by Penny Dawn
"What do we have that they want?" Beau sank to the chair opposite the former duke and challenged him silently.
"Crystalline fuel," they said in unison.
Chapter 3
* * *
Although her sisters were expecting her on the south veranda for breakfast, Lady Caroline retreated to her quarters immediately. Her flushed cheeks and trembling fingers would surely give her arousal away, even if she attempted to complain of a fever.
No soul would believe she wasn't feeling well, when no woman had felt better this decade with only a kiss and a brief, though intimate, touch.
Touch, indeed!
She ought to have been furious with the ambassador's inappropriate advances, and angrier with herself for wanting him to want her, given he'd assumed she was Morgana. But the way he'd looked at her...the way he'd touched her was unlike anything she'd felt before.
Never had she known such primal wanting, such need. Never, except for maybe... Her gaze trailed to the mirror, and she found herself gravitating toward it. This ordinary piece had informed her--warned her, perhaps--of the man's travels. Yet, when the houseman had announced him as the very same Ambassador Vuitton of France, and thus of Morgana's bed, she'd been blindsided.
Curiosity had propelled her to the parlors for a peek at the man, just a peek. She hadn't intended to speak a word, yet because he was sleeping, she hadn't seen his eyes--those distinct windows, amber like an autumn moon--so she'd crept closer. Nothing would convince her he was the same man, if not those eyes. And when he'd spoken, then touched her, then kissed her and touched her some more, she couldn't bring herself to leave the room.
She'd been exactly where she'd wanted to be. Gods help her, a tornado wouldn't have sent her running, despite his dishonorable intentions, despite his and Morgana's passionate past.
Curse this wicked fate that had landed her in his arms when her sister had been there not long ago!
Her heart was still pumping at a thousand beats per minute, and her breasts were practically jumping out of her bodice for the chance to feel his mouth--the mouth that caressed and demanded all at the same time. The reflection staring back at her revealed all she wished to hide. Certainly, she could not attend breakfast when she ached for release.
"Is there any chance to resist that man?" she whispered more to herself, but clouding over, the mirror prepared to answer.
When the smoke cleared, the glass revealed a mysterious room draped in burgundy velvet--a room frequented during masquerade balls, a room where the unspeakable happened, including murder and sensual acts considered lewd at any other time of the year. She'd never attended the masquerade, but there she was in the center of it, arching on a bed in garter stockings and a lace bustier. Three men emerged from the shadows, all with hidden faces and bare bodies, boasting just enough muscle to instill confidence, but not too much to intimidate.
One of the men in the mirror climbed over her, straddled her on his knees, and slowly pressed his erection into her mouth.
She felt the weight of his member against her tongue as her reflection began to suck him.
Sebastian.
She'd yet to see his face, but she knew it was him. Knew the salt of his flesh, the swell of his cock. Swallowing, she tasted the bitter spill of pre-ejaculation, and her cunt clenched with need. She salivated for that taste, yearned to feel hands in her hair, directing the speed and depth of oral sex.
Involuntarily, her legs crossed. One thigh rubbed over the hard button between them, and shirred, creating friction against her clit. Uncrossed. Crossed again.
The need escalated, and as her reflection took a testicle into her mouth, her tangible hands began to gather her indigo skirt, digging to find its hem. Her breaths came faster and faster, and dewy perspiration broke at her cleavage. At long last--too long--her hand dove into her satin pantaloons and grazed against the smoothness of her labia. The first finger stroke against her wet clitoris sent a jolt of pleasure through the channel it guarded.
His balls, too, were smooth, and with every sweep of her tongue against them, he groaned, retracted, and dipped in again. She alternated one testicle after the other, and couldn't decide on a favorite. His hips rocked in rhythm, and when his balls had had enough, he withdrew, rested them on her chin, and rubbed the base of his pulsating rod against her lips.
She licked her lips, wanting it all. Outside the looking glass, her straddled legs tensed as she rubbed harder and faster, climbing higher toward orgasm.
Strong hands--hands of a gentleman, marred with neither callus nor scratch--pressed against her inner thighs, spreading her legs wider; the second man had joined the mix in the mirror. As her mouth strained with Sebastian's girth, so did her pussy with another's.
She cried out in pleasure as the third man, with cock pistoning through his fist, sucked on her toes, licked the arches of her reflection's feet. All three men sighed and grunted and groaned, sending lightning bolts to her breasts' centers. To think she was the center of pleasure for three men at once!
While her reflection maneuvered around the tangle of limbs to massage a lace-clad breast, she reached into her bodice and easily cupped one. Thumbing her areola and fingering her clit, she observed as the third man, still devouring her toes, sank his erection into the second's manhole, inch by difficult inch. The second's cock pressed all the way up her slit with the pressure of the third filling him.
Her brow knit, but amid their grunting and licking and fucking, she bit her lip and gushed a waterfall over her fingers. Just when she was about to come down, the mirror panned up, revealing that all three men bore the same face.
Sebastian.
With the sight of the unattainable image, bliss skyrocketed between her legs, and she reeled over a second peak. Warm cream trickled down her throat and streamed down her inner thighs--so impossible to feel his release in both places at once, yet so real. She threw her head back, pretending the scenario were true, not allowing herself to emerge from this cloudy unreality.
"Slut for me." His whisper was hot at her ear, so hot, like the rest of them. Sweat and cum and friction in her cunt, into which the second man was still banging away, although he'd already come. The fruit of his thrusting made a slick passage through which he slid.
"My slut."
"My princess."
"My wife."
Three men whispered in the same voice.
Trembling everywhere, Caroline fell to her knees, her fingers still hard at work. With held breath, she squeezed her eyes shut and rode the nonexistent cock probing her reflection until, at last, she tumbled over the brink for the third time in a row.
She breathed his name like a morning prayer.
The hum of cicadas rang in her ears as the events on the mirror replayed in her mind. Three men at once.
"My Gods, there's nothing I won't do for him." She pulled her hand from her panties and from her bodice. "Nothing."
Her breasts heaved as she tried to catch her breath.
"Caroline?" Morgana's voice floated into her quarters.
She raced to her bathing closet, eager to wash away the scent of him, and of her orgasm. Ready to wash the memory down the drain.
"Carrie, where are you?"
Caroline blotted drops of cold water from her cheeks, but it wasn't enough to disguise the heat coursing through her flesh.
"Oh, no." Morgana wore a sly grin and blocked the doorway to Caroline's primping room. "Someone's got a crush."
"Don't be glib." Caroline wiggled her way past her sister. "It's the locusts. They're getting to me. I can't sleep worth a lick."
"They're getting to all of us, but they'll soon retreat."
"Will they ever?"
"Listen, thanks for taking the task of welcoming the ambassador this morning."
Whatever heat she'd washed away with cold water returned in a flash.
Morgana perched on the edge of the chaise. "It doesn't take a physicist to realize he'd asked for me, and under the circumstances--"
"Don't mention it." Caroline's words snapped out like a turtle taking bait. She took a deep breath. "Really. Don't."
"I know he's charming. And I wouldn't put it past him to use you to get to me, which is why it's best you went, instead of poor, naïve Tiffany."
Shame rose in the pit of Caroline's stomach. Had she fallen for an act? "I quite agree." She spoke far too quietly.
Morgana didn't seem to notice as she chattered about the man who'd taken her virginity, as if he hadn't just brought her younger sister the greatest pleasure she'd ever known. Caroline tuned out and looked to the mirror.
Actually, the mirror was responsible, not him. Did this mean, then, the mirror was evil? Perhaps it had been placed in her chambers to test her, and by gods, if she wasn't failing miserably!
The taste of his ejaculation again poured over her tongue, and her insides revved with the virtual memory.
Perhaps the mirror was neither good nor evil. Maybe it simply told the truth. Maybe she point-blank wanted him, and having been there, Morgana should understand.
"Caroline?"
The moment their eyes met, Caroline blurted, "I can't help it. I know him. Intimate things about him, and I don't understand."
"Is it attraction?" Morgana smoothed Caroline's hair. "You shan't condemn yourself for feeling it. Surely you know such a thing."
"It's more than that."
"There are ways, you know. I have a book of resources. Very discreet businesswomen deliver what you order in brown paper packages."
"You think I need a vibrator? A sex toy?" Caroline shook her head. "If only that were all!"
My slut. My princess. My wife.
"It's beyond sex." Caroline met her sister's concerned gaze. "I can't explain it."
"Because you've never had it. You're confusing the issue."
"I think I'm destined for him."
"Don't mistake his passion for love."
"I'm not a child, Morgana. And perhaps it's you who made the mistake with him. Perhaps he was using you to get to me!"
"Did he touch you?"
"My very soul."
"And what else did he touch?"
Caroline quickened her steps toward the south veranda. "Come. We mustn't keep breakfast waiting."
"What else did he touch?"
* * * *
From his position at a round mahogany table, Sebastian attempted to disguise his confusion as he looked up at two massive men. A more unlikely pair he couldn't have imagined. The first was the very same ruffian--refined in speech, yet rugged in appearance--who'd ribbed him while they'd crossed the drawbridge. He'd introduced himself with a too-firm handshake and called himself Beau. The second was a dark man of genteel blood, foreboding in size, even larger than the first, but relaxed and amiable, though he didn't say much beyond hello. They'd accompanied Sebastian to a smoking room, where he'd found an assortment of cheese and berries for breakfast--and cigars by the boat load.
In addition to nourishment, the two had offered him a strange invitation. "You want to hunt with me?"
"Want? No." Beau shook his head. "But it may prove necessary."
"How so?" Sebastian selected a cigar from an ornately carved wooden box and brought the stick of tobacco to his nose, inhaling its sweet scent. "An hour ago, I would've thought I'd be the target practice."
"I wouldn't be surprised if you did find an arrow through your heart someday." Beau spoke through clenched teeth and leaned, palms first, over the table, severely encroaching on Sebastian's personal space.
Across the room, the second man rolled his eyes. "We don't hunt men, especially ambassadors."
"Speak for yourself." Beau glanced over his shoulder at his comrade, but quickly returned his attention to his guest. "Considering his familiarity with one of our ladies, I ought to hang him by his toenails and leave him to her whim. Her wrath is certain to be more evil than any I could conjure."
"Last I checked, the ladies of Carman had no complaints with me." Sebastian sipped from an Irish coffee held in a steady hand, but his gut tightened with nerves. His cheek still stung where Morgana had slapped him, and the pulsating need to bury his cock between her lovely breasts had yet to subside.
"If what you say is true, and you're here only to assuage the threat of war from Bismalle"--Beau drummed his fingertips on the mahogany table--"we'll have to agree that from Bismalle's point of view, this war has nothing to do with fuel, but with the duke's defection."
"On the contrary, the assemblymen specifically stated that one had nothing to do with the other."
"Ah, but your assemblymen have their eyes on our mines, don't they? Your assembly beseeched Bismalle to cite the fuel crisis, to spread unrest throughout other societies in Olympia and promote secession."
"I'm here to prevent such dissonance."
"Let's be honest. You, personally, are here for our ladies, and it's the assembly--not Bismalle--who's concerned with our fuel, isn't that right?"
"I doubt it. We're treading the recycle path, and--"
"In that case, one trip to the Olympian Hunt Club will give you the answers the foreign embassy seeks. The duke is alive and well and here of his own choosing. Our reserves are low, but we are not a selfish society. We share what we reap, and the duke can attest to that as well."
Sebastian took another drink. The assemblymen did request proof of the duke's safety, and if Bismalle were half as concerned about crystalline fuel as the assembly, perhaps someone with more experience ought to have been called upon for this particular visit. "I beg your pardon, man, but--"
"Sir. I believe the title you're looking for is sir, and I assure you I've earned it."
"So you are a knight."
"What does the assembly of foreign embassies want with Olympia?"
"I'm here to neutralize the Bismallian threat of war, sir"--he smirked when the title rolled off his tongue--"and if I happen to renew an old connection with a lady, what business is it of yours? As soon as I see the duke with my own eyes, and assess he's alive and well, I'll be on my way to Bismalle to discuss the fuel shortage. I'll assure his elders the duke is quite comfortable, and my work here will be done."
"Do you understand what plagues me? You aren't fit for the assignment. Think about that." The knight backed away, but didn't start toward the door. "The assembly wants a quick in-and-out, isn't that right?"
"Isn't that what all men want?" Sebastian wiped the grin from his face when he realized neither of his hosts was amused. "Sorry. Bad joke."
"There will be no quick exit for you." Beau sank onto a brown leather sofa, yet despite his calm demeanor, his eyes smoldered with anger. "You will remain in Carman, under my supervision, until I may assure the queen your assembly has no ulterior motives."
"Promise? I'll take any excuse I stumble across to soften that lady again--preferably while masked at the annual ball."
"She does not wish to see you." Beau shot him a dagger of a gaze. "During your stay, you will do as I say, eat what I say, and keep your hands where I tell you to put them. And I dare predict you won't attend this year's masquerade."
"You can't keep me here." Sebastian fingered the filigree symbol on his cuff links. "My ulterior motives involve a woman, and while she may be a political figure, my intentions toward her have nothing to do with politics."
"It's all politics, you fool!"
As if on cue, a bundle of blonde fury burst through the double doors she'd opened with the push of two hands. "Ambassador Vuitton!"
Sebastian's jaw dropped. This buxom firecracker was Lady Morgana, undoubtedly. Eyes not as deep as those into which he'd gazed earlier. Large breasts but not as full. Hair not as long. This Morgana looked just as he remembered her. Then whom had he--
He swallowed hard. "M'lady."
"Don't you m'lady me!" Her tiny fists pummeled the knight's chest when he attempted to subdue her. "Alexis! Tiffany!" she called over her shoulder and, quickly, her gaze darted back to his. "We have two other sisters. Do you wish to deflower th
em, too?"
"I apologize, but I...I hadn't seen you in--"
"I believe your apology ought to be directed toward the sister you manhandled this morning." She pulled a wild ringlet across her forehead.
"Manhandled?" Beau cupped Morgana under the elbow.
"I'm all right, and so is Caroline." She pulled free and smoothed the front of her dress. "But he should watch his back."
As quickly as she'd come, she darted out, leaving him under Beau's powerful scrutiny.
"Call it a case of mistaken identity." Sebastian cracked a smile, but Beau's stare may as well have been a guillotine.
"Consorting with a Carman lady won't be viewed kindly by your chairmen"--Beau lowered his voice--"to say nothing of how Morgana's betrothed might react. You will remain in Olympia until I deem it time for you go. You will send weekly reports, which I will approve, to your home base. I don't care if you report on the weather, but you will not mention our investigating the assembly of the foreign embassies, and you will make them believe it's necessary for you to remain here. Understood?"
Sebastian reached for a cigar cutter and propped his feet on an adjacent chair, while he prepped the smoke. "I suppose I'll settle in for a stay, in that case. If the assembly has a hidden agenda, no one's informed me."
"Those sound an awful lot like words someone in your position would be coached to say."
"You think so?" Sebastian puffed out a ring of smoke. "I'd say it sounds like I have nothing to hide."
"Do as I command and be a good boy while you're here, and your boss shan't know of your shenanigans."
"If you're the commander"--Sebastian hitched his chin toward Beau's counterpart--"is he your errand boy? Does he do as you say? Put his hands where you tell him to put them?"
"Him?" Beau broke into a smile. "No. He's the most winning archer in the Olympian."
"I don't do all my homework." Sebastian chewed the base of the cigar. "But I know the most winning archer is the Duke of Bismalle."