Page 82 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
Auden raises an eyebrow. His own erection could probably be seen across the lake at this point. “What do you think?”
Saint rolls his eyes but nearly smiles.
Auden shifts a little so he can watch Poe between his half-brother’s legs. Her dress is pooled around her in a way that seems fresh and prim and a little princess-y, but there’s nothing prim about her mouth right now. No, that mouth is all wickedness, licking up and down St. Sebastian’s stiffened cock, sucking it into her mouth, trailing soft kisses around the base and the curves of his testicles.
Auden’s own cock aches and aches and aches. Already he can feel arousal beading at the tip, begging to be licked off too. And it’s not only at the sight—which is beyond erotic—but the knowledge that it’s happening at his command. That pink tongue, the naked pussy underneath the innocent dress. The body currently roiling in agonized pleasure underneath him.
“Your cunt now,” says Auden. “Make it fast.”
Poe scrambles to obey, getting to her knees and then straddling Saint’s hips. Her daisy-patterned skirt is everywhere, blowing in the breeze against Auden’s knee and waving around her thighs, and she has to use one hand to hold the excess fabric against her hip as her other hand takes St. Sebastian and guides him to her opening.
Wet. She’s so wet that they can hear it the moment Saint’s tip glides against her. And when she positions him just right, angles him just so, they hear it as Saint enters her.
Saint strains underneath Auden, and Poe moans, slumping forward and bracing her hands on Saint’s stomach.
Auden growls. He needs to fuck, the need for it is clawing inside him, but no—no, he needs this more. The beautiful boy writhing and panting under his knee. The beautiful girl arching and shivering next to him.
He moves his hands, one to St. Sebastian’s throat and the other to the knot at the nape of Poe’s neck, so he has both of them, he’s gripping both of them, he’s guiding and restraining and making both of them. And he feels when they both reach their peak, when they both go trembling, reaching, shivering, tumbling over together under his touch.
He could come like this. Just like this. Just with his knee on Saint’s chest and his hand full of Poe’s hair.
He doesn’t though. As much as he wants to, he wants this more. He wants this moment more. Their bliss he savors as if it were his. He drinks in Poe’s soft cries and Saint’s tortured gasps, their joyous torment under the midsummer sky. He feels it thrumming along his skin like it’s his own pleasure, his own release, even as his dick impatiently reminds him that it isn’t.
Auden makes sure they’re both finished before he carefully eases off St. Sebastian and lets go of them both. They are limp and sweat-misted; he is tense and tight and he can feel his pulse in his cock, it’s that swollen and ready, but his chest is loose and light and happy. He can feel the happiness around his eyes and mouth.
“You’re still hard,” St. Sebastian says, rolling onto his side to prop up on an elbow.
“This was a birthday present for you,” Auden says, “not me.”
St. Sebastian seems to think about this for a moment. “What if, for my birthday, I want to see you come?”
“On my tits?” Poe adds eagerly, climbing between them and laying on her back. Before Auden can even truly digest what’s happening, she’s untied the halter of her dress and tugged the bodice down, exposing her breasts, which are pale and soft and generous, tipped with tight, rosy nipples, and dotted with fading bite marks.
His bite marks.
Fuck.
This wasn’t the plan, this was never the plan, but Auden suddenly can’t bring himself to care about the plan, not when Poe’s pressing her tits together like that, not when Saint is dipping his head to kiss the crescent-shaped imprints of Auden’s teeth all along the undersides.
He’s more aroused than even he knew, because his hands are shaking too much to open the button of his shorts, and he keeps fumbling with it and fumbling, fumbling, until Saint reaches up and opens it for him, his warm fingers brushing along the skin of Auden’s stomach as he does. Auden can’t breathe as Saint pulls down his zipper too, working his shorts open until there’s nothing between Auden’s cock and the open air save for his boxer briefs.
“You have to do it,” Saint whispers. “I can’t—I shouldn’t—”
Because brothers don’t. Brothers don’t do what Auden wants St. Sebastian to do right now, and that’s reach past the elastic waistband and draw out his cock for him.
Damn their father to hell for his lies.
Auden tugs the waistband of his boxer briefs down himself and fists his shaft, looking down at Poe. Her fuckable mouth, her sexy tits. All of her so brilliant and beautiful and more precious to him than his own life, and he loves her so much, he loves Saint so much, he wishes they knew, he wishes he could properly explain it to them. He wishes they could understand that when he bites, when he bruises, when he is cruel, it’s only because he’s given them his own heart for biting and bruising, it’s only because his life is completely theirs already, to stomp on and macerate. It’s a kind of homeostasis, a kind of loop—they own him, so he gets to own them in return. They hold his spirit, and so he can hold their bodies.
His wild and thorny heart beats for them and them alone.
“You both are my life,” he tells them, because there should be no secrets tonight. “My entire life.”
It takes nothing—two strokes, maybe less—and the orgasm roars through him, barreling up his length and erupting past his fist to spatter Poe in white ropes of seed. It feels yanked from the very soles of his feet, from the deepest pits of him, every drop of his essence offered up as proof of his need for them, unending, unbearable, unbelievably good and agonizing all at once. It goes on, pulse after pulse, until Poe’s breasts are liberally striped with his cum, like he’s double-marked the territory he’s already marked with bites, and then some, because there’s semen on her upper belly and along her cheek and mouth as well.
“Fuck,” he whispers, as his organ gives a final throb and gives up one last pearl of fluid. “Fuck.”
He drops to the blanket on the other side of Proserpina and pulls her into his chest, not caring about the cum, not caring about anything but holding her. On the other side of her, St. Sebastian watches him with glittering eyes. Behind him is the fire, and behind that are Delphine and Rebecca, still consumed with each other.
