Three Men and a Woman: Liberty (Siren Publishing Menage Amour)

by Rachel Billings

  Tag might have felt like a goof, but he couldn’t resist Liberty’s smile. She held her hand out until he took it, then proceeded to dance around him like she was Gene Kelly singin’ in the rain and he was the lamppost. She teased him into a few steps, and after a bit he was pretty much dancing with her.

  She ended with this little leap thing, and she might have expected him to set her down after, but he didn’t. Not when he had her up in his arms, her body draped against his. “Say goodnight to Keeg, Lib,” he told her, looking up into her eyes.

  “Goodnight, Keeg,” she said with a slow smile, looking back.

  Tag didn’t see Orion out on the terrace anymore, but, if he had to guess, he figured his brother had stepped back into the dark, so he could watch the show unobserved. Tag didn’t care, either way. He had his girl’s blue eyes on his, her hands on his shoulders, and a smile on both their faces. He slid her down just a little, so she wrapped her legs around his waist, her loose skirt bunched around her knees, and he held her against him. With a scant nod toward Keeg, he walked her into his room.

  A full moon was moving slowly toward the west, and that was all the light he needed. He took her to his bed and let her down. With his hands on her hips, he leaned in so he could kiss her. Then he pushed with one hand. “Turn around,” he said. “You know what I’ve been waiting for.”

  Chapter Five

  Liberty followed Tag’s instructions, his hands making it entirely clear what he wanted. He turned her to face the bed, then snugged up against her from behind. He put his hand in the center of her back and pressed until she bent so the upper half of her body rested on the bed. He slipped a bare foot between her ankles and nudged until she moved her feet apart.

  With both hands, he took fistfuls of her skirt and slid it up—from below her knees, up her thighs, and farther. Baring her, legs and then ass. He tucked it up at her waist, and the change in his breath told her he was enjoying the view.

  Under her skirt, she wore the skimpiest of thongs. She was pretty sure he’d already sussed out that piece of information—she’d felt the investigative wandering of his hands while they’d danced. He murmured his approval now, cupping her with his big palms, squeezing. He tangled a finger in the band and tugged, sawing it into her. Then he took it down her legs and slid her shoes off, too, when she raised each foot so he could remove that little bit of silk.

  With his thumbs, he stretched her open. “Flex a little more, baby,” he told her. “Let me see that pretty pussy of yours.”

  She hardly needed the direction, because, already, he had her. Already her breath was catching and her body heating and, without any intention, her spine flexed, providing him with exactly the view he wanted.

  “That’s right, baby,” he said. “That’s exactly right. You’re so pretty here. You’re giving it to me. Everything I want.”

  He kept his left hand on her ass but lifted his right. She had long seconds to wonder, to anticipate where he was going with it.

  “Ahh.”

  His touch didn’t come subtly. From zero to sixty in one second, he had her filled, his fingers—two of them, at least—thrust deeply into her pussy. He held there, pushing in hard.

  She’d been almost ready for him, almost wet enough.

  “Oh.”

  There was a little pulling, a little burn, as he pushed in. As her breath caught, hitching out. Until her tension uncoiled and her body accepted him.

  Silently, he began working her, thrusting in then drawing out, bringing her own moisture along to ease his way. She heard the sound of it, the wet slide of his fingers, the rough breath of his own arousal. He stretched her, fitting in almost his whole fist, and then rubbing his fingers inside, stimulating that special, exquisite spot that only he could find.

  “Tag.”

  Her hips rocked, asking for more. With a little slap, his left hand moved from her ass. He leaned into her, so she felt his hard body up against her backside. Then his hand snaked around her, sliding in from the side, to finger her clit.

  “Oh, God.”

  She heard the chuckle in his breath, felt the rough brush of his jeans against her ass and thighs, whimpered at the way he worked her pussy and clit.

  “Tag.” She was panting, anxious with need, her face pressed into the mattress.

  “You think you’re going to come?” he asked, his breath hot at her ear. “Not yet, sweetheart. You remember what I want.”

  He didn’t stop what he was doing, though, the wicked torture of it making her want to cry out. “But I’m going to,” she told him. “You’re making me…”

  She was there, all but there, just a single breath away, when he stopped. He stilled the fingers at her clit first and lifted back from her. Then he pushed once, harder than ever, his fingers into her cunt, before taking them away, too.

  She moaned at that rough thrust, at the withdrawal that left her bereft. “Wait,” she pled. “More. Now. Hurry. Please.”

  “Not yet, baby,” he said, and he moved back, completely out of contact with her.

  Desperate, Liberty flexed her pelvis, seeking that stimulation she needed so much, wherever she could get it. From the firmness of the mattress if that was the best she could do.

  He slapped her ass once, hotly. “Don’t move,” Tag said. “Wait for it.”

  Her breath keened out, and it took all of her attention, all of her effort, to keep from rocking against the bed and finishing what he’d started. But he’d left his hand on her, the weight of it signaling his determination. The sting of his slap there as a reminder.

  She stayed still, though she couldn’t help the shiver that came with every breath or the way her fingers curled into the bedspread, grasping. And when he walked away from her, she moaned. “Tag. I need you.”

  He stayed quiet, but she turned her head when she heard him moving. He went to the wall of drawers and cubbies beside the door. He slid open a drawer and, without the least bit of rummaging, took out what he needed.

  Liberty knew what he was doing. She’d known from the first, when he’d turned her and bent her over the bed. He was going to fuck her ass, and, so like him, he was going to wind her up so badly before he did it that she’d be begging for it.

  He loved it, she’d already learned. He adored that primal, savage taking, that bit of gratifying, male domination of his woman.

  She’d never done anal before him, had never come close to seeing the appeal. But on that weekend in Denver, he’d enticed her into it—touching her there, first, while he already had her so turned on, while he was in it with her, wild with their mutual desire. He’d touched her and then penetrated her and then, finally, taken her with his cock and fucked her.

  She hadn’t ever said no, hadn’t balked or even let out a whimper that wasn’t pure pleasure. Because he’d made her want it. Made her want him, just that much.

  And now, he teased her with it. He came back to her with what was surely a tube of lube, though he didn’t let her see it. She didn’t have to see to know. He came with it and stood behind her, and, after a long, tense moment, he pressed the cold nozzle into her ass and filled her with it. She shuddered at that wicked invasion and moaned out his name.

  Moaned again, when he took the tube out and stepped away from her once more. Liberty shook, her ass involuntarily moving into a booty shake like a hot pole dancer, like it was letting him know all by itself what she needed.

  Like it was his. And it needed him.

  He watched it happen, standing there unseen behind her. After a long minute of it, Liberty brought herself under control. As much control, that was, as she could have while she still whimpered for him.

  Moving then, he went to the side of the bed where she could see him. With his eyes on her, he slowly undressed.

  He started, of course, with his cock. He opened his jeans and let himself out—all those inches, all hard and hot for her. Letting her watch, he slid his fingers along the whole length, down and up again, showing her what he would give her. Wh
at she had coming.

  Keeping one hand there, still holding himself, he grasped the back of his T-shirt and took it off over his head.

  He let her have a look then—his broad chest and shoulders, all muscle. The lean slide of his torso into that vee that looked so good, that made her want him so much. Then his open jeans, and that cock still there, ready for her.

  She whimpered again because she wanted it, wanted him.

  He teased her some more with that slow movement of his hand along his thick length. He worked the tip of it, that spot she knew he loved, that was so sensitive. She was panting and, yes, begging, before he slid his jeans down his hips, stepped out of them, and moved to her again.

  She felt the heat of him behind her, but not the touch she needed so much. He leaned over her, his fists on the bed.

  “You want it,” he said.

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “In your ass.”

  “Tag. Yes. Do it.”

  “No.”

  Liberty moaned in frustration. “Oh.”

  “You do it.”

  She wasn’t sure she’d heard him, but she felt him. He’d moved, just close enough that his cock touched her. Just there, at the tight opening that wasn’t meant to be so sexy, but was. So much was.

  “You do it.”

  “Oh, God.”

  She did it, though. She did exactly what he said. She put her hands on the bed beside his and pushed herself up. As she tilted up, she came down on him.

  It was…almost too much. Asking for it, inviting it, she learned, was a different thing than taking it. She’d let him touch her, penetrate her, fill her. He’d made her want it, made her willing.

  To take it.

  But this… She paused, only part way up from the bed. When that pressure, that stretch at her sphincter was just so much, too much. When she reached that spot where it didn’t seem possible, where he was so big that it…almost…hurt.

  She breathed, nearly in a panic, needing to keep going, needing that so much, but afraid, too. Afraid that it was too much. Afraid it was impossible.

  Tag was silent behind her, over her. Without speaking, he reached with one hand. Abruptly, he tugged her clothing down to bare her breast—her top and the cup of her bra under it, both of them suddenly torn aside. Then he took her nipple and squeezed it hard.

  Crying out, Liberty arched back. Unwittingly, unintentionally, she impaled herself. “Oh, God,” she said again. And again. Over and over, the only words she had.

  “Fuck me,” Tag said. “Fuck me.”

  She did. She pushed herself down on him, grinding hard. Then rode up his whole length, whimpering, almost screeching. Down again. Long strokes, taking all of him as he flexed, giving her every inch to work with. Then flexing herself, that booty shake, rocking against, around him, wild with it.

  Then he had his hands on her hips, and he was the one doing the fucking. He held her and thrust into her. Harder and deeper. Falling over her, shoving her by the force of his thrusts up onto the bed. Following, coming over her. Pummeling himself into her, that lube hot and burning now, the distention and penetration overwhelming to her. His full weight was on her, his thighs between hers pushing her open. His hands reaching for her, under her. One grasping that bare nipple and the other working around the folds of her skirt again to take her clit.

  Pulling on her then, both those hotwire places, and fucking her. Fucking her ass.

  Fucking her…crazy.

  “Tag!” She cried his name over and over. She felt his teeth again, grazing that spot he loved at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Not just grazing but…biting.

  Her hands formed tight fists and she beat at the bed, completely mindless. She felt nothing, was nothing, nothing but the sum total of those sensations he dealt her. The hard pinch of her nipple. The frantic rubbing of her clit. The wild thrashing into her ass. And the gnashing of his teeth at her shoulder.

  She splintered. Bucking. Screaming. Coming. Coming so hard.

  Coming so hard she cried.

  She was aware of his own growling, flexing, muscled, shuddering come only by the barest bit of consciousness. By the barest sentience of those last, brutal pinches-rubs-thrashes-gnashes that were accented by the spastic contractions of his every muscle.

  Barely aware as he convulsed, juddered, spurted into her. Hot. Deep. As he clenched hard around her and then almost immediately drew out of her, rolled to her side, and wrapped her up in his arms. Held her and brushed at those tears she hadn’t kept back. Because she couldn’t.

  “Sorry. Sorry,” he said, stroking her, squeezing her. “Are you okay? Are you okay?”

  Liberty felt a burning sting in every one of those places he’d been touching. Been working so hard.

  “What was that?” she asked plaintively. She found a place to brush her tears against the bedding. “What the hell was that?”

  Tag put his hand out to turn her face to his, and she could tell he was almost sure they were both very happy. “Did I hurt you?”

  She looked at him, almost truly disgruntled. “You ruined me.”

  He huffed out a laugh, still not quite all the way certain. “For all other men, I hope.”

  “Yes,” she said, twining her fingers in his hair, tugging hard once, nearly a punishment. “Yes.”

  He laughed fully now, obviously hugely satisfied. “Damn straight.”

  * * * *

  Damn straight.

  For almost all other men, Tag thought.

  He held Liberty against him, hard. So she’d know. That she was his, and so there was no doubt about it in her mind.

  Because there wasn’t in his.

  She’d asked what that was. What that crazy, over-the-top, all-in, wild fuck had been—and that was what it was.

  It had been a claiming. A no-holds-barred, not-to-be-denied, incontrovertible declaration of possession.

  Of her.

  By him.

  It had been a mating. As primitive as it got, as basic, as feral, as ancient and real as human existence.

  It had been a commitment. One made by their bodies, even if her conscious being wasn’t quite there yet. Or it was there, he thought. She just wasn’t ready to admit it. Yet.

  He held her hard as the moon set. As the land around them and his room went totally dark.

  Tag had no shades or blinds in his room. He kept his space open to the light and the land because that was how he lived his life. He got up with the light and went to bed with the dark. Only in the shortest days of winter did he let artificial light alter that pattern.

  They had no yard lights on the Bluff, no night lights. He kept his electronics with their excessive red and blue and green indicators in the separate room that was his office. He didn’t even have a clock lighting up his bedroom with the time.

  When the sun was gone, when the moon set, it was all the way dark.

  So he held Liberty in the pitch black of his room. She slept almost immediately because, well, he had, indeed, fucked the hell out of her. But he wasn’t done holding her, wasn’t done savoring the significance of what they’d made happen together.

  He listened to the sounds of the ranch that he knew so well. Too early in the year for insects, he heard puffs of breeze rustle the leaves outside the house. The distant turn of the wind turbines. The occasional snort of a bison that had wandered near enough to be heard.

  And Liberty’s breath.

  That, too, now a part of his ranch, his life.

  He listened to that for a good long time, filling his heart with it.

  And then, because he was the man, and somebody had to do it, he moved Liberty around. He rolled her over, peeling her out of her remaining clothes. Lifted her, so he could take back the bedding and tuck her inside with him.

  So he could hold her to him until the sun rose and filled his room, his ranch, his life, with light.

  * * * *

  Orion came in out of the dark, the cool of the spring night chilly on the shoulders of his quilted
flannel shirt. Keeg was still tinkering at the piano, but he looked up, no doubt spotting Orion’s reflection in the window.

  “She’s sweet,” the young one said. And with a lift of brows—“Hot.”

  The kid didn’t know the least of it.

  Yeah, she was sweet. Orion had watched the show, the pretty song and dance deal, from out on the terrace. Outside, looking in. Which was how he felt these days. Like he was a part of the ranch, of the family, but only at its periphery. Not at its heart.

  Damn Kira.

  She’d taken that from him. He’d spent two years trying to make something work with her. Trying to flex, to fit, so much so that he lost his place on the ranch. Lost the rightness of it in himself. Lost his center.

  Keeg and Tag would deny it, of course. Would swear that he was just where he should be, just as he should be.

  They couldn’t convince him of it, though. Couldn’t make him feel like he fit again.

  But this girl of Tag’s—maybe she could.

  She had a fullness of heart that made Keeg grin as he sang with her, made Tag smile as they danced.

  Just possibly, she could make Orion smile, too, make him feel…whole again.

  She could fit into the heart of the ranch. Could be the heart of it. As natural and at home as though she’d been born to it.

  Orion had walked away in the end, strode out into the dark, fighting a longing that urged him to go inside instead. To be a part of the light that surrounded Liberty Clark.

  He hadn’t meant to watch what came next. He’d only wanted distance, when he’d leaned back into the moon shadow of a willow in the yard.

  But he’d seen. He’d seen Tag bring Liberty into his room. Seen what he’d done to her. What they’d done to each other.

  The room was so damn open—like the whole place was—that Tag would have spotted Orion if he’d moved out of the shadows.

  So all he could do was watch.

  And wish…

  Nothing.

  That’s what he could wish for.