your legs, under your little dresses, always so available in the hall, right there for me to see and touch. You can’t begin to understand how I missed it when you were gone. I missed looking at it, kissing it, eating it. Filling it with my cum.”
At the last part, Tristan makes a broken, whimpering noise.
“It’s okay,” I soothe him. “It’s okay. I knew you were taking care of it for me, weren’t you? Petting it and pleasing it. Making sure it was dripping with seed every day.”
Tristan gasps and finally opens his eyes, a man determined to see his murderer’s face before he takes his last breath. Isolde turns her head to his, not quite able to kiss him but something like it, and he makes a pathetic noise.
“I can’t hold on. It feels too good, please, sir?—”
“Shh. We have this pretty cunt to fill up first, don’t we? You can last a little bit longer, can’t you, Tristan? For me?”
I move my hand to cup his face, and his lashes flutter a little, although his eyes stay open this time. He watches me with terror and worship both, a look that sinks right to the fucked-up core of me, twisting ecstasy around all the pleasure I’m already taking.
“I thought so,” I say softly. “You know, I’ve said that touching is earned… Would you both like to touch me now? I think you’ve earned it. I think you’re earning it by being so very good for me tonight.”
My wife reaches for me right away, grazes her fingertips over the tattooed words on my hip and the scars flecking my stomach and chest. But for his part, Tristan is a man spellbound, slowly lifting his hands to slide up my thighs.
I suck in a breath, watching their movements, reminding myself that he’s touched me before, inadvertently, casually, while he helped me dress or shower after I was stabbed. This shouldn’t feel like getting stabbed all over again. This shouldn’t feel so fucking wonderful that I want to hate myself forever.
And yet it does—and it’s this tender and wondering petting that breaks me.
Yes, the beautiful cock splitting me open, and yes, that wet cunt gripping my dick, but their hands on me, their curiosity and their love and their lust spilling over in even the lightest brushes of their palms—it’s an entirely new kink, an undiscovered shore. My head falls forward, a few locks of hair falling free, my heart pounding beyond what I think it can medically bear. They pet me and I fuck with urgent, snapping rolls of my hips. I circle Isolde’s clitoris with my thumb, and I am so hard inside my wife, harder than I’ve ever been, and when Isolde’s hands go still on my stomach and her eyes catch mine, I know she’s tumbling over, and I know she’s going to take me with her.
Her cry has Tristan and I both coming undone, and I start fucking her cunt as hard as I can right as her orgasm has her inner muscles rippling delicately along my length. She doesn’t look away, and neither do I, and Tristan is looking up at me too, a desperate, apologetic look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he mutters, and I think he’s apologizing because he’s about to come, but then his hips move underneath me, a jerky, half-involuntary thrust, and I realize he’s apologizing because he can’t stay still any longer. He has to fuck.
And I should scold him for it, I should punish him somehow, but his face is so exquisite like this, with the incessant, biological drive to rut and breed, and his need to be good for me. And each desperate thrust has him stroking my prostate with a pressure and a rhythm that would have even a seasoned hedonist giving it up within minutes.
I pant, I grab Isolde’s hips, I breathe both their names—Tristan, Isolde—and then it’s yanking at me, rushing up from nowhere, a cruel and gnawing ecstasy that I won’t survive. It’s a surging crest of heaven, inevitable and elemental and profane, and when it finally breaks, I go plunging under, tumbled and wrenched by the sheer force of my release. Tristan keeps going, like he’s truly unable to stop, and each thrust of his has me sliding deeper into my wife, and I’m pumping her full, spilling with heavy pulses, each contraction harder and better than the last, and I don’t remember the last time I managed to drag in a real breath. Sparks fly at the edges of my vision as my body gives the two of them every last bit of me there is.
I’m still ejaculating—weakly, irregularly now—and I grab Tristan’s hand to guide him to where I’m spending inside Isolde, so that when I pull free, he can see the milky fluid overflowing and running down my still-wet cock. I press his fingers to Isolde’s cunt and watch him slowly apprehend that he’s feeling my cum inside her.
“Oh God,” he says. It’s a prayer and a lament at the same time. “Oh my God.”
I’m sensitive everywhere—every nerve ending somehow multiplied by seven—but I’m grateful for it, because I can feel Tristan swell inside me. I can feel every single jerk and throb, the new heat, the fresh slickness. I know exactly what surges and shudders match which gasp, which dip of his eyelashes, which frantic squeeze of his hand on my thigh.
Isolde has shifted so she can kiss his neck and jaw and suck little spots along his neck, and semen has started dripping from her snatch and pooling in his navel. When his orgasm gradually uncurls its claws from him, he lifts an unsteady hand to touch his stomach. He moans when he lifts his fingers and sees what they’re wet with. His eyes close.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
I let myself have ten more seconds. Ten more seconds of his hips digging into my thighs, of his strong body stretched out underneath me. Of Isolde’s arms now around Tristan’s neck but her eyes on me. Ten more seconds of slick, fast-cooling seed and goose bumps peppering skin and breathing slowly returning to normal.
Ten more seconds, and then the world outside the window can strip us and sell us for parts if it wants.
I bend down and kiss both of them in turn.
Twenty-Nine
Mark
Hours later, when the aftercare is finished and a long shower taken—and the inevitable sex enjoyed afterward—I gently disentangle myself from a sleeping Tristan and slide out of bed. Petitcrieu has decanted herself into a pool of gray fuzz and too-big paws between Tristan’s knees and doesn’t even prick her ears when I draw the covers back up. I slip on some pants, brush some hair back from Isolde’s face, and then leave the room.
Downstairs, I go straight for the low wooden bar behind the sofa, pouring myself a finger of scotch…and then adding another finger before stoppering the bottle again. It’s still dark and will be for a while yet, and even the city has gone still, streetlights changing colors for empty intersections, sporadic headlights moving over empty sidewalks.
I only know she’s coming because she wants me to know. She doesn’t bother hiding her reflection in the glass, and the blanket she has wrapped around herself hisses on the floor as she walks. But her feet make no noise, and I’ve watched her long enough to know that she’d be able to stick to the darkness, choose a perfectly oblique angle for her approach, if she didn’t want to alert me. I might sense her a split second before she wanted me to, but only barely.
