She moans a yes at the same time Becket does, and he lets go of her hand to guide himself to her opening. “Thank you,” he says again, and then he breaches her body with his.
It is painfully erotic, agonizingly so, to watch his thick erection slowly spread her open. The room is hushed as he sinks in, and even the fire seems to hold its breath, flames unnaturally still until he’s all the way in. He stays flush against her a moment, as if savoring the clasp of her around him, and then finally he draws himself back and gives her a true and full stroke.
The spell breaks across the room. I let go of the breath I’ve been holding, and Auden sits back on his sofa. The fire dances once more.
Poe is the picture of obedience as she receives Becket, but I can see her little toes curling, the flash of teeth as she bites her lower lip. She wants to writhe and squirm and move—but more than that, she wants Auden to take her ability to do those things away. For people like her and me, pleasure is best when it’s razor-sharp with humiliation or pain.
Or denial.
“St. Sebastian,” Auden says lazily, his head resting against the back of the sofa. “Come here.” He pats the seat next to him without moving the rest of his body. “I want you here.”
“I can see better here,” I say, although it’s a weak protest and we both know it. We both know I want to say yes.
“Yes, but I can talk to you better over here,” Auden says.
“What do you want to talk to me about?”
“Come and find out.”
Of course, I cave. I cave because I want to cave, because I want to be close to him, I want to be ordered around by him. I want his knee to bump mine while we watch a sexy ex-priest fuck our girlfriend.
I take my drink with me, as if it’s some kind of talisman that will keep me safe from my own temptations, and sit on the far edge of the sofa, far enough away that Auden would have to reach with his entire arm to touch me.
He gives me an amused look as I adjust my legs and try to take a casual drink of my scotch. “Afraid I’ll bite?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say honestly, and he laughs. A full-throated laugh that I feel on the soles of my feet and on the inside of my veins.
“Well. Rightly so, I’m afraid. What if I promise not to bite hard?”
“Auden.”
“What if,” he lowers his voice and rolls his head along the back of the sofa to look at me with fire-glazed eyes, “I promise not to touch you tonight at all. Would you sit closer then?”
I notice how carefully worded his promise is. Tonight. At all.
That means his restraint is temporary, but complete. Even if I beg and plead, he won’t touch me. Because he knows that what I need is not assurance from him, but insurance against myself.
As an answer, I slide closer—close enough that we can whisper together, far enough apart that our knees don’t quite touch.
I take a long swallow of scotch, feeling my control fracturing already. I can smell him now, lavender and lemon and pepper, and even staring at his knees is painfully arousing, because right above his knees are his thighs, and his trousers pull so eye-catchingly over the sculpted muscles of his legs . . .
I turn my attention back to where Becket works himself in and out of Poe’s body with a fervor I’ve only seen from him in the thorn chapel, and that’s a mistake, because the sight of her arranged so pliantly, so accessibly, for use . . . the sight of her full breasts moving with each thrust and her long lashes resting on her cheeks as she pants . . .
“It’s very stirring, isn’t it?” Auden asks, in a voice like he’s talking about the weather. “Watching our bride get fucked.”
“Stirring is one word for it,” I mumble. My cheeks are hot; my cock is a throbbing bar stretching diagonally to my hip and chafing in its prison. And then I look over at Auden and see that despite his cool, dispassionate voice, he’s in the same state. A flush dusts his cheekbones, and his erection is beyond conspicuous, and when he rolls his head to look at me again, his eyes are black with desire. He presses the heel of his hand over the shaft straining against the wool fabric of his trousers.
“You want to see it?” he asks in a low voice. “I’ll show it to you.”
Flames are licking at the base of my spine. “Yeah,” I say, voice coming out dry, cracked, and needy. I swallow. “Yeah, I want to see it.”
He doesn’t make a performance of unfastening his trousers and pulling his cock out to show me, but because it’s Auden, it’s still almost like art to watch. Those clever architect’s fingers on the buttons, the play of the tendons on the backs of his hands as he parts the fabric of his trousers. The care he takes in hooking his boxer briefs down past his testicles, and the deliberate way he braces his thumb at the base of his cock so that his organ points straight at the ceiling.
I suck in a breath. And another. There’s not enough air in the entire library for this. For Auden’s cock gleaming in the firelight and Proserpina’s soft whimpers and Becket like a Greek god in rut behind her.
“Now you,” Auden says. He still hasn’t taken himself in hand, he’s not fisting or stroking himself, and it feels like he’s displaying his need, like he’s proving a point. What that point is I don’t know, but I don’t care either.
I fumble at the button and zipper of my jeans, at my boxers underneath, and then I have mine out too, throbbing in the cool air.
“You’re already wet,” murmurs Auden, and he’s right. Slickness coats the taut, velvet skin at the head of my penis. I’m surprised there’s not more. I’m surprised I haven’t come yet.
“Proserpina, look at what you are doing to us,” Auden says, and Poe looks up, her expression drunk. Her full lips part as she takes in the sight of Auden and me, our cocks out and hard. She reaches out a hand and sets it on Auden’s knee, like a plea.
“I want you,” she says to him, to me, to Becket too it feels like, because she rocks her hips back into him as she says it. “I want more.”
“You get to watch,” Auden says. “You’re still apologizing, remember?”
“Yes,” she whispers, her eyes fluttering as Becket gives her a series of short, fast strokes. “Yes.”
Becket lifts his eyes from where he is riding my girlfriend, and looks up to me and Auden. “I’m going to come,” he confesses. “Fuck, I’m going to come, I—”
He goes still—as still as someone in prayer—and then lets out a long, low sigh as his cock begins pumping her full, and he stays there until his release is complete. And before anything else can happen, he is on his knees behind Poe, his mouth on her cleft, his hands digging into her bottom to hold her against his eager mouth.
“Fuck,” Auden groans from next to me, and I’m already gripping myself, already jerking off, because there’s something so unutterably filthy about Becket doing that, about someone licking through their own release to service someone else, and it’s almost too much to watch, too much to endure because I know I’m only seconds away from coming myself.
Poe beats me to it, however, her feet kicking against the coffee table as Becket expertly brings her off, rocking back against his mouth and gasping as her muscles go tense and she shivers her way through an orgasm that lasts a very long time.
Lasts until finally Becket releases her, and she slumps halfway to her side with her feet still tucked behind her bottom and her skirt around her waist, like a slutty human comma.
Becket stands up, his mouth wet, and Auden looks up at him.
“Come here,” he tells Becket, and Becket listens, his maleness still wet and half hard, his eyes as dark as Auden’s. When he gets close, Auden tilts his face back even farther. “Kiss me with that mouth,” he says, and Becket wastes no time. He bends down and presses his swollen lips to Auden’s, and Auden groans up into the kiss, probably tasting both Becket and Proserpina.
My cock leaps in my hand, and Auden tears his mouth away from the priest’s. “Kiss Saint too,” he rasps. “Make him taste,” and then Becket does, he does make me taste. He presses his firm li
ps to mine, and I taste the bitter salt of his release and the honey of Proserpina’s, and I’m so close to coming now, I’m so close—
“Again,” Becket says as he pulls away from my mouth. He looks at me and then Auden. “If this is to be the night where I inaugurate my new path, then I want to come again. Help me.”
He pulls off his soft cotton T-shirt and shucks his trousers, and then he kneels in front of our sofa, his knees spread wide and his cock already hard again. The meaning couldn’t be more clear. He wants to be fucked.
“St. Sebastian?” Auden asks, like he’s passing around a plate of appetizers before he takes one for himself.
“I’m sorry, I—” I’m blushing. I’ve been jerking off in front of everyone for the last fifteen minutes, and now I’m blushing. I look at Becket. “I’ve never done it. That. I don’t think I’m ready?”
That’s not entirely true. I could be ready.
There’s just only one person I want to be ready with.
Becket looks to Auden. “Please,” he murmurs. “It’s been since Beltane since you—”
“I’ll have to be me about it,” Auden says, meeting Becket’s eyes. “Is that okay?”
Becket shivers. “Yes.”
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Auden says, and then he stands and starts undressing, revealing lithe, flat muscles which gleam in the firelight.
“Are you doing okay, sweetheart?” he asks his slutty human comma as he disrobes.
Poe gives him a limp thumbs-up, and the lust clears from his face long enough for him to give her a huge smile. His affection and love for her is so fucking palpable and it makes my chest tight to see. Tight with happiness because I love her as much as he does, and I love seeing her be loved. Tight with jealousy because I want him to look at me that way too. Tight with misery because he would look at me that way, if only I’d let him. If only I’d choose him.
“St. Sebastian,” Auden says, draping his clothes over a high-back armchair and walking back into the circle of firelight. He’s completely naked now, and so beautiful my bones hurt. “Spread your legs.”
“I thought you promised not to touch me,” I say, and if there’s a note of illicit hope in my voice, he ignores it.
“I did, and I’m not. But you look as if you’d like to have your cock sucked, don’t you? Wouldn’t that feel so good? To have Becket lick you and kiss you? And then pull you into his mouth and let you empty yourself there?”
“Shit,” I mumble, my entire body clenching in response. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Auden gives me a smug look. “I thought so.” He bends down and scoops the loose and dozy Poe off the coffee table, depositing her on the sofa and tucking a blanket around her drowsy form. “Do you need anything?”
“Just to watch you fuck,” she says, both sleepily and naughtily, and that earns her a long, pleased kiss. My chest goes tight again.
“On the table,” Auden tells Becket after breaking away from his doll. “Hands and knees, so your mouth and your hole are available.”
His eyes hood. “Whatever you want.”
Lube is produced from somewhere, and I have a dire, Pavlovian response to watching Auden slick himself up with it. I have to pull down on my testicles to stop myself from coming then and there.
“Stand up, St. Sebastian,” Auden says, the muscles in his right arm bunching and releasing as he strokes himself. “Becket’s mouth is waiting.”
I obey and stand because, yes, I want Becket’s mouth on me, but also I want Auden’s words to be my will, I want to do as he says. I want to be his, just like Poe is his. Just like Becket is his right now too.
I step in front of our friend and savor the coarse picture he makes like this, his tall body and long limbs arranged for fucking, his full lips already parting to take me. I squeeze my eyes shut the moment I feel his lips touch my tip—and then I open them again because I want to see. I want to see my thick erection disappear into his holy mouth. I want to see the way his cheeks hollow and move around me as I savor the silky flat of his tongue and the grip of his throat around my crown.
“Feel good?” Auden asks, watching me. His cock is so hard that it’s a dark, dark red, and it points up toward the ceiling, all slick and ready to fuck.
“So good,” I mutter, sliding my fingers through Becket’s golden waves. “His mouth is so good.”
Auden steps behind him, widening his stance and gripping one of Becket’s narrow hips. “Keep sucking,” he tells Becket as he pushes the fat tip of his cock against Becket’s entrance. “Keep sucking while I use you.”
Becket makes a helpless noise. I make a helpless noise too, because, Christ. I keep forgetting. I keep forgetting how Auden does it, how he twists himself up inside me, makes me a thrall to my darkest needs. And this is what he meant by I’ll have to be me. He’s no more made for vanilla sex than Becket is for celibacy.
Auden wedges himself into Becket’s channel with a steady, inexorable force. Becket is trying to catch his breath around my cock, his inhales cool around the sides of my shaft, his exhales warm and damp. The muscles in his back tense and quiver as Auden pushes in, and then with a rough gasp from the former priest, we’re all joined, all three of us. I meet Auden’s eyes over the damp topography of Becket’s back, and he stares back with unrelenting greed. He wants it to be me he’s fucking right now. I want it to be me.
It can’t be me.
I’ve seen Auden fuck before, of course, but there’s something about this, right now, that seems to be etching itself onto my brain. Maybe it’s the quiet of the room, maybe it’s that he’s wearing nothing, which he so rarely is. Maybe it’s that there’s not the drunken panoply of a ritual around us.
Whatever it is, I’m enthralled. By the working of his throat as he drags his cock in and out of the man in front of him. By the tousle of his messy hair, by the grip of his fingers around Becket’s hips, by the corrugated lines of his stomach and the firm expanse of his chest. He is magnificent, stunning in his crudeness, and he uses every muscle in his body to fuck his priest, his every tendon and sinew braced and tensed towards one goal.
Becket for his part is one long shiver—six feet and some inches of shuddering male arranged for sex—and even Poe on her sofa is with us, her hand moving under her blanket as she watches.
I look down at Becket’s face, at the fluttering eyelashes and the hectic blush on his cheeks, and then back up at Auden, gleaming faintly with sweat, the hazel in his eyes swallowed up by black, his restless hands all over Becket now, gripping and stroking and bruising. He is all Thorn King now, and beautiful, and although it’s Becket’s face I cradle as I come, although it’s Becket’s tongue sliding against me, my orgasm is all for Auden. Every last drop of it.
I grunt as my cock gives a series of sharp, urgent jerks, spilling into Becket’s mouth, and then I see that Becket’s body is mirroring my own, that he’s come to his peak along with me. He’s ejaculating in long, full pulses, his seed spattering between his knees, and he’s moaning around my cock as he does, sending sensation racing back up my length and nearly buckling my legs.
“Jesus,” I swear, staggering back a step and pulling my cock free of his mouth. It’s wet in the firelight, and I’m not quite finished coming, and so the final two pulses drip from my crown and then run back down my shaft. Becket leans forward to lick them before they drop onto Auden’s antique rug.
A desperate noise leaves Auden then, desperate and possessive, like he’s just watched Becket drink the last glass of water in hell, and then his entire body tenses. With a shudder and a series of deep, hard strokes that have Becket whimpering, Auden tumbles over the edge, throat bobbing, jaw tight. Eyes like obsidian mirrors.
He doesn’t need a forest to be a wild god, and we don’t need a ritual to indulge our wildness. He can be a god right here in the library; we can be his playthings atop a coffee table. It’s wonderful and terrible, because how can I live any other life than this? How can I go to Bristol, how can I live without thi
s if Freddie isn’t my father after all?
Auden finishes, having filled Becket full of his spend, and then slowly withdraws.
“Thank you,” he tells his friend and bends down to kiss where he’s just been.
And then he turns to see Poe grinning up at him. She’s still snuggled onto her side, but she holds up her wet fingers for him to see. “Did you enjoy watching, little bride?” he asks, leaning down to suck her fingers into his mouth.
“Obviously,” she says, laughing as he nips her fingers. He gives them a kiss and then finds his trousers, pulling them on and surveying the room. I’m now slumped back on the couch, my pants still undone and my limbs everywhere, and Becket is still trembling on the table, like he came so hard that he doesn’t trust himself to move without fainting.
“I’m going to get towels and some water,” Auden says, buttoning his trousers. He’s shirtless, his feet are bare, and his hair is all rich, sensual drama. If I could move, I’d drop to his feet and beg him to fuck me.
As it is, he gives us all a fond look, so soft and warm I could curl up in it forever. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, and leaves.
Poe sits up and goes to Becket, who now has his head on his arms, much like Poe herself did earlier. She kneels down in front of the table and strokes his thick hair.
“Hey buddy,” she says. “You want to get off the coffee table now?”
“I need a minute,” he mumbles.
“I know that feeling.”
“Stay?”
“Of course.” She presses her dark head to his golden one, and they’re both quiet a moment. I find the energy to tuck myself away, but not to move, and so I hear when they start murmuring to each other.
“I feel responsible for this,” she’s saying, and somehow I know she doesn’t mean him arse up on the table, seed splattered between his knees—but this. Him being here at Thornchapel and not at St. Petroc’s, his throat bare of a collar and his future void of direction. “I feel so responsible.”
“You’re not, Proserpina.”
“And I feel guilty.”
“You shouldn’t.”
Door of Bruises (Thornchapel Book 4) Page 19