Hull returned—Wren hadn’t even realized he’d gone—bearing a wicker tray laden with apples, honey, and berries. Shrike retrieved his dagger to slice a sliver of apple and dipped it in honey before bringing it to Wren’s lips. The taste of it, cool and crisp and sweet, proved sweeter still once he’d swallowed and Shrike followed it up with a kiss. The whole of his world seemed to centre upon it, and only when Shrike withdrew did he recall they weren’t alone.
In the interim, Rikke had approached and now stood before them with his fox-tail feverishly lashing.
“My turn,” he said with a flash of a feral grin.
Wren had chosen Rikke mostly for his resemblance to himself; the small frame and freckles he thought might appeal to Shrike. He looked the most like a mortal, to Wren’s eyes at least, if one ignored the antlers and tail. Yet rather than fixate on Shrike, Rikke’s golden gaze flitted between them both.
“How would you have me, my lords?” he asked.
Wren couldn’t even begin to imagine. “How would you like us?”
A gleam flashed through Rikke’s eyes. “Both at once?”
Wren blinked. Him in one end and Shrike in the other, he supposed, and he had to admit the notion appealed to him. “Certainly.”
All the fae—Shrike included—began to rearrange themselves. If Wren didn’t know better, he would’ve assumed they’drehearsed it. As matters stood, he sat in place, bewildered, until they settled into their final configuration; Shrike facing Wren, with their thighs entangled; Hull behind Shrike; and Drude behind Wren, with the root of his enormous rod nestled between the globes of Wren’s arse and its tip rubbing against the small of his back.
Rikke stood where he had before, still glancing hungrily between Shrike and Wren. There didn’t seem to be enough room for him to fit between them on his hands and knees as Wren had supposed.
Just as Wren wondered if he ought to raise his voice and point this out, Rikke leapt between them and sat down astride Wren’s lap, facing him. Wren, stunned, could but blink as Rikke twined his slender arms around his shoulders.
“Will you fuck me, my lord?” Rikke purred.
Wren, still bewildered, nodded nonetheless. If he were to fill Rikke from the bottom, positioned as they were, he knew not how Shrike would find his way into Rikke’s mouth.
Rikke seemed in no way confused by their configuration. With a slight shift of his hips, he aligned Wren’s prick with his hole. Wren, still slick from his previous encounters, slowly sank inside the tight heat, a broken moan escaping his throat as he did so.
Rikke appeared still more satisfied than Wren felt, catching his lower lip between fierce fangs and making a sound almost like a purr of pleasure. Then he turned over his shoulder to address Shrike. “And you, my lord?”
Shrike’s hands descended to Rikke’s waist. He lifted him just halfway off of Wren’s length.
And set his own prick against the same hole.
If Wren had seen it, he would’ve doubted his eyes. As matters stood, he almost doubted his body, though his shaft knew wellthe sensation of Shrike’s own and recognized it as it slowly forced its way past him to enter Rikke.
Rikke’s eyes fluttered shut and his head fell back with a long, low sigh.
Wren had oft delighted in taking himself and Shrike in the same hand, sliding them together in his fist to bring them both to the brink.
And now he found the sensation both familiar and strange, as inch by inch Shrike slipped in beside him, a fit so tight it hardly seemed as if it were possible, Wren cleaved so close to him it seemed they would become one flesh within Rikke, until Shrike had sheathed himself to the hilt.
Wren thought he might die.
He hardly had a moment to grow accustomed to the unfathomable sensation before Rikke arose on his knees. Shrike and Wren slid halfway out of him before he slammed down again. Wren seized Shrike’s shoulders to keep steady. He clung on through plunge after plunge, until he found himself thrusting up to meet Rikke, and then his clenched grip became one of convulsive pleasure.
Shrike shuddered in his embrace as Hull entered him—and how incredible to see it, the sensation playing out across Shrike’s handsome features, how his perfect mouth fell open in a silent gasp, how those long lashes descended over dark eyes, the heavy brows knitting and coming undone over and over as Hull thrust into him, sending Shrike thrusting into Rikke against Wren in turn. Shrike slipped a hand down between Rikke and Wren—no small feat, given how their chests lay flush against each other—to take hold of Rikke’s cock; the resulting strokes drawing yips of ecstasy from Rikke’s lips. And all the while Drude clutched Wren tight and frotted against his backside. Wren knew not how long he might hold out against the overwhelming sensations.
On impulse, Wren reached out and seized Shrike’s jaw in his hands to pull him in for a kiss over Rikke’s shoulder. Shrike gasped into his mouth, then slipped his own free hand behind Wren’s head to draw him in deeper. The familiar taste of vanilla and woodsmoke from those beloved lips sufficed to send Wren tumbling over the precipice of his own spend. His seed spilled deep within Rikke and over Shrike still thrusting alongside him. Shrike likewise shuddered, his groan resonating through Wren’s own throat as his seed joined Wren’s, mingling with their crossed swords.
In that same instant, Rikke cried out, and further drops of mistletoe spattered against Wren’s chest. Hull stuttered to a halt within Shrike with a satisfied sigh. Seed splashed against Wren’s back as Drude shuddered beneath him.
And still Wren kissed Shrike, until he could support himself no longer.
He fell back limp against Drude’s brawny chest. It rose and descended underneath him in rhythm with his own shuddering gasps. He remained dimly aware of Rikke’s slender weight across his hips and an unfamiliar tongue eagerly licking Rikke’s spend from his chest. Drude’s tongue he recognized on his back; moreso for the tender kiss Drude left on the nape of his neck when he’d finished. Then Drude slipped away, as gently as he’d come, leaving Wren sprawled on the furs. Rikke’s weight lifted, and Wren slid out of him, almost painful for his over-sensitive prick to endure. He bit his lip against a discomfited moan.
“Steady.”
The sound of Shrike’s low burr above him proved ample balm to any exhaustion or pain Wren might feel. He forced his eyes open and beheld Shrike kneeling over him, taking a damp clout from Hull and using it to wipe his prick clean. Then another clout, and he began to do the same service for Wren. The sensation of pain gave way to pleasure soon enough. He’d grownagain to half-mast by the time Shrike finished cleaning him off, and groaned in disappointment when he withdrew his hand.
