Enchantress(Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 6)(MFMMMMMM)

by Georgia Fox

  One by one they tongued her, suckled her shaven mound, kissed her pouty nether lips.

  Nino forced himself to remain detached. He ate his meat and drank his wine, ignoring the fact that the feast he really wanted was taking its deliberate time to get to him.

  Once she did, he tossed the clean-picked bone of pheasant aside and greedily set his greasy lips upon her, forcing his tongue deep, wanting her to come hardest with him. To know he pleased her best.

  Oh, it was a forbidden thought.

  He should share her without a thought of possessiveness.

  Nino doused her cunt with wine before setting to it again, drinking from her until she was almost dry. Her heard her breath hissing out between clenched teeth, felt her inner muscles pulling on his slick tongue as it delved in and out. He focused the tip against her sensitive pearl and it swelled, blossoming. But he slid his tongue out again before she climaxed. He spanked her hard on the pussy with the flat of his hand, and he knew the sensation would echo through her loins.

  When she set her feet down, standing upright before him, he saw the flash of anger in her eyes because he had not let her finish. He grinned leisurely and poured himself another cup of wine.

  By then his brothers were ready to fuck. Their meal finished, they took her to the furs by the great fire and began to argue about who should go first. Nino joined them, walking slowly, as if he did not care and was merely there because he had nothing else to occupy his time that evening.

  He watched over the rim of his cup as Jesamyn, on her hands and knees, sucked Sebastien's cock and presented her arse for a steady reaming by Dominigo. The big man slathered his dick in grease before he mounted her, his fingers digging into her buttocks and prying her open.

  Ram and Alonso lay on their backs and slid heads beneath her breasts to suckle her ripe nipples at the same time, mouths tugging greedily at her pinkened nubs, almost bruising her in their hunger. Meanwhile Raul and Salvador knelt on either side of her hips, reaching under to slide their fingers in and out of her pussy at the same time.

  The hall began to fill with groans, sighs and grunts, the slick, sticky sound of aroused juices and skin sliding into skin.

  Domingo jerked out of her bottom and shot a high arc of cream onto her back. Then he motioned for Nino. Usually Nino pushed his way in. Tonight, however, he forced himself to be patient. She thought him a boy, a cub who could not restrain his impulses. He would show her differently.

  "I am content to watch," he muttered, kneeling on the fur and sipping his wine. "Sebastien, don't come in her throat. Spill in her pussy." He knew, of course, that this was her only rule, so he would make sure it was broken. Just as he would make certain to show her that he did not care who broke it. Damn her.

  She thought him a fool. A boy.

  Sebastien, apparently amused to be taking orders from a younger brother, slipped out of her lips and moved around to spear her pussy while she was still on her knees. Sal held her labia wide open for his brother while Raul diddled the crest of that saucy nether mouth with his thumb. She was coming even as Sebastien entered her valley, but she was silenced in the next moment for Alonso and Ram both presented cock for her mouth and she was spoiled for choice. Unable to wait his turn, Ram shot semen in her face and she gasped, her body arching further as Sebastien plowed her cunt roughly, hips smacking into her in a quickening rhythm and spilling his load only seconds later, howling at the roof beams with his familiar gusto.

  Nino quickly decided he'd held off long enough. He needed the warmth of that lovely haven for himself.

  * * * *

  She'd made up her mind to go through the motions, to be submissive like the other women. Let them think her pussy tame, even if she had spoken scornfully and truthfully to their father. Perhaps they would think this orgy enough to put her in her place and silence her. Then, once they were reassured and unsuspecting, she would strike.

  With seven pairs of hands upon her naked body, even with seven splendid cocks moving in and out, Jesamyn thought she could remain aloof, desensitized.

  She was wrong.

  They were, by turns, rough and gentle, hard and soft, ribbed and smooth, hairy and shaven. Surrounded by their heat, their masculinity, she lost herself. Jesamyn gave herself up to the pleasure and thought of her twin watching, learning.

  Jasynda made her do it, she decided. Jasynda and that unbound curiosity about men and sex had brought her to this place and laid her out like a sacrifice on those butter-soft furs.

  And Nino, turning her over to enter her cunt, held her wrists over her head as if he imagined she might fight. But the fighter slept, dormant for now. She wrapped her legs around him and felt that glorious, marble-hard manhood opening her sex slowly, inch by inch. Her bells jingled a merry tune as he plumbed her deeply, rocking her body.

  Each one of the brothers felt different when she had them within. Her mind was too misted and stupid for once to let her describe it, but each cock had its own vibrant, pulsing personality.

  A thought floated through the dizziness. Seven brothers and seven sins.

  Seven was a mystical number.

  Seven.

  Nino climaxed with a feral growl, his hips writhing to push his seed further than that of his brothers. "There. There. That is what I think of a whore making rules. Telling me what I can't do with her."

  "Bastard," she hissed, because she ought to.

  "Yes." He smirked down at her. "Thank you."

  * * * *

  They rutted with her throughout the night. Jesamyn felt the strength of Dom, the ruthless power of Salvador, the tenderness of Alonso, the greediness of Sebastien, the playfulness of Ram, the warmth of Raul, and finally ...the arrogance of Nino.

  It was he who lay down with her that night on the fur by the fire and closed her in his arms and thighs, as if she was an object to treasure, a priceless gemstone that someone could try to steal. "Don't try to get away, wench," were his last words before he appeared to fall asleep.

  Get away where, she wondered. Did he think she might slip through the guards at the gate? Escape all his brothers? No, she had no plans to leave.

  Her death would come here, she had no doubt. She was resigned to it.

  But by then all these men would be dead of her poison. Her life would no longer matter to her once her duty was done, her murderous deed carried out. The monk Herallt thought she did this for the coin he promised her. Idiot. She had seen at once that he did not mean to pay her the other half of the fee he owed. He would have her killed, if she ever survived long enough to escape this fortress. Herallt wanted no witnesses, no one who might expose his dealings to the king.

  Ah, but within the year he would be dead from the tumor that grew inside him. She had seen it.

  Jesamyn glanced down at the strong arms enclosing her. Antonino. A boy who would be a man. And suddenly she saw a picture of a little boy with dark curls running so fast down a slope of grass and daisies that he tumbled, his feet falling. He laughed as he rolled. Reckless! Was he never careful?

  He was enjoying the sensation of losing control and yet scared at the same time. Until a woman caught him, set him upright and wiped his muddy, laughing face.

  Ask him about the bracelet.

  No, she argued inwardly with her dead sister. Do not bother me with that again.

  Since arriving there she had seen the d'Anzeray crest all over the place. All the brothers wore silver cuffs engraved with it. Nino did not.

  Could it be that his was the hand that struck down her mother and sister in their cottage? He must have lost his cuff there among the debris. He could have been no more than thirteen or fourteen.

  She saw now a young boy being given his first sword by a proud father. A boy with fire in his eyes. Again there was fear, but the boy wanted to make his papa proud. Lost in the gang of seven sons he sought a way to be noticed. So he set his fear aside and put up his chin.

  A d'Anzeray was never too young to kill. They came out of the womb fighting, so he
was told and she'd heard.

  Ask him about the bracelet.

  No.

  Then you are a coward.

  A coward, because I don't want to see how you died?

  Because you won't face the truth.

  I know the truth. I read it.

  In this case, you refuse to see it.

  Never.

  You refused to read them as they were. As we showed you.

  What else could I do? My course was set.

  There was no answer. It was as if the spirits grew tired or gave up. Which they never had before.

  So she opened her mind. Reluctantly.

  Jesamyn cleared her throat. "Bastard Cub, are you awake?" She had just elbowed him in the gut while twisting over, so he should damn well be awake.

  "What is it, Whore?"

  "I saw that all your brothers wear silver cuffs with the family crest carved into it. Why do you not have the same?"

  He sniffed. "You know why."

  "If I knew I would not ask, boy."

  "Oh, you can't read it? You can't see it with your wretched magic, woman?"

  She paused and then sighed. "I do not know what I see. I can make no sense of it."

  His eyes glimmered down at her, sizzling like the ashes in the fire, shooting out little stinging sparks occasionally. "I gave it to you in that marketplace. I told you to buy food with it."

  Jesamyn frowned. "Why?"

  "Because you were a skinny bag of bones," he snapped. "And I took pity. Fret not, it won't happen again."

  Was that how the bracelet came to be among the ruins of the hut? Because he had given it to Jasynda, not because he lost it there when he came to murder and pillage?

  He held her wrists now, circling them easily with his long fingers. "You did sell it, I suppose?"

  Slowly she shook her head. "It was not sold. It was kept." Like a secret. One of those secrets Jasynda loved to possess.

  "Then where is it now?" he demanded.

  She sat up, reached for her leather purse and took it out. The cuff was snapped, the color tarnished, but she had carried it with her all these years as a reminder. "You can have it back now," she muttered. It was needed no longer. It had led her to him, performed its service admirably.

  Nino had not sat up, but remained on his back, eyes hot, watching her. He told her to keep it. "I gave it to you. I do not take gifts back."

  "But I don't want it." She carefully placed the broken cuff on his bared chest, for suddenly it felt as if it burned her fingers.

  "I suppose you would take back those kisses you gave me. If you could."

  "Yes," she hissed. "I hate you."

  He rolled onto his side, the cuff falling to the fur between them. "Well, you cannot. I won't allow it." Nino caught her around the waist and tugged until she was secured beneath him again. "And I shall take more of those kisses, wench. Many more." His lips opened upon her startled mouth and he kissed her with anger, with force that was almost brutal. She tasted wine on his breath and the sharp spice of aniseed. His body was heavy over hers, pinning her down, but Jesamyn did not care suddenly. She was at the end of her journey. There was a sense of accomplishment.

  But there was also a strange feeling of regret. It came from wondering what might have happened if she was the sister Nino found hiding behind a clay pot in the souk ten years ago. Jasynda, like a love-struck dreamer, had kept his bracelet like a souvenir. Jesamyn, being the practical one, would have sold it at once.

  Or would she?

  They certainly had needed the coin, and Jesamyn was always very aware of that, whereas her sweet sister preferred not to know the unpleasant facts. Indeed, Jesamyn had sheltered her sister from those facts many times.

  But if young Nino kissed her when she was nine, would her life have turned out differently? Would she have kept his bracelet and thought of him each time she looked at it— not thinking of him as her enemy, but as a kind boy who once shared food and kisses with her? Would she have been the one that stayed at home on the morning of the attack?

  Nino's kisses continued, winding their way across her cheek and down her throat, where he nibbled her skin in a frenzy of little pecks. Slowly she raised her hands to his hair, threading her fingers through the thick darkness to feel the warmth of his scalp, the dampness of his sweat.

  "Jesamyn," he whispered her name, his breath tickling her shoulder, "keep the bracelet."

  But how could she? He had never given it to her. He gave it to the good twin. "No. It's ugly. I don't want."

  "But you kept it all this time."

  "So I could give the stupid thing back to you if I ever saw you again."

  He surprised her when he laughed softly. "I am glad you kept it. I am glad we found each other again."

  "I am not glad."

  "Nonsense, wench. You like me."

  "I do not." She turned her head away but his kisses continued to assault her skin, making her hotter still.

  "You like me," he whispered teasingly. "You just don't like that you like me."

  "I hate you! And I hate your bracelet."

  She was the one at whom men tossed spare coins. They did not gift her with silver jewelry to remember them by.

  He spread his thighs between hers, forcing her to take him in again, his mouth on her breast now, licking a circle around her nipple.

  "I hate you," she groaned again. "I don't want your stupid bracelet."

  Nino chuckled and closed his lips on the taut, deep pink bud, suckling gently as his manhood filled her aching pussy. They had overused her— he and his brothers— but what did that matter now? Their semen was all over her, inside and out. They had bathed her in it.

  But she could still hate.

  He could kiss her and tease her all he wanted. She would remain immune.

  Chapter Eight

  "Are you going to keep her?" his brother Dominigo asked the next day. "She'd make a good wife."

  Nino looked askance. "What makes you so sure of that?"

  "She is entertaining, pleasing to look at—"

  "And pries into people's heads," he snapped. "She'd be a bad influence on the other wives. There is something about her I don't trust."

  Dom laughed gruffly. "You seemed enchanted with her last night."

  And why was that? In a bad mood that morning he had mulled over it— over this power she held to distract him, blur his thoughts and make him into a wild beast. Since the moment he laid eyes upon her in that tavern he had not been himself at all. He felt...broken into somehow. It was as if she slipped inside him like a thief. He was certain she would soon slip out the same way she had slipped in. And he didn't know if that was good or bad. What would she take with her when she left?

  "You know, Nino, the other wives think you're keeping her. That's the only reason why they didn't complain about last night. They assumed she's to be one of us."

  "That's not my fault."

  He thought of the bracelet and how she had kept it all those years. Yet she claimed not to remember him or his kisses. At first she had claimed they never met. Why say that when she had his bracelet in her leather bag all along?

  It made no sense.

  She said she had seen him in the cards and knew he would not harm her. But the cards had not reminded her of their past meeting?

  As his mind churned over what little he knew to be solid fact, it became more obvious to him that she was not telling the truth. About anything.

  There had to be a reason why she was in that tavern on the same exact night that he was present. A reason beyond sheer coincidence.

  These feelings she had started in him were not convenient or comforting, therefore they were bad.

  A good wife? Dom must be mad, he concluded.

  She had no womanly tenderness and her temperament left much to be desired. Look how rude she was to his own father! The woman must have a death wish. Well, no surprise there, since she made her living entering crowded taverns alone, taking her clothes off and fucking strangers.
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br />   What sort of wife would she make? He shook his head. Not any sort of wife a man could trust to behave herself.

  Nino had enjoyed one and twenty years of a fairly free and easy life, coming and going as he pleased, never becoming too attached to anyone or anything, and never keeping worries for long. He'd never been sick, never fallen for a pretty face without swiftly picking himself up again and dusting off, never felt regret or the need to apologize for anything. Never had cause to think too deeply about another person's motives. He'd seen his brothers trip and fall in love. But he would escape the injury because he knew how to roll downhill.

  His father was right; she was dangerous.

  So he went to find her, determined to get answers before he threw her out on her beautiful behind.

  * * * *

  Sister Marie-Angeline was in the distillery, gathering ingredients for another of her medicines. Jesamyn approached cautiously and volunteered her help.

  "I know something of the apothecary's art," she said. "I should like to be of assistance while I am here."

  The elderly nun eyes her thoughtfully. "Would you indeed?"

  "If I can."

  "He won't have you at his bedside. Not after yesterday."

  Jesamyn sighed. "Yes. I spoke rashly."

  "You spoke honestly." The nun laughed softly. "It was most amusing."

  "You knew he was not dying?"

  "Of course."

  She stared in surprise. "You too can see inside the man?"

  Sister Marie-Angeline sniffed. "I don't need to. I gave birth to him."

  Jesamyn did not know what to say. She watched the woman go on with her work among the jars and bowls. It seemed so strange for a devil like Guillaume d'Anzeray to have a mother. Any mother. Let alone one that was a nun.