W hen she closed the door behind her, not wanting conversation, Xenia simply called out, “Goodnight,” and raced upstairs.
Safe in her room, she leaned back against the wall, her breath still unsteady from the intensity of Simon’s attentions under the tree.
Her bodice felt constrictive against her heated skin, and she hastily loosened the laces.
Her hands trembled slightly as she reflected on the way Simon had taken her—fierce, unyielding, yet undeniably intoxicating.
And undeniably satisfying.
Xenia sat on the edge of her bed in her bedchamber, her fingers absently tracing an intricate pattern on her coverlet as her mind tumbled through a whirlwind of memories. Her heartbeat fluttered, recalling how different her two romps had been.
Simon’s touch lingered on her flesh like the ghostly brand—a searing intensity that she couldn’t dislodge from her senses.
As if he was there with her now, she could almost feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and laden with unspoken promise, the way he watched her with those deep hazel eyes, searching for signs of retreat. But oh, how she craved the advance.
Her body remembered with acute clarity the boldness of his passion, the way he took control with an urgency that left no room for hesitation.
It was an act devoid of the usual preliminaries, a stark contrast to the tender explorations of their times by the river.
His hands had glided over her skin with the confidence of ownership, igniting smoldering fires everywhere he touched.
His cock, hard and unyielding, had pressed into her without ceremony.
The quick thrust before he’d even fingered her showed how desperately he wanted her.
And then, that unexpected sensation, when his finger entered that other place, breaching her tightest entrance with a firm but gentle insistence that shattered her last vestige of restraint.
It hurt at first, but the pain left quickly, and the presence of his finger there while his cock thrust in and out had made her clitoris pulse even stronger.
“Am I wicked?” she whispered in the silent room, the words slipping like sin from her lips. A flush crept across her cheeks as she recalled the surge of pleasure that had coursed through her veins, a pleasure so intense and foreign that it bordered on sacrilege.
The memory alone was enough to draw a shiver from deep within, her body betraying her with its yearning to relive those forbidden moments, to succumb once more to the wickedness of Simon’s desires.
Caught between remorse and longing, she chastised herself for reveling in such decadence, yet secretly, desperately wanting to experience it all again.
“Simon, you have captivated me,” she whispered into the darkness, her confession lost amidst the shadows that played upon the walls of her room from the glowing embers in the fireplace.
Her thoughts wandered from the passionate lovemaking of Simon to the tender warmth that Owen always seemed to wrap her in.
He might not have been as daring, if lifting her skirts just around the corner from the busy assembly rooms could be anything but daring, but he’d focused purely on her pleasure.
It had been quick, a stolen moment when they escaped the revelry, but oh, how satisfying.
His tongue had danced over her, igniting sparks that flickered and flared into a blaze of pleasure, leaving her breathless and flushed with delight.
The memory of the sensation when he’d continued to lap up her moisture made her throb now. His tongue was such a talented muscle.
Rising from the bed, Xenia began the familiar ritual of undressing for the night. Her hands moved deftly, but her mind was elsewhere, sifting through the myriad sensations both men had given her.
She imagined the solid weight of Owen’s muscular frame on her in bed. His body matched the sculptures she’s seen at Simon’s house, carved by artists who captured every line, every bulge. And then there was Simon, tall and lean. His power came from the way he did things, the surety in his touch.
Her fingertips traced her collarbone, following an invisible line down to the swell of her breasts, remembering the press of their mouths against her skin. Simon’s kiss was like a storm, fierce and possessive. Owen’s, however, held a playful promise, coaxing laughter even as it stirred desire.
Her contemplation turned to their more intimate differences, the thought sending a shiver of more wickedness down her spine.
Simon’s cock was longer and thinner, and it seemed to react more to what she did, if she judged by the way it jumped under her ministrations.
Owen’s, though slightly shorter, was thicker, a solid presence that made her feel filled.
Both men had touched her in places that sparked her arousal to life, their hands knowing just where to wander to draw out her deepest pleasures.
As she absently toyed with a nipple, licking her lips, she couldn’t help but wonder which she preferred—the length of Simon or the thickness of Owen?
It seemed an impossible choice when each encounter left her yearning for more, her body singing with the memory of their touch.
The fabric of her bedclothes whispered against her skin as she slipped beneath the coverlet.
Her mind swum after being pleasured twice in one evening by the two men.
Simon’s words on their walk home echoed in her ears, promising a slower, more deliberate encounter that both thrilled and unnerved her.
He spoke of touches that she shouldn’t allow, yet the very thought sent a trail of heat spiraling straight to her clitoris.
He had been so sure in his touch, only asking permission after.
She should be upset about that, but she honestly believed he had her enjoyment in mind, not just his own.
Curiosity mingled with apprehension now, thinking about allowing him to do that again, an internal conflict that had her wringing her hands even now.
Such wickedness he offered, and yet, how could something that promised such intimacy be anything but beautiful?
He was that way, though. At his house, when she was helping with baskets for the poor, she remembered the brazen way he’d claimed her, his finger delving into her with a boldness that would have caused a scandal if someone had discovered them.
And once she’d had her orgasm, he’d insisted they return to the others.
No thought of his own release, just like how Owen acted tonight.
And then there were the times at the river with both Simon and Owen, the contrast between them sharpening the sensations.
Owen’s laughter, his gentle teasing, seemed to amplify the fervor in Simon’s touch.
Somehow, when both men laid claim to her body, every caress felt magnified, every kiss a promise of endless ecstasy.
Her breath hitched as she recalled the dual sensation of being filled and adored, the memory alone enough to ignite a flame within her core.
She pressed a hand to her stomach to still the butterflies.
How could she yearn for more, for this other avenue of lovemaking that Simon vowed they would explore?
She was sinfully wicked to want more. More places to be satiated, more time spent with two men she wasn’t married to. No one could ever know the truth of their relationship.
“Damnation.” They had shown her a world where passion reigned, where the connection of their bodies spoke a language older than time itself.
And she wanted to understand it, to lose herself in the discovery of every sensation, every touch that Simon—and Owen—could offer her.
She wanted to embrace this facet of her desires, to allow herself the freedom that came with their unconventional love.
How could she keep them both? A frisson of excitement darted through her at the thought of sharing her days—and nights—with these two men who stirred such disparate parts of her being.
“Simon... Owen...” she whispered their names into the darkness, a benediction and a plea entwined. Could she dare to hope for a lifetime of such intimacy with not one, but two souls so interwoven with her own?
As sleep blanketed her thoughts, Xenia nestled into the comfort of her bed, a smile curving her lips. The promise of new experiences, of exploring the depths of her passions with Owen and Simon, shone brightly on the horizon.