At Her Service (Swords of Passion) (2 page)

She clenched her thighs on the intimate knowledge her husband imparted. Such frank talk always made her cunny pulse with need, and she fought to keep her expression bland, her eyes on Simon’s, while her bawdy mind whirled towards bed sport that tingled her every nerve.

“And better yet is this.” Alphonse’s hand came round to brush the curls of her bush. “A froth of pale blonde hair to hide the glory beneath.”

She blinked and bit her lower lip. Her nether hair, Alphonse had told her often, was a pretty pelt of fur he liked to nestle in. She trembled deep inside her cunny at the prospect that Simon might like to play in there, too.

Her husband lifted his hand, and she inhaled in anticipation. In a moment, she felt him insinuate his fingers from behind between her buttocks to rest at the seam of her labia. “And here—ah, do spread your legs to let me in, my pretty.” Alphonse stroked her lips with his thin thumb as she complied. “Here is the moist prize. She does not let you in at once. Nay, you must work for this lady to let you have a piece of her.”

Betrayed by her own fondness for fucking, she felt her insides let down a gush of liquid at his touch. And in frustration, she moaned.

“Hear her,” Alphonse whispered. “She likes to be handled. If I had been a younger man when I wed her, I might have had the energy to make this cunt vibrate for me every night—”

“Alphonse!” she objected, her head falling back as he outraged her and delighted her with his words and his insistent petting.

“But, alas, de la Poer,” Alphonse stopped his teasing and reached around to take one of her hands, “I was too old to romp often with her. Yet, I know she was a good girl and never let another take her—or even lick her cunny. She has been a good wife, I tell you. And now I give her what I can. You.” Alphonse tugged at her hand while Simon bared his teeth at his words. “You in bed with her—and me, too, of course. I want to be close, you see, when she comes for you. When she screams for you.”

“Once!” Simon growled, his outburst jolting her, his gaze bright as a thunderbolt on Alphonse. “That was our bargain, Atherton. That I would take her to your bed once.”

Once?
Elise closed her eyes as her body let down more liquid at the ribald insult that she could have this splendid lover only once? And only in sight of Alphonse? She stiffened, opening her mouth to object when Simon strode forward.

“You will honour this between us,” Simon raged at the thin heap of bones in the bed.

“I will,” her husband agreed on a thread of sound and dropped her hand. “Come, my pet, lie down here beside me.” He threw aside the covers towards the middle of his huge bed and patted the bedclothes. “On your back. Simon, you will observe what a pretty prize she is laid out for you.”

Her gaze shot to Simon’s, and what hers said, she prayed, was
help me
.

Simon’s sensuous expression was already melting to pity as he nodded at her.

So assured, Elise circled Simon and strode to the other side of the bed. She climbed in, arranging herself as stiff as a dead woman next to her husband and wondering what next he might do to excite her.

With a sigh, he rolled to his side, cupped her head, turned her face and kissed the tip of her nose. Then with a licentious look no dying man should muster, he ran his hand from her earlobe to her throat, one breast, her waist and down to her hairy little bush. “Let me feel your juices flow, my pet.”

She relaxed her thighs and allowed his fingers to move in and out of her slit. And she could not resist rocking her hips to his rhythm as she detected Simon moved towards her side of the bed.

“Inside her here,” he said to Simon as he thrust two fingers far up into her wet core and made her arch, “is a fiery furnace Elise made most nights I came to her. I was always grateful, even if I had to pump her and myself to get inside her. But I was still thankful to be so complimented by a lovely woman half my age.” He removed his fingers, inserted one in his mouth, licked it delicately and turned his face up to Simon. “She is a succulent beauty.” He smacked his lips. “She always did taste like sugar, de la Poer. I want to see you eat her. She always loved my mouth on her though I must admit that way, I could never make her pulse. I want to see you kiss her cunt until she quakes.”

Elise swallowed at a wave of excitement that Simon might lick her cunny, suck her pulsing nether lips and let her taste herself on his mouth.

“Do you hear me, de la Poer?” her husband insisted.

“Aye, Atherton,” Simon ground out.

“I want her to be so well bedded she never craves another.”

Oh, Christ.
Elise’s eyes closed.
Another reason to recall Simon until I die.
“Alphonse…” She did not know what she would beseech him for, save respite from this anticipation of Simon’s possession.

“Come hither, de la Poer.”

She heard Simon breathing in hard, rampant soughs, and she pressed her thighs together, wanting his hands there between her legs and shoved up high and hard inside her hungry channel. She licked her lower lip, undulated her hips and committed to the inevitable wonder of mating with Simon de la Poer.

“Hear her. She moans in need, Simon. Come,” Alphonse whispered and turned away to cough once. “Climb into bed with us.”

She heard no sound, no movement and after checking her husband’s gaze for his permission to assume control, she turned on her side, away from him and towards the man who would now join them. Simon stood, his nostrils flared, his mouth set, his gaze on her bush. Alphonse curled an arm around her waist and threaded his fingers into her cunny hair in a lazy sign of possession. She shifted and bucked, allowing him greater access for the ministrations she needed and wanted to lure Simon to them.

“Listen to this, Simon,” Alphonse crooned. The sound of lush liquid flowed into the silence as her husband’s fingers swirled inside her and drove her up to a spiralling need. “She is ready for you. Come join us. The night is long, and she is most eager to spend it with you, aren’t you, my pet?”

For answer, she looked into Simon’s eyes and there she found an answering need that had her whispering to him, “Remove your clothes.”

Bold and brazen now with her husband nestled at her back, she let one hand stray from her throat to one breast where she circled a nipple with one finger and led Simon’s gaze to her navel and her blonde bush. Raising high one thigh, she let Simon have a glimpse of her pounding lips that she knew were now coated with her cream.

“Come,” she encouraged him, her body throbbing to be filled by his. “Hurry.”

His gaze lost in hers, he untied the belt atop his outer tunic. In deliberate jerks, he stepped out of his slippers and removed his black velvet tunic. In a sweep over his head, he stripped away his
linen under-tunic and dropped it to the floor. His braies hung about his prominent hip bones, and she noted that his penis grew inside them into a huge erection she hoped she could fit deep inside her.

Impatient, she wagged two fingers at him to remove the rest of his clothes.

Instead, he licked his lower lip and narrowed his gaze at her. At her pouting mouth. Her pebbling nipples. Her pale hair on her mound where he would soon claim her and mount her.

Wild to have him, still enraged that she was, she sought to tantalise him more and spread her thighs out, allowing him a fuller view of her aching labia. She raised her hands, so soft and white, the envy of so many of her women, and beseeched him with a sweet, beguiling motion. In a flick of his hands, he brushed his braies to the floor.

She caught the gasp in her throat. His size was twice her husband’s. She swallowed audibly, unable to take her gaze from Simon’s thick, red length and two huge balls. Her eyes met his.

And in answer, he took his impressive rod in one large hand as if offering it up to her.

Aye. She’d take it. Make it her own. She yearned to reach out her hand. But for her husband to see that she appeared too eager to absorb this impressive shaft, albeit with his permission granted, was not a good idea. Alphonse was a proud man, even if his manly treasures were small ones.

Watching her, Simon continued to roll his thumb steadily over the bright tip of his head. There, drops of his desire glistened and his breath quickened. She bit her lower lip, thirsting to be so bold as to taste his seed and measure his girth with her mouth. But he leisurely rolled his member as if he had time for the entire world to view him.

Mad to feel that long brute caress her cunt, she groaned and darted her hand out towards him.

He grabbed her wrist, his eyes warning her against hasty actions. Then he drove one knee to the bed, and under his weight, the straps groaned as the mattress dipped and jounced. She rolled towards him, but he stopped her momentum by laying down beside her. And with his free hand, he reached out to cup her head and hold her in his iron grip as his lips descended and devoured hers.

This kiss, this claim was like no other she had ever known. His lips were wet, rough and insistent. He pushed his mouth to hers in a fierce claim such as she had never known. Not from him as a boy. Not from her husband as a man. This kiss, this demand that she open herself and give over, was the plunder of a knight. The prize of a mercenary who had fought for goods not his own. This kiss, this ravaging of breath and flesh, was a conquest won by surprise and strength. But then as his demand met surrender, as his force met her moaning joy, as her hands embraced his face and her lips opened and returned an ardour she had but glimpsed as a fifteen-year-old, she felt his lips leave hers. She saw his eyes question her own. And she knew that as his mouth once more met hers, he came this time in tenderness and apology for what now they both would do here together on this bed.

His hand took hers and led it to his penis. She jumped at the heat and the size of him. But he held her to him, leading her to run her palm over the length of him and to curl her fingers around him. She sobbed deep in her throat, and their kiss broke as he nipped her to leave her staring up into his eyes. Encouraging her to pump him harder, he lifted his hand and trailed it over one breast and brushed her areola with rough fingertips. She shot up in his arms at his stroke. But he gentled her and, with a splayed hand, pressed her body once more to the mattress. His fingers spread into her cunny hair, combed it and tangled it, tugging it and leaving her panting for more.

He did not disappoint her but sent one blunt finger down along the seam of her labia. In one swift move, he pierced her with two fingers high up into her wet and wilful channel. She arched. Her hands clutched for him, and with a wordless muttering, he shifted his body, grabbed her hips, tilted her body up and rammed himself inside her.

A mute O of pleasure formed on her lips as she stilled and felt Simon de la Poer possess every iota of her being. She paused there on the edge of her ageless dream and knew that no night-time fantasy had ever compared to the reality of Simon in the flesh. He filled her totally, his thick rod stretching her to generous proportions, pressing his long, hot member deep into her womb where the pleasure of his presence made her whimper. And gasp. And clasp him closer until the pounding of his manhood inside her and the friction of his length against her brought her to a good, hot place that made her groan and throb in completion. But in one glide he slid out of her, his eyes averted. He had left her, and once more, she questioned if the mindless passion her mother had told her might occur with a lover was a tale of her mother’s experience, a morsel of that lady’s imagination or a troubadour’s fiction.

Bereft that she’d experienced little more than the same completion she’d known with Alphonse, Elise felt cheated of what she might have had with Simon. Bewildered at the lack of some expected glory, she lay, panting, watching Simon rise to walk to the sideboard, bend and splash water to his face.

She knew he had not given her his seed, and she yearned to see if he was still up and full. She had learned from Alphonse how to pull a man’s rod and give him relief. God help her, she wished to handle Simon, wanted to feel his giant member fill her palm again. Her own hands lay atop her wanton bush, and she fought the wicked urge to let them do something she had never done and wander to her juicy lips and bring herself a small, quick delight. Aye, she wanted more of him. What folly had it been for her husband to believe that Simon would do as he commanded and give her one lay
and
his seed? What folly to ever assume one claiming could make a child? What folly had it ever been for her to think that after once abed with Simon she could ever let him go?

Her husband struggled up on one elbow. “I did not see you taste her, de la Poer!” he sputtered as if he were a child denied a treat. “You were too fast. I tell you, I need to hear her scream.”

Wanting that, too, Elise covered her face with two hands. “Alphonse, stop this.”

“Nay!” her husband croaked and fought a spasm. “Nay! You want my wife, de la Poer, you do as I tell you!”

She heard Simon curse as he whirled from his task and strode towards them and bent over her. With two hands that felt like iron grips on her waist, Simon hauled her up and flung her over his shoulder, her bare ass in the air. Her breath fled as her heart pounded in anticipation of new delights with him. He strode towards her alcove, one hot hand around a thigh then whirled to growl at her husband, “You’ve had what I promised you, old man. One time with her in your bed—and now it’s done. She did what she did, scream or no. Now in her own bed, without command from you, she will do as she wishes.”