The Queens of Merab 2 Temair’s Rayne

by Violet Summers

  At Dathan’s direction, Miach reclined on the bed, a long stretch of chiseled beauty propped on a mound of fluffy pillows.

  “I’ve stretched you a bit,” Dathan told her. And, sweet Mother, had he ever. “But it’s still going to be a tight, hot, perfect fit for Lord Tree-Trunk over there.”

  Miach gave a low growl, but Temair thought she detected a hint of pleased pride in those chaos-black eyes.

  “So, here’s how it’s going to work, at least this first time.” Dathan lifted Temair to her knees on the bed, pausing to lap teasingly at her nipples until she was whimpering and a low, steady growl was pulsing from Miach’s chest.

  Once he had the two of them reduced to nearly mindless arousal, Dathan cupped her elbows in his palms and guided her to straddle Miach’s thighs. The Fyre Lord’s cock was so hard it rose to meet her, riding the slick crease of her buttocks demandingly and drawing groans of pleasure from them both. Dathan’s eyes glowed in arousal at the sight of them.

  “Lord Fyre will very slowly, very carefully,” he shot Miach a look and Miach responded with a rude hand gesture that startled a sputter of laughter from Temair, “fill your sweet little ass with that tree trunk between his legs.” Temair glanced behind in time to see Miach roll his eyes in that way he had that always made her go all syrupy inside.

  “Once he’s buried balls-deep until he doesn’t know if he can hold it in for one second longer, you’ll lay back against him so you’re open to me.” Tip-tilted blue eyes smiled down at her as she all but panted in arousal. “Then, sweetheart, I’m going to fuck you so deep you’ll feel me all the way to your heart.”

  Temair blinked at an unexpected surge of tenderness, and reached up to stroke Dathan’s cheek. “I already feel you in my heart, Husband,” she whispered. He blinked slowly, and a smile of surpassing sweetness spread across his face like sunrise. “Now,” she continued more briskly, “less talk. More sex.”

  Dathan laughed and took her hands to steady her. Miach rose behind her, cupping her cheeks and splitting her wide. His hiss of appreciation sent a thrill straight to her womb.

  Her second Consort leaned in and captured her mouth in a deep, wet kiss just as the velvet tip of Miach’s cock nudged against her opening. He went slowly, working the fat head from side to side, but the stretch was still painful.

  “Oh fuck, Spark,” he grated out behind her. “So tight.” His breath came ragged and loud. “So hot.”

  She sobbed into Dathan’s mouth and his hands, gentle in her hair, soothed her.

  It seemed to take an eternity, but finally Miach was buried deep in her ass, filling her to the point of pain. And yet beneath the pain was a bone-deep satisfaction at having her First Consort so deeply inside of her.

  “Move, Consort.” Dathan’s voice was low and vibrant. “Just a little. Just enough to make it feel good.”

  Surprisingly, Miach complied without an argument or even a snarky quip. He was breathing hard, like the aire hurt him, and she assumed he was too busy trying to control his reaction to her to worry about reacting to Dathan.

  She expected it to hurt more. The initial stretch had been more painful than she’d anticipated, almost painful beyond bearing. So it came as a very pleasant surprise when Miach’s slow, pulsing movements brought a dark, decadent sort of pleasure.

  “Lean back,” Dathan murmured, and Miach complied. The movement sent a charge of sensation through the nerve rich tissues of her ass and she clenched down. He moaned and jerked at the sensation, and they both went still, knowing he’d shoot with even a tiny bit of stimulation.

  Once the crisis had passed, Dathan crawled up to kneel between their legs. Propping himself over them on one arm, he drew one of Temair’s thighs up over his hip with the other.

  Slowly, one torturous inch at a time, he wedged the swollen, fat head of his cock into her sheath. It took an eternity, but it was worth it. When the ridge of his head dragged over Miach’s, the friction sent an electric current through her that must have transmitted to both men, because they each jerked deeper into her, grunting and gasping reverent curse words against her skin.

  Dathan paused, catching his breath and, she suspected, regaining his control, before starting a slow thrust and retreat that had her toes curling. After a moment, Miach picked up the rhythm, then started a counterpoint.

  Dathan thrust in, Miach pulled out. Each movement dragged their cocks over each other. Each long, thrust stretched her to the point of delirium.

  She moaned and thrashed, needing more, and they obliged her, picking up speed, hitting harder and deeper.

  She clawed Dathan’s back, and he swore. His thrusts shortened and he swiveled his hips in a quick and dirty dance that sent shivers through her pussy, a mini-climax that milked both the cocks wedged soul-deep inside of her.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck.” Miach’s voice rose with every word and his strong body arched against her back. His hands dug into her hips, deep enough to leave bruises, and she felt her pussy clench at the thought. She wanted him to bruise her, to mark her. She wanted to bear the evidence of his passion.

  He’d lost all rhythm, surging into her with choppy movements that dragged him against Dathan’s cock in unpredictable jerks. Dathan groaned like a dying man and reached around her. Somehow, instead of grasping her shoulders, which is what she was sure he’d intended, Dathan ended up with his hands hooked over Miach’s shoulders, pulling the Fyre Lord even tighter against her back.

  The men’s cocks rubbed against each other, separated only by the tissue-thin membrane between her front and back passages. Each stroke sent a new jolt of sensation through her, clenching muscles stretched to the breaking point. Each clench of her muscles yanked a matching grunt of pleasure from her Consorts, a sharper thrust, until they were all caught up in a feedback loop of pleasure.

  Miach was sitting up now, the curves of his chest sliding against her back. He swelled inside her, a familiar and welcome sensation that told her he was ready to explode.

  “Coming, Spark,” he gasped into the hair at her nape. “Can’t hold it back.”

  “Yes,” she groaned, tightening herself around him the best she could. He caught his breath then shouted, slamming into her with a force that would have been unbearable if she’d been even a little less aroused.

  And then he was coming, filling her with liquid fyre, filling her in places no one had ever touched. She reached behind, wrapping one hand in the tangled silk of his hair, feeling him slide more easily inside her as his cum overflowed her.

  “Love you,” she panted, turning her head to breathe the words into his neck. She’d thought he was done, but he cried out at the words and began jerking anew. More hot spits of cum, this time accompanied by lacy threads of fyre dancing over her body.

  It was enough to send Dathan crashing after him. With a broken shout, the Rayne Lord fell forward, propelling Temair and Miach backwards on the bed as his hips slammed into her like a jackhammer, stroking her with every thrust, until he gave one last, heaving thrust and dug deep, pulsing hard and flooding her with still more sweet cream.

  It must have jolted Miach where their cocks wedged together because he gave another involuntary cry and arched his still firm cock in another jerky thrust, rubbing over Dathan from the inside, and sending sparks of response through her own convulsing flesh.

  Temair finally let herself go, flung over the edge of her own climax by the feel of her Consorts’ orgasms. Every muscle drew painfully tight, then snapped like an overstressed elastic, convulsing muscles she’d never even guessed she had, squeezing every drip of cum from her groaning Consorts, and tossing her body and emotions until she feared it would never end. But she didn’t really want it to end, she wanted this sense of closeness, oneness, to last forever.

  Finally she collapsed back on Miach’s heaving chest. Dathan hovered over her, panting, supported on one shaking arm. Sweat soaked his hair, plastering a few strands to his forehead before dripping down to trace a cool path across her collarbone.
He leaned down to lick up the drop, then froze and all three of them groaned as the movement sent aftershocks shuddering through them all.

  After a long, shivering moment, he dropped to the side, leaving enough room for her to slide off Miach, sandwiched between their overheated bodies. Miach rolled to face her, his chaos-black eyes leaping with scarlet flames.

  “Did you mean it, Spark?” he rasped. There was a vulnerability in his gaze she’d never seen before.

  “I did, Miach.” Somehow she found the energy to lift her hand, cupping his face and drawing him down for a sweet, chaste kiss. “The Mother chose well for me when she gave me you. And I do love you.” She pressed another kiss to his damp lips. “Very much.”

  He moaned and took control of the kiss, drinking the words from her lips. He kissed her endlessly, and Dathan stroked her back, soothing her. When Miach finally relinquished her mouth and dropped to his back next to her, a smile curved his red, swollen lips. A real smile, not the dry quirk that was all he usually allowed. Temair found herself smiling, too. When she felt Dathan’s soft laughter against her side, she could practically feel the click.

  Rebellion be damned. For this moment, everything was perfect in the Queendom.

  Violet Summers

  Violet Summers is a married mother of three beautiful children, including one set of twins, one rambunctious puppy, and one husband, except when she’s a single mom of one spoiled teenaged godchild, three spoiled kitties, and two spoiled, elderly parents. Both of Violet’s personalities are very busy!

  No, Violet has not suffered a psychotic break yet (though she may after dealing with creating web-pages and MySpace accounts). Violet is actually the writing team of Sierra Summers and Violet (VJ) Johnson.

  Neither woman can remember quite when she started writing, though VJ has a vague memory of a story written in the seventies about a girl named Carmel (that’s Car-MELL) who wore designer Sassoon “shapes,” or jeans. It was not, she says, her finest work.

  Both women read voraciously, and in a multitude of genres. Sierra classifies them as “readers, as opposed to readers of romance. This means when we write, we’re as concerned with the story as we are with the sex.” That said, Sierra has been known to boycott books where the characters haven’t “done the deed,” by page 125.

  Sierra and VJ live in Southeast Michigan, and the spice of the Metro-Detroit area often flavors their work. “Why look for a more glamorous setting,” VJ asks, “when we’ve got the beautiful, re-vitalized Downtown area to draw from?”

  Violet Summers writes in a variety of genres, from contemporary to paranormal; from soft BDSM to fantasy. The two things all her stories have in common are their deeply emotional stories and their scorching erotic love scenes.

  Sierra and VJ love to hear from their readers. You can contact them at VioletSummers@yahoo.com, or on MySpace and Facebook!