Door of Bruises (Thornchapel Book 4)

by Sierra Simone

  “Reach back,” I tell her, “hands on your arse. Pull yourself apart for me so I can see you.”

  She does, her fingers pressing into her cheeks as she spreads herself, and I’m grateful that I turned on a few lamps around the room, so that even with the October twilight seeping in through the windows, I can still see her. I can see her soft pink hole and the wet seam beneath it, and I can see the place where her seam opens into another pink hole for me.

  Lust clenches every muscle I have, and for a moment, I stay there, straddling her with my cock bobbing painfully in the air. She is beautiful. Always in her brilliance and curiosity and warmth, but my deepest sin is that she is just as beautiful to me in debasement and surrender, holding herself open so I can use her any way I please. In fact, I could come from this, maybe not even touching myself. I could come just from watching her do this for me.

  I can barely stand it, how much I love her; I can stand even less how much I love her like this. I’ve starved this part of myself for so many years that finally indulging it is not only thrilling but terrifying. Because is this really who I am? Not the architect—or the young ex-fiancé of Delphine Dansey—or the former boat club boy who likes dogs and graphic novels and gave up art to make money like his father said he should. But the man currently straddling a woman’s crop-marked thighs as he clicks open a bottle and slicks her back entrance with lube until it’s ready. The man who will fuck this woman until she begins to cry, and then fuck her some more. The man who can’t unsnarl love from pain no matter how much he spent his adolescence and early adulthood trying.

  That is me. And even though it terrifies me that anyone trusts me with their bodies and their affections, some things just won’t be denied.

  Once her rim is slippery, I push a finger inside, going slowly so that she can relax around the invasion, so that she can let me in. And then I add a second, giving her more time, time to breathe and adjust.

  “Tell me how it feels,” I say, giving my erection a quick pump as my other hand continues opening her, stretching her.

  “It feels okay,” she breathes. “There’s pressure, but it’s a familiar one. It’s not any more than the plugs you’ve had me wear before.”

  “Ah, yes. The plugs. Do you know how much I enjoy it when you’re wearing them? How hard it is to focus on work knowing that you’re in the library, feeling my toy inside you every time you move? Do you know how good it feels to fuck you while you’re wearing one?” I slide my fingers free and then reach for the bottle, painting my organ with lubricant until it’s shiny and nearly dripping with it. “It feels so wonderful, Proserpina. Nearly as good as this is going to feel.”

  She whimpers in an aroused kind of anxiety as I wedge the fat head of my erection against her. “You’re so good,” I soothe her. “Such a good submissive, aren’t you? Such a good little bride, making sure I get to fuck you. Hold very still now. Hold still.”

  The sight of my tip pushing against her shiny entrance as she holds herself open to receive me is almost more than I can bear, and my testicles are already drawn up tight, my entire groin filled with a hot, sharp, shivery tension that threatens to shear me apart. I’ve never fucked her here, and the knowledge is like a carnal drumbeat, thumping in time with my pulse. I’m about to fuck her tightest, most secret place—I’m about to fuck—I’m about to—

  The first half-inch is a grip so hot and slick that I have to remember how to breathe . . . the second nudge forces my crown all the way in. I stop for a minute just like this, drawing in lungful after lungful of air, desperate not to come yet, but it’s so tight and hot, it’s like a fucking fist, and seeing the sweat mist on her back, seeing her hands shake as she valiantly attempts to hold herself open—it’s too much to see and to feel all at once, fuck. I have to wait until I’m in control, I have to wait until my own hands aren’t shaking, and then finally I push deeper, all the way, loving the resistance and the friction of her entrance around me as I slide into the silky heat. I bury myself until there’s nothing left of me to give, until her hot opening is around the hilt of me, and then I lean forward, shifting inside her enough to make her gasp.

  “How does it feel?” I ask in a hoarse voice. I need to make sure she’s okay, that it’s not too much—except only in the precise way that I want it to be too much.

  “Full,” she says, her voice trembling. “I feel so full, Sir.”

  “Uncomfortably full?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good uncomfortable or bad uncomfortable?”

  One must always ask with Poe.

  “Good uncomfortable,” she murmurs. “Very, very good.”

  She already has plenty of endorphins dripping from her pituitary gland, making her floaty and agreeable, and now that I know she’s ready, I plan to give her more. I straighten up—my cock still deep in her backside—and I begin to ride her this way, fucking in and out with long punches of my hips as she gasps and sighs underneath me. The sensation of it, of her, of her delicious gift to me, is streaking up my shaft and going right to my spine, arcing lightning through my belly and thighs, until everything below my chest is crackling with dark, primal urgency.

  That’s when the door opens, revealing the silhouette of St. Sebastian. “You texted to say when I got in from Bristol I should—” He stops short as he takes in the scene, me kneeling over a prone Proserpina, fucking her arse with rough, punishing strokes as she holds herself open for it. He closes the door behind him and comes closer, rubbing a hand on his jaw, already breathing harder. “You said I should come by?”

  “I did,” I tell him, not stopping or slowing down. “I’m going to finish and then you’re going to mount her and fuck her while I watch. Is that acceptable to you, or would you like to say May I to me?”

  The words might sound pointed, but I mean them honestly. I want him here, I want to toss off while he fucks our girlfriend, but no one is less sure than I am if I have the right to command him like this.

  I yearn to. It’s better than the fucking itself, seeing their chests flush and their pupils dilate. And more than anything other than having St. Sebastian close to me forever, I want him to be that shuddery, blissed-out version of himself he is when he’s made to submit.

  But despite what happened with Becket in the library, despite the lapse in my office where I took him over my desk, I can’t be certain that he wants this. Actually, that is a lie, because I am very certain he wants this. But I can’t be certain he wants to want this, and that matters too.

  But perhaps it’s Poe, perhaps it’s the pull of the three of us just as it has been since we were children in the chapel, perhaps it’s the lashing rain against the glass . . . whatever it is, St. Sebastian succumbs almost immediately.

  “No,” he says, swallowing hard. Already an erection pushes against the front of his jeans. “No, I don’t need to say May I. I want to stay. I want to fuck.”

  “Of course you do,” I grunt, slicking back into Poe with a forceful rock. “You want to watch me come?”

  “God,” he breathes, “yes.”

  “What do you think, Proserpina?” I ask her, smoothing a hand up the contour of her damp back. “Should we show Saint how hard you make me come? Hmm?”

  “Yes,” she murmurs, and I can hear the smile in her voice. The endorphins are really trickling through her now. “Yes, Sir.”

  Saint comes to stand near the bed, his piercing caught between his teeth as he stares at us. As Poe turns her head so she can stare at her other boyfriend with glassy, happy eyes. Saint is rapt looking at her now, like a pilgrim who’s just stepped into his temple for the very first time. And his thick length is now pressing so hard against the denim of his jeans that I can trace the shape of it with my eyes.

  “You want to take it out?” I ask him in a rasp. “You want to touch yourself while I take my turn?”

  “Yes,” he says quickly, his hands already at work on his jeans to free his erection. He’s already got his cock fisted and is punching his hips into his ow
n hand before his other hand has finished dragging down his jeans. His breathing has joined mine and Poe’s—hard, harsh, quick—and having them both here, together, is everything, fucking everything.

  My two loves, my one heart. If I can’t have them both in my arms, at least I can have them both in my bed.

  I turn back to Poe, who is quivering underneath me with the effort of keeping herself held open and also from the hard railing I’m giving her arse. She won’t come like this, she needs more stimulation against her clit, but I’m hunting more than her orgasm tonight, I’m hunting her catharsis, the breaking open, the crashing through. I have a plan for that.

  “You can let go now,” I tell her. “And you no longer have to hold still.”

  Confused, but obeying, she brings her hands up by her head, which means all of a sudden, my root is buried not only in her channel, but in the plush give of her bottom. Her cheeks now press against me each time I thrust, and it’s heaven to feel, it’s so wildly scrumptious to feel how much my thrusts push against her body, how much of her curves I displace in my quest for invasion. I bring my palm cracking against the side of her bottom as I fuck her, relishing her sharp cry as I do.

  Saint’s hand moves faster, shuttling quick and urgent on his penis. He never can take his time, which is one of the reasons I think he responds so well to being dominated. He loves to be forced to go slowly, because it’s the only way he can manage it.

  “Use your left hand,” I tell him as I deliver another hard strike to Proserpina’s backside. “Put your right hand on the bed and use your left.”

  He gives a furious curse, but does as I ask, because he knows it will be better this way. He knows his clumsy grip will keep him miserable and frustrated, and that is exactly what my little martyr boy wants in bed, and he looks like he both hates and loves me for knowing that.

  For my part, I only smile wickedly at him before giving Proserpina a flurry of spanks that have her moaning. I start matching my strikes to my thrusts, both as hard as I please, a dark abandon filling me. I give in to it, even as I watch and listen to her, tracking the moment her moans turn wet and hiccupy with tears, measuring the way she bucks and rolls underneath me to get away from the pain. We are practiced enough at this that I trust her to safe out if the time comes—truly, the miracle of Poe is that she’s far more experienced at kink than I am and has no qualms about asking for what she needs—but my one eternal fear is that she will be so lost in the high that she won’t feel when too much becomes too much, and so my abandon must always be laced with vigilance, as it is now.

  My vigilance tells me she’s not there yet, not yet where I want her to be, and so I let myself off the leash even more, riding her so hard the bed shakes, fighting to stay mounted even as she bucks and twists, and when she instinctively tries to crawl away from a particularly vicious slap to the bottom, I lean forward and cover her entire body with mine, giving her the heavy, rough pounding we both crave. Every muscle in my arms and stomach and thighs is corded and tight; even my calves are working, even my toes are working, every cord and sinew bent toward the singular task of pumping her pretty arse full.

  “I love my beautiful slut,” I croon in her ear, and she sobs underneath me as I fuck and fuck and fuck. “I love my wonderful whore. My bride.”

  And she says in response, choked with juddering, racking tears, “I love you so much, oh God, Auden, I love you so much—” She seizes up around me, her core convulsing around my cock and massaging me, milking me, and all while she screams into the mattress with a scream I could wank to every night for the rest of my life, and then it’s over for me too. A noise tears free from my chest, a low roar of satisfaction. My organ gives a heavy jolt and then starts rhythmically pulsing her sheath full of seed.

  “Ohhhh fuck,” Saint moans, his left hand moving jerkily. “Fuck.”

  I growl and finish fucking my way through my pleasure, loving as always the feel of my orgasm inside my lover, loving how Poe is still coming too, still sobbing as her body trembles out its release, and then with a few final spurts, I’m finished ejaculating and I straighten up.

  I pull free of her body—slowly enough that I can enjoy the way her entrance is still open after I leave it—and then wipe myself with a flannel I set nearby earlier. I gently roll her over to take stock of my Proserpina, my future wife, and find it’s as I expected. She’s close to that breaking point, but she’s not all the way there yet. She’s sobbing, she’s all marked up and flushed, she’s got her thighs clenched together from the last waves of her climax—but she’s not broken yet.

  I move to the side, sitting against the headboard, my semi-erect penis draped over my thigh. “Take her,” I say simply, and then Saint is scrambling onto the bed, boots and all, eager as a teenager to fuck. She parts her legs willingly, easily, so limp and open, and Saint slides in with no resistance, his back moving with shuddering breaths through the thin cotton of his shirt as he sinks inside.

  “Poe,” he says, like a prayer. “Oh Poe.”

  She lifts a weak hand to thread through his hair, pulling him down for a kiss, which he groaningly gives her as he starts to rut. My cock is stiffening again now, and I don’t even bother to fight it. I get the bottle and lube up my fist to fuck as I watch.

  “Press your hips in, rock upward with each stroke,” I order him, hissing a little at the cold lube on my skin as I start to masturbate. “Make her come again.”

  “Yes,” Saint says in a rough voice, and then what follows has us all freezing. “Sir.”

  Sir.

  I can’t remember the last time he’s called me that. My throat hurts, like my heart has slithered up there to choke me.

  Sir.

  Saint unfreezes first, his dark eyes meeting mine. “Yes, Sir,” he repeats, perhaps so there can be no doubt. For right now at least, I am his Sir. His king.

  Oh, how that fires my blood.

  I start handling myself rougher and rougher as Saint gives Proserpina long, rolling pumps of his hips, which gives her the friction she needs as he moves. Her toes curl and her nipples are tight, turgid points, and her head starts thrashing on the mattress, her throat working as she tries to breathe, tears still sliding from the sides of her eyes. Her hand searches out my free one and grips it hard, and in this moment, there is no barrier, no chasm, nothing between the three of us. We are feeling, moving, respiring, existing as one, as one thorny heart.

  With another sob, the muscles in Proserpina’s stomach jerk and she starts coming again, and Saint follows, pulling out to spend on her belly, his pearly cum pooling in her navel as he holds himself above her and spills onto her skin. I am the last, grunting both their names as warm semen spurts up my shaft and then runs over my fingers, dripping everywhere.

  For a moment, there is nothing but this. All of us wet with our pleasure, all of us exhausted with it. The only sound in the room is the rain against the window mingled with Proserpina’s quiet sobs.

  “Help me?” I ask Saint, and he nods, and I get off the bed and scoop her into my arms, handing her off to him once he’s on his feet and then going to change the sheets.

  Within a few minutes, the sheets are changed, and we are mostly cleaned up, although I know Proserpina will need a shower before she sleeps. I make a gesture of invitation toward the bed, and Saint nods, joining me as I lift our little bride onto the mattress and tuck her into the blankets I’ve bought just for her—the softest I could find, soft enough they won’t chafe against a well-abused bottom.

  She’s still crying after we settle in on either side of her. I pull her against my chest, and Saint curves his body around hers, his chest to her back, and lays his arm over her waist, making a cage for her out of lovers.

  Because she is on her side and I am on my back, his hand comes to rest on my undressed abdomen, and I feel him jolt the moment his fingers touch my skin. But he keeps his hand there, and I in turn lift up my free hand to toy with his too-long hair, which he allows with a bite of his lip.

 
We are all three together, pressed shoulder to ankle, twined and touching, and even if it’s only for right now, we are as we should be. As we are fated to be and have been since our wedding in the chapel all that time ago.

  It makes me want to join Proserpina in her tears, but I don’t.

  Instead I ask, in a tone as gentle and firm as I can make it, “Will you tell us what’s bothering you now? And if you use the word fine at any point in your explanation, I shall take you over my knee again.”

  She huffs out a wet little laugh against my chest and then gives a sniffling kind of nod. “Yes, Auden.”

  I kiss the top of her head. “Good.”

  “You can tell us anything,” Saint murmurs. “Anything at all.”

  She angles herself so that she’s facing the ceiling, her head pillowed on my shoulder, and then she speaks. “It’s not like I’ve been hiding it on purpose, or that I’ve been too embarrassed to speak about it, nothing like that. It’s like there’s this new—I don’t know—shape, maybe, in my mind. Or it’s like a presence, but not an alive one, not something separate from me. More like an idea. But I feel like I’ve come to it in the fog, like it’s mostly obscured from me somehow, and I can’t even make out the boundaries of it, I can’t even survey its foundations. All I know is that it has something to do with the door. And my mother.”

  “Poe,” Saint says, “what happened to your mother . . . it’s understandable that you would be thinking of her—”

  “I’m not grieving,” she clarifies. “Or I am, but that’s not all this is. Instead, I keep thinking about why she came back, about what Ralph could have said to her on their last phone call to make her get on a plane straightaway. And I keep wondering if . . . I’m wondering if she chose to die that day. On Samhain.”

  Neither Saint nor I expect this, I think, because our eyes meet over her head, and I register the same shock in his expression that I’m feeling now.

  “You think she might have chosen to have my father murder her?” I ask.