When I finally let him come, he’d shatter. He’d scream my name and spill inside her while I spilled inside him, and we’d collapse together, spent and sated.
The vision had made me so hard I’d nearly lost count of the strikes.
I’d nearly said the words. Nearly commanded him to take her while I prepared myself to take him. The only thing that had stopped me was knowing he wasn’t ready—not physically or mentally. Oliver had never been with a man. His body would need preparation. His mind would need time.
I turned from the window and crossed to my closet. Behind the row of suits, a panel slid aside to reveal my private collection. Toys I’d acquired over the years. The kind of implements of pleasure and pain that I’d used on countless partners before my self-imposed exile. These items had never made it to the playroom. At first, because it was too painful for me to even enter the space. Then I’d all but forgotten them. Until now.
My fingers brushed leather at the back of the compartment. A collar—simple, elegant, custom-made. Ihadn’t touched it in seven years. I withdrew my hand as if burned and focused on what I’d come for.
My fingers closed around a set of plugs—graduated sizes, smooth silicone, designed to stretch and prepare. I’d start them both on these, Ophelia first, then Oliver. Let them get used to the sensation of being filled. Let them learn to associate penetration with pleasure.
I’d have Ophelia wear hers during dinner. She’d squirm in her seat, hyperaware of the fullness inside her, and each time she did, it would send sparks of sensation through her body. By the time we retired to the bedroom, she’d be desperate.
Oliver’s introduction would take longer. He’d resist at first—the vulnerability of it, the submission required to let me put anything inside him. But I’d make it good for him. I’d work him open with my fingers while Ophelia distracted him with her mouth. By the time I slid the plug home, he’d be begging for more.
I selected a prostate massager next, curved and weighted, designed to drive a man out of his mind. Oliver would clench to stop the intrusion, control his responses, and refuse to let himself feel how good it was. But once I found the right angle, he’d understand that submission wasn’t weakness. That letting someone elsecontrol your pleasure was its own kind of power. That the surrender I was asking for would give him more than he’d ever imagined possible.
They’d learn that lesson. And I would be the one to teach them.
I replaced the panel and dressed for the day, my mind already planning. Tonight, we’d return to Thorned Thistle. I’d show them scenes they hadn’t witnessed before—MMF dynamics, male submission, two men sharing a woman, sharing each other, building a bond that transcended traditional pairings.
Ready or not, I was done waiting. I didn’t have a choice. In three days, they’d be gone, and I’d have missed my chance.
I found them at breakfast, seated across from each other at the long table in the morning room. Ophelia looked rested. Her skin glowed, and a grin played at her lips when she saw me. Oliver looked like he hadn’t slept at all. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His jaw was tight. His hand trembled as he lifted his cup. Worst of all, he couldn’t look at me.
“Good morning,” I said, taking my seat at the head of the table.
“Good morning, sir,” Ophelia replied.
Oliver’s cup clattered on the saucer. “Morning,” he managed.
I studied him while I poured my tea. He was wound tight. His shoulders were rigid. His breathing was shallow. The aftereffects of last night were written all over him—the confusion, the arousal, the desperate attempt to understand what he’d felt while watching me punish Ophelia.
What he’d felt when I’d touched his hair.
“We’re going to Thorned Thistle again tonight,” I announced.
Oliver’s head snapped up, his eyes meeting mine for the first time, panic warring with desire and fear in their depths.
“Again?” The word caught in his throat.
“There are dynamics you haven’t observed. Things I want you to see.” I held his gaze. “Unless you’d rather remain here.”
The challenge hung between us. We both knew he wouldn’t refuse. Couldn’t refuse. The need to understand what was happening to him would drive him forward even as fear urged him to retreat.
“No,” he said quietly. “I’ll come.”
I allowed myself a small nod of satisfaction.
Ophelia’s focus shifted from Oliver to me as the conversation played out. Recognition had flickered across her face last night when he’d responded to my touch. She wasn’t threatened by it. If anything, she seemed intrigued.
She understood that this could only work if all three of us wanted each other. That my desire for Oliver didn’t diminish my desire for her—it enhanced it. Made us stronger. More complete.
“Wear what is waiting in your rooms,” I told them both. “We’ll leave after dinner.”
As difficult as it was, my instincts told me it would be best if I left them on their own until then. I didn’t doubt their yearning would rival mine in the hours between now and our departure. Ophelia’s punishment last night would be fresh on their minds, so neither would be tempted to self-satisfy nor would they seek to find pleasure in each other.
The tunnels felt longer tonight.Ophelia’s hand brushed mine occasionally as she walked between Oliver and me.
