Page 19 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
exposed now. The rude length of him framed by all that expensive, tailored fabric has my sore cunt clenching all over again.
“I am lonely for you,” Saint repeats. “And you can’t stop it. You can’t hurt me enough to stop.” He pauses, and I know whatever he’s going to say next is going to be a blow. “Not like you did with the money.”
Auden slaps him.
The room slows, stills, freezes solid. Time is gone and time is nothing. Saint shudders as the angry handprint blooms on his cheek, and for a minute, I think he’s going to lunge at Auden. I think they’re going to fight again, to grapple and strike and bleed. I think that slap is going to send all three of us hurtling toward disaster.
But apparently I don’t speak fluent Angsty Boy, because Saint doesn’t hit him back. Saint only breathes in his quivering, shivering breaths, breathes like he felt that slap against his cock instead of his face.
Auden catches Saint’s jaw in his hand and flattens his mouth against his. He threads his fingers through Saint’s hair and yanks Saint’s face back enough for Auden to bite at his lip piercing, to lick at it and suck on it. And Saint lets him, Saint shudders harder than ever, groaning into Auden’s mouth like a man being fucked. “Does that get you hard?” Auden asks meanly, between kisses even meaner than his words. “Does it get you off?”
Saint seems past words now, his eyes glassy and his mouth swollen from being kissed. He just nods and doesn’t speak, although I see the flick of his eyes from Auden’s feet up to Auden’s hard column of flesh to Auden’s face, and I know what St. Sebastian is too sex-drunk to say.
Everything Auden does gets St. Sebastian hard. And Auden can’t hide that he’s just as turned on by it as Saint is.
“Show me,” Auden says. “Show me.” He crowds Saint down again, this time following him so that when Saint wedges himself between my thighs, Auden is pressed against his back in a sort of reversal to how we were before. Now it’s St. Sebastian’s ass that he grinds his naked erection against. Now it’s me he locks eyes with as he steers the scene.
Although this time he doesn’t have to steer very much. Saint rakes his eyes over my quivering belly and pink-tipped breasts and grunts like a man made mindless by the cold being brought in to sit by a fire. A grunt past gratitude or awe and coming straight from a place of impolite animal survival.
St. Sebastian ducks his head to give one of my breasts a long, hot stripe with his tongue, and then he reaches down to give his cock to me. The sight of him like that—the muscles in his arms all bunched and etched in sharp relief as he grips himself, the furrow in his tight belly lined with dark, dark hair, his brown nipples pulled into little bunched points—has me spreading my legs even farther for him.
“Please, Saint,” I murmur. It’s all I can murmur, really, although there’s so much more I want to say.
Let me help.
Let me ease you.
I want to be your plaything too. As much as you are mine.
I cry out as he fits those hard, slick inches back into me with a brutal thrust that pushes me up the sheets. Before I have time to adjust or even catch my breath, he thrusts again, chasing me down and pumping his hips like I’m about to be taken away from him, like I’m the last thing he’ll ever get to fuck.
Every ram of his cock between my legs drives the breath from my body, but I don’t care, I love it, I love the gasping, grunting high of it, and despite my earlier languor, another orgasm starts knitting itself in my belly. It’s fed by the sight of Saint toiling above me. It’s fed by the sight of Auden rutting arrogantly behind him, one big hand splayed over Saint’s stomach, trouser-clad knees crammed between St. Sebastian’s and my own. I can’t see everything, but I can see how hard Auden grinds his dick against Saint’s body, how hard he thrusts against him.
I can feel it, since each thrust of Auden’s is transferred through Saint to me. In fact, he ruts against the man between us so hard that Saint collapses on top of me, sliding his forearms underneath my shoulders and burying his face in my neck as he continues pumping into me, hard and fast, hard and fast. Auden is there too, not letting up on his own pleasure for a minute, and then, after slapping Saint hard on the ass, his hands find mine. Our fingers lace and he brings our joined hands up on either side of my head, so that he can brace himself to keep stroking against Saint.
I should be crushed by these two men. Instead, I’m cradled.
I should feel left out, a mere accessory to their strange and complicated desire. Instead, I’m the keystone and the spark. I’m caught in Auden’s stare as Saint mumbles prayers against my neck, Auden’s hands squeeze mine reassuringly even as they both chase after relief. And I feel it again—it, whatever it is, the thing I felt in the thorn chapel last night, the thing that had me waking up needing more, more, more. The thing that makes the woods whisper and the air sing.
This is what you were waiting for, Proserpina Kernstow Markham, even if you didn’t know it.
This this this.
Here here here.
Them them them.
“Oh,” St. Sebastian moans against my neck. “Oh.”
His entire body shudders—violent, hot shudders—and my tender cunt can feel how he swells to that last impossible size, how he hardens to that last impossible hardness, and with another softly uttered oh, I can feel how his huge rod jerks and pulses inside me.
That’s not what makes me come, however. No, it’s Auden behind him that sends me over the brink, Auden’s rough, male grunts and the furrow between his brows as he takes his release. He looks spoiled and handsome with the imperious way he uses Saint’s body to rub against, as if he’s entitled to it, entitled to anything he wants. And when he comes, all that strength and beauty and pain seem to radiate out of him, as if he’s the bonfire from last night, as if he’s the lanterns we walked by. The clench of his chiseled jaw is heat, and the dark wings of his eyelashes on his cheeks are rays, and the part of his full, ever-so-crooked lips is light itself.
My entire body responds, a flower to the sun, a priestess to a priest, a bride to her lord—and I come. Full, clenching squeezes around Saint’s still throbbing cock. Flutters so deep in my belly that I imagine there’s a deepness inside of me that only these two men have discovered, only these two could ever reach, not only with their flesh but with their desire.
I come like the good bride I am; they’ve drained all of themselves for me and with me. And so for a moment, all of us are limp and speechless and mindless. A sweaty, heaving tangle of bodies. A living, sticky communion.
I don’t think anyone wants to move, to stir or to speak, because this moment is perfect. No matter what existed before it or what will exist after it. This moment alone, suspended in time, is perfect.
