Chapter Twenty-Seven
Beaufort
My eyes roll back in their sockets as Tudor slides into Briony, pinned between our two heavy bodies. I’ve always wanted to share her like this. I’ve always dreamed of it. But in those dreams and those fantasies, I’d always been sharing her with one of my bond brothers. I’d never considered the possibility of sharing her with Tudor. But there was something about it that was just too damn irresistible. He’s similar to me in the way he wants her. In the way he likes to have her. And I think he might be the perfect playmate for my favorite toy.
Her breasts are pressed into my chest. My cock is deep in her pussy. Her skin is hot and sticky. I find her mouth and kiss her, although the little thing is incapable of kissing me back. She’s too lost in the moment. Too incoherent. The kiss is sloppy and wet.
“How does that feel?” Tudor asks her.
She shakes her head, tears pooling in her eyes, rolling down her cheeks.
“I can’t. I can’t,” she mutters.
“Is it too much, sweetheart?” I whisper to her.
“No,” she groans. “Please.”
I meet Tudor’s gaze over her shoulder. His eyes are blood red, full of lust and passion and want. I’m sure my eyes are reflecting just the same emotions.
“I think she wants you to move,” I tell him.
He closes his eyes for a moment, as if steadying himself. Then he’s sliding out of her. The little thing dissolves into a series of moans again. This time I join her, feeling how her pussy flutters and convulses around my cock. Then he’s thrusting back into her, the bed jolting beneath us, and I hope to the stars my silencing spell has worked.
I take her hands in mine, hold them tight as the Professor finds his rhythm and I find mine beneath her. As he thrusts in, I thrust out. Then, as he’s sliding out, I’m thrusting in. Briony is given no respite, no moment to catch her breath. She writhes between us like a wild thing. And I’ve never seen her this needy before.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced. All of it. The intensity of it. The smell of all three of our scents. Hers feminine, ours masculine. The sound of our grunts, low and guttural, compared to her high-pitched moans and whines. The feel of her skin, the force of his thrust, the way she squeezes around me like a desperate thing.
None of us last long. It’s all too much.
Briony falls first, screaming out our names, gripping me so tightly in her hands I think I feel my bones creak. And then Fox comes next, his thrust stuttering as he loses his pace, then his control, and he sinks into her with one long moan.
I come last. My vision, my hearing, all of my senses wiping away for one infinite second of time, so I’m hanging in nothing but bliss as every nerve reverberates. I fill her with my seed asthe two of them collapse down onto me, sinking me deep into the mattress.
For a moment all of us are still and silent, catching our breath.
And then, without warning, the old bed collapses beneath us and all three of us tumble to the ground, buried in blankets and sheets.
“Were you rearranging furniture up there?” Dray asks, obviously suspicious when we return downstairs twenty minutes later.
“Yes,” Tudor says, completely deadpan. “Making sure everybody has a bed or somewhere comfortable to sleep tonight.”
He turns his back on my shifter bond brother and goes to help his mother with serving up the stew onto the plates. The crockery is mismatched and cracked in a few places, chipped around the edges. The cutlery is made of cheap metal, and several of the prongs are bent at funny angles.
I knew things were bad out in Slate Quarter. I’m not sure I truly understood the extent of it. I remember how shabby Briony looked when we first met her, shabby and underfed. I remember the first time I saw those scars on her back and understood the misery she’d been suffering at home. But still, I don’t think I ever realized how little people have out here in Slate Quarter.
There’s not much in this kitchen. The stove, an old rusted kettle, some spices and herbs hanging from the ceiling, an old battered cupboard with a few pickled vegetables, and a small slab of meat tucked away inside. The floor of the home is made of compact earth – no stone, no carpet, not even a rug – and the walls are bare too, the brick visible and no plaster lining them.
I’m surprised, therefore, to find the food is more than okay. In fact, it tastes pretty darn good. Of course, that could be because we’ve had very few decent home-cooked meals in the last few days. But I think it’s more likely it tastes this good because of the care and love Tudor’s mother has spent preparing it. She sits at the end of the table, encouraging everyone to eat up, her gaze flicking constantly to her son. She can’t help beaming at him. Even though he’s a vampire now. Even though he’s confessed to some hideous crimes. Even though he’s been labeled as a traitor to the realm. She still clearly adores him.
I peer down into the stew. She’s so different to my own mother. I always thought I made her proud with the strength of my powers and my abilities. She certainly said encouraging things to me. But I don’t think she ever looked at me the way Tudor’s mother is looking at him. I guess I know more about love now. I know what it looks like, what it feels like, and I’m not convinced my mother has ever truly loved me.
I swallow that thought away with my stew and concentrate on the woman that does love me – Briony. She’s sitting next to me, her cheeks still flushed from what we just did, her magic buzzing with satisfaction. I want to make her look and feel this happy as often as I can.
I reach under the table and lay my hand on her thigh. As I do, my hand knocks against fingers resting on her other thigh. I look up and meet Dray’s colorful gaze from the other side of our mate. He laughs, and I shake my head. I wonder how it’s possible to be this happy in a place this awful, knowing our lives hang in the balance. But I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I’m going to accept this as a blessing and enjoy this moment as best I can. I squeeze Briony’s thigh, not minding the feel of my bond brother’s hand beside it.
When we’ve all finished our bowls of stew and had seconds and thirds, Briony helps Mrs. Tudor collect up all the crockeryand cutlery from the table, although Mrs. Tudor insists that it’s her son who should help with the cleaning up.
“He didn’t help make it,” she says, “so he’s going to help with the cleaning up.”
