Their Wicked Ways (21 page)

Dragging himself up on his
elbows, he pushed back inside her, taking his time with her, enjoying the feel
of her channel consuming him.  Long, leisurely strokes stoked a slow fire
within her depths, and she soon found herself locking her legs around his hips.

He wanted to move slowly, but
she was much too eager to come again, to feel him coming inside her.  She
enjoyed making him lose control, driving him to pump inside her harder and
faster.

He gritted his teeth,
resisting her efforts and eventually gave in and stroked her as she wished,
hard and fast and wild.

“You are a wildcat, Bronte,”
he said hoarsely against her neck, his hot body sticking against hers as they
drove each other back into ecstasy.

“I cannot help myself with
you,” she said, biting back a moan and giving in to the pleasure rippling
through her veins.

Afterwards, they curled
together and drifted to sleep.

When Bronte woke, the fire
had died to little more than embers.  She lay still for a while, listening to
Nick’s deep, even breaths, feeling herself grow tense as she contemplated what
she had to do.

Finally, she rolled away from
Nick and moved to the side of the bed to search for her discarded gown.

“You’re going to him.”

It wasn’t a question.  She
stilled, listening to her heart thundering in her chest with dread.  “Yes.”

He said nothing else, and she
bowed her head.  “This is the part I never wanted to face.  I wish that it was
as simple as proving a silly wager.  I love you both and I can no more bear to
hurt Darcy than I can you.  And, in the end, if you truly love me, I will hurt
you both.”

* * * *

The water was tepid, but
Bronte bathed.  She could not go to Darcy when she could smell Nick on her
skin, taste him.  It was bad enough that they both knew that she was going from
the arms of one to the other.  She had to make an effort to show Darcy that she
loved him as much, desire him as much.

She was shivering when she
climbed out and dried off, her stomach tied in knots, partly from anticipation,
partly from dread.  After a little thought, she tossed the nightgown aside,
wrapped the cloth around herself and went up the stairs to Darcy’s room.

He woke when she closed the
door behind her.  Sitting up, he stared at her for several moments in surprise
and finally fell back against the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“You shouldn’t be doing
this,” he said.

Bronte moved to the side of
the bed and sat down.  “Why?”

He dropped an arm across his
face, swallowing audibly.  “Nick loves you, darlin’.”

“But you don’t?  Not that
way?” she asked tentatively, feeling sick inside at the thought.

He said nothing for so long
that she thought he wouldn’t answer.  Finally, he let out a gasping breath as
if he’d been holding it, sat up and pulled her into a tight embrace, squeezing
her almost painfully.  “If I told you I didn’t, you’d know I was lying,” he
muttered.

Bronte smiled faintly,
wrapping her arms around him, stroking his back.  “It would be so much easier
if I didn’t love you, too.”

He pulled her across the bed
and lay her back against the mattress, leaning down to nuzzle his face against
her neck.  “You smell like roses.”

Bronte smiled.  “So do you.”

He chuckled.  “Next time I’ll
toss your rose water out.  I wasn’t in the mood to be drawing water for a
bath.”

“I cheated.  I had the
servants do it before I sent them away.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”
he murmured, brushing his lips lightly along her neck to her collar bone.

Bronte sighed, feeling desire
burgeon inside of her.  “Make love to me, Darcy,” she whispered.

He lifted his head, giving
her a lopsided smile.  “I’m working on it, darlin’.”

Bronte chuckled, stroking his
cheek lovingly.  “I’ve missed the way you could always make me laugh … even
when I felt like crying.”

He brushed his lips lightly
across hers, plucking at the lower lip with his and then sucking it gently.

“I’ve missed the sound of
your laugh,” he murmured, covering her mouth with his own, and kissing her
deeply, filling her with his warmth, his essence in a way that built both
desire and a sense of homecoming, of belonging.

She moaned when he dragged
his mouth from hers and traced a path of kisses along her jaw to her ear,
traced the delicate shell with his tongue, and then blazed a fiery trail
downward.  With his fingers and palms, his mouth and tongue, he explored every
inch of her, massaging her breasts, suckling until she began to writhe and moan
beneath his touch and then exploring her belly, her thighs.

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.