Page 12 of The Viscount, the Blacksmith, and the Lady
He came to her side, his hand reaching for the ample flesh of her bottom with a sense of ownership that belied his usual casual nature when it came to bedding women. His fingers slid between her thighs, slipping through the damp curls that betrayed her arousal—and his heart pounded.
Somehow, with Simon’s head bowed to her breast and his own hand exploring her more intimately, Owen felt the walls he’d built around his desire for her crumbling. He acknowledged the flare of jealousy, recognizing it not as a force to drive him away, but as fuel that stoked the fires of his want. “Zee, I’ve never endured such a test of restraint as I’ve lived while not touching you.”
His gaze locked onto hers as he battled the storm of emotions raging within—the conflict, the jealousy, and above all, the burgeoning realization that sharing her with Simon might not divide his affection but amplify it. It was a revelation that both alarmed and exhilarated him, enticing him further into the depths of their shared passion.
“Oh, Owen...” Zee cried when he thrust two fingers inside her wet heat.
With his other hand, he turned her head toward him, his fingers threading through her raven locks. His lips claimed hers with all the passion he needed to express, but didn’t have the words.
She lifted her hand to his face, cupping his cheek and caressing him as her tongue thrust into his mouth, mating with his.
Simon pulled her away and lowered her onto her discarded gown, its fabric bunching softly beneath her, a makeshift bed. His mouth traced a path of adoration down her neck, teeth grazing lightly, and she shivered with a light laugh.
Owen returned to her cunny with his fingers, toying, stroking, spreading her moisture while listening to her cries to advise him what she wanted. The slick opening called to his cock, but he was afraid he’d come too quickly if he entered her now.
“More, please, both of you,” Zee gasped, her voice a velvet plea as she arched into their touches.
Simon adjusted his position, stretching in the grass to lie beside her. “Damn it, Xenia, your body makes me mad with lust. I cannot have my fill of you.”
She smiled. “All I seem to think about is you two making love to me.” She looked from Simon to Owen, as if to ensure he knew he was included in the sentiment.
“I love to watch your body react,” Owen said, as his fingers curled inside her and found the place he knew would drive her over the edge to madness.
As he hoped, she shuddered and cried out, her back arching as she crested her peak. He watched her face, alight with ecstasy, and felt a surge of pride and tenderness, knowing he was part of this moment, part of her joy.
As Owen shifted between her legs to let his cock take her higher again, she wrapped her fingers around Simon’s cock. She urged him closer so she could suck on his hard length. Something about the sight of his friend’s erection slipping in and out of her lips, while he thrust into her tight, wet cunny, made Owen even harder.
He felt the tension coiling in his body, his excitement heightening with every deliberate push Simon gave. As his friend’s pace quickened, the sound of their joint unions—a rhythmic, wet cadence of both cocks—surrounded them.
Then, with a final, reverent drive into her mouth, Simon stilled, his entire form tensing as he pulled out and ejaculated to the side, his release painting the grasses beside their makeshift bower.
Zee’s eyes, wide with need, met Owen’s. “Please,” she pleaded, her voice a siren’s call, “make me come again.”
With a singular focus, Owen continued to fuck her, his movements deliberate and driven by the urgency of her plea. Her response was immediate, her body rising to meet each of his deep, determined thrusts. He released her hip with one hand and wet his finger where her arousal was spread on his cock, then delved below and pressed against her tight back entrance.
She gasped and pushed back against him as he continued to tease her with his finger, and she tightened around his cock, crying out, “Oh, my, Owen—oh!”
He felt her spasms milking his cock as he came inside her. Her cries melded with his guttural groan.
“Fuck,” Simon said softly as he watched.
Owen’s breath came out in a ragged sigh as he watched Zee, her eyes fluttering closed in pure bliss. He noticed her cheeks, flushed with pleasure, the soft parting of her lips as she said his name again. He stretched out to lie beside her as Simon sat on her other side, tenderly stroking her hair off her face.
The satisfaction that bloomed within Owen was more than carnal. It was a profound recognition that it was Xenia they were pleasing, the woman who had been intertwined with their lives since childhood. Their laughter had filled the air for many years, their secrets whispered in the shade of the old oak just up the riverbank. And now, their bodies were entwined in an intimate congress that transformed their friendship into something raw and beautiful—a bond forged not of innocence but of passionate abandon.
As the rhythm of their breathing slowed, and the echo of their union faded into the calm of the afternoon, Owen found himself reluctant to disentangle from the moment. But reality pressed upon him like the cool breeze that whispered through the trees.
They couldn’t continue like this. The secrecy, the stolen moments—they were unsustainable. A pang of fear tightened around his heart. What if this was all it could ever be? These few brief encounters stolen from their busy lives?
At some point, Zee needed to marry, especially if they continued to spill their seed inside her. He wasn’t bound to consider others’ opinions when it came to marrying, not like Simon. Owen’s parents were dead, but Zee’s family and his were equals, so they would have been thrilled at the union.
Lying beside her, Owen dared to let his thoughts wander to a possible future—one where he didn’t have to share or conceal his affection. He imagined waking beside her, not just once, but every dawn that followed. Could she ever consider such a life with him? Would she consent to be his wife?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Xenia stood before the mirror in her bedchamber, her hands delicately skimming over the fine fabric of her gown—one sent from London by her cousin—ensuring every pleat and lace fell perfectly for the village assembly. The reflection staring back at her was a woman caught between scandal and splendor, the flush on her cheeks not attributed to the artful application of rouge. Her fingers toyed with the silk ribbons that adorned her bodice, as her mind tumbled through the memories of Owen’s firm touch and Simon’s smoldering gaze.
The second intimate encounter with both men lingered in her senses like the sweet, lingering aroma of freshly baked pastries from her parents’ bakery. Xenia felt a whirlwind of embarrassment that such a moment had overtaken her usually composed demeanor, yet she couldn’t deny the exhilarating rush that pulsed through her veins at the recollection. Owen’s calloused hands had traced the lines of her form, his eyes alight with a playful fire. Simon, ever the quiet storm, had regarded her with hazel depths filled with a passionate possessiveness that thrilled her.