by Julia Keaton
She gasped sharply when he pushed her thighs apart and kissed the exquisitely sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, her nether lips and then parted them with his tongue, raking it along her cleft to her clit.
A jolt of heat went through her as he teased the nub with his tongue, suckled it. The blood pounded in her body, building to a crescendo that blocked all sound save the rapid tempo drumming her ears. She uttered a choked cry, caught his head at the nearly unbearable pleasure, of half a mind to hold him closer still, and half to push him away.
He caught her wrists, manacling them to the mattress. She half-heartedly struggled against him as he continued to torment her with the heat and adhesion of his mouth. His nose rubbed her clit while his tongue plunged inside her wet core. She jerked her hips, raising off the bed as he speared her vagina, mimicking the act of love with his mouth. The faint abrasion of his tongue in her sensitive folds made her gasp hoarsely, until she was no longer aware of what she was doing. She’d ceased her struggles, instead grinding herself against his face.
He released her wrists, replacing his tongue with two fingers as he moved to suckle her clit. The thickness curling inside her combined with the suction on her clit were too much for her to take. She felt herself teetering on the verge of release.
She didn’t know what was worse, the exquisite, piercing pleasure produced from the flicking of his tongue against that most sensitive nub, or when he alternated his attentions to her tight passage. The thrust of his tongue deep inside made her cry out hoarsely, had her squirming against his mouth, her feet moving restlessly against the mattress. His hands and fingers captured her masterfully, rubbing her thighs and swollen folds, dipping inside her.
He seemed to have an extra set of everything, and there was no doubt in her mind that he and Nick had both dully earned their reputations as exquisite lovers.
His tongue undulated, and his nose rubbed erotically against her clit, wringing whimpers from her throat.
“Darcy,” she cried, her hands clenching and unclenching, her hips bucking against him. “I am … dying. Oh … Darcy … please!”
Abruptly, rapture exploded inside her, dragging a sharp, ragged cry from her throat. Her muscles flexed convulsively, and she nearly strangled on a whimper at the loss of his mouth upon her.
He rose above her then, as a climax reared inside her. She spread her thighs as widely as possible, eager to be filled by his breadth and heat. His hips grazed the sensitive surface of her inner thighs as he pressed the head of his cock against her opening and thrust fully inside her, her womb’s moisture easing his tight entrance but not nearly enough. She gasped as an abrasive but wholly welcome pain rippled along her inner muscles as he sank to the hilt. Bronte gripped his arms tightly, scarcely realizing she dug her nails into his biceps.
He groaned, long and loudly, eliciting a shiver of warmth throughout her insides.
Scooping her into his arms, he sat up, pressing upward steadily as he pushed down on her hips until he was so deep inside of her she could barely catch her breath. She sat astride his lap, gasping, feeling the muscles of her passage quaking around his hard length. He lifted her slightly away from him, then arched upward again, guiding her until she found the rhythm that pleased them both, clutching her tightly as she moved.
In this position, she could touch him as she longed to, watch his face, feel every tremor of his body. The intimacy warmed her, laid bare her soul in a way she never thought possible.
Looping her arms around his neck, she tilted her face upward and tenderly kissed his jaw, nibbling at him as she caught his movement and began to move with more surety. She watched his face contort with quickening desire, drawing pleasure from that that she gave until she felt her body begin to quake once more with imminent release.
As abruptly as he’d pulled her upright, he twisted. Laying her back against the bed, he took control, began to thrust harder and deeper, faster.
He moved like a bronco, powerful and explosive, his muscles large and hard, his thick cock bumping against her insides. His restraint burst free and he drove her into the mattress, grinding into her clit as he bruised her cervix with his great length.
Bronte gasped and moaned, clinging to his shoulders, digging her nails into his flesh, arching her hips upward to increase the pressure of their bodies moving as one.
Fire licked her insides, moving from her center and traveling to her legs and feet, up her spine and down her arms. Her skin prickled, tingling with imminent pleasure.
Culmination burst upon her explosively, harder than before. It radiated from that point of joining, deep inside, alighting nerve endings in an explosion of sensation. Lights flickered behind her closed lids, dancing like fireflies. Her blood thrummed, called to life by his rhythmic pounding. She called his name and he caught her cries of ecstasy with his mouth, groaning as his own body reached its peak and he found release with an explosion not unlike her own.
Gathering her tightly to him, he rolled onto his back. Bronte lay draped limply on top of him, struggling to catch her breath, listening to the comforting pounding of his heart beneath her cheek as she drifted away on a tide of expended bliss.
Chapter Twenty One
It was impossible for Bronte to choose one man over the other, and so, she simply did not even try.
When Nick joined them in the bed as the sun rose behind the curtains, it did not seem strange to her to be sandwiched between the two men.
As much as she should feel like a wanton hussy for having them both in the bed with her, she could not. Nick’s warm, hard body crowded against her naked backside.
His erection nestled between her buttocks, growing in thickness as he brushed aside the mass of her hair and kissed the nape of her neck. Darcy, roused by Nick’s entry, kissed her collarbone, his stubble scraping her sensitive flesh and igniting a riot of sensation to swarm her body.
Someone’s hand moved down her hip, another cupped her breast. She refused to open her eyes, instead enjoying the mystery of who was where, doing what they wanted.
Her sex creamed, aching to be filled by one or both of them. She knew she was destined for hell but couldn’t give a damn at this moment, not when she felt so much desire and love.
Nick’s lips tugged at her earlobe, and Darcy captured her nipple with his mouth. She moved her legs and Darcy’s urging, draping it over his hip as he nudged her cunt with his cock and parted the moist folds.
Behind her, Nick dipped down her back, making her shiver as he placed warm, wet kisses down her spine, and then she could feel his cock slipping behind her.
The crowded her channel, first one dipping inside her slickness and then the other, alternating with one another wordlessly.
She couldn’t help but wonder if they’d done this before, as expertly as they moved, toying with her, driving her need higher and higher.
“I want you. I want you both inside me,” she said on a gasp. “I cannot help if I am a greedy hussy. I need you…” she said, breathily.
Darcy groaned and pushed inside her, settling deep within her clutching sex.
She moaned when she felt Nick grip her hip and roll her on top of Darcy. Her breasts crushed against Darcy’s hard chest, and then Nick crowded behind her. He parted her buttocks from behind and lifted her until he could lodge his cock at her channel. Slowly, inexorably, he pushed inside her cunt with Darcy.
Darcy gritted his teeth, clutching Bronte as if pained as Nick worked his way inside her channel with Darcy.
She stretched, her body creaming on a gush of pleasure as he seemed to pop inside her. She’d never been so full before in all her life…and never knew it could feel so right.
Bronte gasped and shuddered, then choked back a scream as they began moving inside her. Almost at once, a ripple of ecstasy burst deep within her that would not cease to build and tighten her core. Her muscles relaxed fractionally, the pleasure enabling her to take more than she should have been capable of withstanding.
Nick bit the back
of her neck, pumping slowly inside as Darcy alternated with him. They stroked and pulled, kissing and nibbling until she thought she’d go mad with the desire raking her inside and out.
Her body sucked at them, devouring and greedy. She felt like she was burning alive as the muscles of her sex flexed and clenched around them.
The forbidden desire of enjoying more than one man at a time did not escape her. Rather, it seemed only to increase the pleasure she found with them.
Sweet bliss erupted through her core, and her response seemed to ignite them both. The sounds of their groans filled the air. Her flesh felt melted by the combined heat of their bodies. She ceased to existed, feeling as though she’d burst into a million pieces by the ecstasy rolling through her nerves.
Sweat dampened her skin. Her heart beat with a wild tattoo she didn’t recognize. Her breath couldn’t seem to come quick enough to keep her conscious. She was gasping and drowning and dying with their wild, bucking movements. Overwhelmed, she blacked out for mere seconds, and then she realized they’d reached their climax inside her and had withdrawn, leaving her feeling strangely empty.
Darcy and Nick were both breathing as raggedly as she. She could feel their heartbeats, and took comfort in the pounding pulse.
Cradled between the two men, she found herself in a heavy tangle of arms and legs.
They were hers. At least for now….
Bronte smiled and slipped back into unconsciousness.
* * * *
It had seemed to Bronte when she had told her coachman to return for her in a sennight that she was placing too much on faith, that the three of them could not share so small a space under such circumstances without falling afoul of one another’s temper. She thought, perhaps, that she’d hoped to find that prolonged proximity would prove that they simply could not deal together well. She had thought that the inevitable quarrels and the competitiveness of Darcy and Nick would make leaving easier.
Instead, they spent their days going about the mundane chores necessary for a modicum of comfort--gathering firewood, or chopping it for the fireplaces; preparing meals; joking, playing pranks upon each other; walking in the woods … making love.
Bronte didn’t know whether to be grateful for the gift she’d received or not, for as each day passed, her dread of leaving grew. She did not want to go. She especially did not want to leave Nick and Darcy, but she knew she really had no choice. As wonderful as it had been to stay with them in the little hunting cabin in the woods, they could not stay forever. Each of them had responsibilities in the real world outside the woods--homes, estates, servants, business interests. These could not be neglected indefinitely and, unfortunately, there was no place in England that the three of them could be together.
She wasn’t even certain if it was a thing to be desired. She loved them, but it was unfair to both of them to expect them to share her affections when each deserved the undivided, adoring attention of someone of their own.
As for herself, she hoped she could be content. The truth was, she would never have found true happiness without them, and the time she’d spent with them had not changed that. She might find passion. She might find contentment, but she didn’t think she could ever find anyone that she could love as much as she did them.
When the day at last arrived for her departure, she packed her trunk and tried to fortify her spirits to take leave of them without regrets, without leaving them with regrets of their own.
Darcy and Nick were playing a hand of cards when she left the room in her traveling clothes. Darcy noticed her first, pausing as he tossed a card onto the table. “You’re leaving?”
She managed a smile. “I’ve stayed far longer than I should have. I have to go.”
Nick turned to survey her attire. “Returning to London?”
Her smile wavered. “I’m going home.”
His brows rose. Something flickered in his eyes. “Your mother is still in London, is she not?”
Bronte realized that he’d misunderstood her. He thought she meant to return to her mother’s home in the country. Resisting the urge to correct him, she managed a shrug. “I don’t expect the scandal has died down much in so short a time. She’ll probably be more comfortable if I don’t return to London.”
He tossed his cards on the table, rising as the sound of an arriving carriage was heard outside, and moved toward her. She went into his embrace readily, hugging him tightly. “I will miss you so dreadfully.”
He chuckled. “But not for long.”
She swallowed with an effort. “No.”
Pulling a little away from him, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. Darcy dragged her away from Nick, wrapping his arms around her tightly and rocking her slightly. “Will you miss me, too?”
“Infinitely,” she said with an effort, lifting her face to kiss him as well.
They walked her to the carriage and helped her inside while the footman stowed her trunk. She leaned out the window as the carriage pulled away, waving. “Tell Moreland that his wager is forfeit, for you are both the very best that England has to offer!” she called out to them.
Nick shook his head disapprovingly, but Darcy only laughed.
She allowed herself to cry then. It was a relief and long in coming. When she’d cried herself out, she dried her eyes and took the small lap desk from beneath the seat, penning a letter to her mother to say that she was sorry she hadn’t had the chance to go to see her once more before she left.
When she’d finished it, she sealed it and drew more paper out. The letters to Darcy and Nick were harder, but after several failed attempts, she’d managed to write each of them a letter that she was reasonably satisfied with.
Despite the coachman’s best efforts, it was nearing dusk when they arrived at last at the seaside town and Bronte had grown anxious that she would miss her ship. To her relief, when they pulled into the harbor, it still bobbed at the quay, though she could see from the activity aboard that they were readying to set sail.
It was just as well, she reflected. She wasn’t at all certain her nerves could take a prolonged leave taking. She did not think it likely that Nick or Darcy would come to look for her, but she didn’t think she could bear having to explain to them in person what she’d taken so many hours to explain on paper.
Almost as soon as the carriage rolled to a halt, the footmen leapt down and began removing her trunks and carrying them aboard. Stiff from the long ride, Bronte alit slowly, gathered her few belongings from inside the carriage and handed the letters to the coachman along with instructions on delivering them.
“Ye nearly missed the tide,” the captain of the vessel barked at her as she climbed the gang plank and stepped onto the rolling deck at last.
Bronte gave him an apologetic look. “We were delayed along the road.”
He shrugged. “Ye made it, and that’s all that matters.” Turning, he yelled at one of the sailors. “Show the lady to her cabin.”
Bronte jumped when he shouted but refused to be intimidated. “I’d prefer to stay on deck a while.”
“Suit yerself,” he muttered, stalking away and shouting orders as the sailors rushed around the deck readying the ship.
Looking around a little uneasily, Bronte finally spied a relatively calm area of the deck and moved to the railing, clutching it tightly as the ship lurched and began to move away from the docks. There was no one to see her off, of course. The traveling carriage had already departed.
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to go below until distance and failing light finally hid England from her view. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, she turned finally and picked her way carefully over the coils of rope until she reached the gangway. Clutching the railing, she began her descent.
“Your cabin is the one at the end,” said a voice behind her.
Startled, she turned to look up at the captain in surprise. “At the end? But … isn’t that usually the captain’s cabin?”
He smiled wryly. “Not this trip.”
Bronte frowned when he turned and strode away. She’d paid for comfortable accommodations, but she had certainly not expected to get the captain’s cabin.
Shrugging finally, she placed one hand on the wall to steady herself and traversed the length of the ship. A light was burning inside the cabin she saw as she reached it, lifted the latch, and stepped inside.
“The view from the deck must have been better than I’d thought,” Nick drawled, startling a squeak of surprise out of Bronte. He was sitting in the captain’s chair, his shirt open, his bare feet crossed on the top of the desk. She put a hand over her wildly fluttering heart, staring at him in confusion. “Nick!” she gasped, stunned.