T heir horse’s hooves drummed a steady cadence as Simon guided his steed along the well-trodden path that meandered through the outskirts of Kinnerton the day after their romp with Xenia.
He rode in silence beside Owen, whose usually relaxed demeanor was taut with uneasiness.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the ground, and a tension hung between them, palpable as the heat of the day.
Owen’s horse nickered, breaking the rhythm, and he shifted in the saddle, a clear sign of his internal disquiet. Simon, familiar with his moods, remained silent, waiting for his friend to broach whatever matter weighed upon him.
Owen’s voice eventually pierced the comfortable silence that had settled between them, his words deliberate as they trotted side by side. “I must say, I never expected you to lean in, bold as brass, and taste Xenia like she was a ripe peach, while I was fucking her.”
Simon felt the blood rush to his cheeks at the recollection, a smirk playing on his lips. He hasn’t been thinking clearly at that point of the fucking. Too deep in his desire for her cunny to wait his turn. “Ah, it was an impulse driven by.... Let’s call it an adventurous spirit.”
“Adventurous?” Owen snorted. “That’s one word for it. I’ll admit, it shocked me to feel your tongue there.”
The air hung heavy with the unspoken, the memory vivid in both their minds. Simon glanced at Owen, noting the unusual flush on his friend’s face—a mixture of embarrassment and something else undefined.
“As I was saying,” Owen continued, “it’s best we not mix our pleasures in such a manner if we have the joy of sharing our fair Zee again. No harm done, but it’s not to my taste.”
Simon nodded. To be honest, he hadn’t realized he’d licked Owen’s cock, his focus on Xenia was so intent.
The sweet taste of her juices that they had spread by their stroking her made all the skin in that area seem the same.
Hot, wet. He could see in her face how the sensations of Owen’s cock were affecting her, and he’d gotten jealous.
He’d wanted those whimpers she uttered to be because of what he was doing to her, not Owen. So he dove headfirst, so to speak, into pleasing her clitoris, the most sensitive spot on her lovely body.
“Understood,” Simon replied. “A moment of passion, nothing more. I’ll be more considerate in the future. And I do intend to spend more time pleasing her, whether or not you’re there.”
Owen rode in silence for a bit before speaking again. “That pact we made as boys. I never thought it would come into play.”
Simon’s hand tightened on the reins. “I am not one to break a promise lightly, especially not to my oldest friend. I don’t feel as though we broke the pact since we both fucked her.”
“Would it be wise to fuck her again like that?” Owen asked.
“Her desires created this entire game. She asked us to kiss her, to seduce her. When we were kids, we never imagined she might desire us like that.”
“In my mind, when we pledged to stay away from her, I was thinking of one of us marrying her.”
“As was I,” Simon said. “But I knew which of us it would be. You know as well as I the expectation of my future. My grandfather must approve of my choice of a wife. He would never accept the baker’s daughter as wife to the future Earl of Staplegrove.”
“Your grandfather’s expectations be damned. What of your heart, Simon? What of Zee’s? What if she wanted to marry you?”
“Damn it, do you think I feel nothing for her? She is as much a part of my life as you are. To think that some man will marry her is bad enough, but if that man was you, I don’t know if I could bear the jealousy. I don’t know that I could see the two of you together without it killing me.”
Owen didn’t comment.
“Feelings aren’t always a luxury we can afford.” Simon’s fingers went to the gold signet ring on his finger—a symbol of the lineage he was bound to uphold.
“Nor are they something to be ignored,” Owen countered, leaning forward in his saddle as if he was growing sore. “Will you bury your wants, your affections, your...love, beneath a mound of duty until you no longer recognize yourself?”
Simon swallowed hard, the question one he asked himself occasionally in recent years. He had yet to find an answer. “Love is not the only thing that binds a man. Duty, honor—they have their own chains.”
“Chains that can strangle the life out of joy if you let them,” Owen retorted.
He grimaced, opened his mouth a few times to speak, but said nothing.
Then he spat out what he thought. “You’re a selfish bastard, Simon.
You think this is all about your discomfort?
What about Zee? What about what she wants?
Should she settle for some other man because she can’t have either of us? ”
Simon stiffened in the saddle, his hand gripping the reins until his knuckles turned white. He struggled to maintain composure under the raw openness of Owen’s accusation.
“Is it so selfish to uphold one’s duty?” Simon challenged. “To wish for order in matters of the heart?”
“Just know that I’m free to marry whomever I wish. I want Zee to be happy, and that matters more to me than a promise made when I was too young to understand what we were doing.” With that, Owen urged his horse into a trot down the lane that led to the village.
Simon rode on to his estate, which wasn’t a long enough distance to dissipate his frustration.
Of course, he wished the best for Xenia’s life, but he wanted to be part of it.
When he reached his home, he dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting stable boy, his mind still churning as he made his way inside.
He lived in a fine house decorated by his mother not too many years ago, the perfect place to bring up a family.
Yet it meant nothing to him when he thought about Xenia.
Seeking refuge, he entered his study, the door shutting with a thud behind him.
The room was dimly lit by the dying light from the hearth, where a servant had set a fire that morning, and a few strategically placed candles.
Shadows played along the walls, giving the space a somber atmosphere that mirrored his mood.
He moved toward the brandy decanter with a sense of purpose, pouring the amber liquid into a crystal glass with a steady hand. The comfort of the ritual offered a fleeting respite, the subtle warmth of the brandy spreading through him like a whispered promise of oblivion.
As Simon settled into a leather chair, his gaze drifted over the volumes of books lining the shelves, the maps of lands both near and far, and the various trinkets of his travels. But they were mere specters of distraction from the true conflict that raged within.
Simon’s fingers traced the intricate carvings on the arm of his chair, the flourishes as familiar to him as the lines upon his own hands. The room was silent save for the occasional crackle from the hearth.
In the quiet solitude, Simon’s mind wandered, and the walls of his study seemed to dissolve away, replaced by the verdant fields and golden sunlight of his youth.
He saw himself, a boy with tousled black hair and wide eyes, running through the meadow alongside Owen, laughing and shouting as they played at being knights or crusaders.
Xenia was there too, her eyes alight with mirth, her black hair escaping its ribbons to dance around her shoulders.
His upbringing had been strict, the expectations as an earl’s heir being felt even in his youth.
Yet, in those moments with Owen and Xenia, he found freedom.
The village gatherings were their playground, where they competed in races, ate far too many sweets, and played hide-and-seek among the stalls.
It was an innocent joy, unmarred by the duties that would later define their lives.
Simon recalled the day when everything changed—the day when childhood wonder gave way to the depth of adolescent yearning.
It had been during the harvest festival, the air rich with the scent of ripe apples and fresh-baked bread from the Arbuckle bakery.
He was maybe sixteen or seventeen years old.
Xenia was laughing, the sound as clear and melodic as the church bells that rang through the town square.
Her gown, a soft shade of cornflower blue, swirled around her as she turned, offering glimpses of her stocking-covered ankles that sent a jolt of heat through Simon’s body.
He remembered reaching out, his hand brushing against the fabric of her skirt, the delicate material gathering beneath his fingers.
Her head spun toward him, the surprise in her eyes melting into something warmer, softer.
His heart had hammered against his ribs, the moment stretching taut between them.
He wanted to pull her closer, to feel the curve of her waist beneath his hands, but the pact he’d made with Owen held him back.
That was the pivotal moment when Simon realized the nature of his affection for Xenia irrevocably altered, no longer just the fondness of a friend, but the fervent longing of a man for a woman.
The sweetness of it was laced with the bitterness of restraint, and even now, seated in his study, the memory stirred a dull ache within his chest.
Pushing aside the memory, he let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
The warmth from the brandy slid down his throat, but it did little to quell the turmoil of emotions that churned inside him.
The innocence of those days felt like a distant dream, one that the complexities of desire and duty had overtaken.
He set his glass down sharply, his eyes fixed on the flames that fluttered within the grate. The study, normally a sanctuary of solitude, felt oppressive, its walls closing in around him. He rose and paced before the hearth, the carpet beneath his boots muffling the sound of his restless steps.
“Damnable folly,” he muttered to himself, a hand coming up to rake through his hair.
As the night deepened, the stillness of the house seemed to mock him, and Simon knew sleep would elude him this evening.
With a last glance at the portrait of his grandfather—his stern glare a reminder of the earldom’s expectations—he acknowledged the truth that clawed at his soul, that there was no easy way forward.
With a heavy heart, Simon turned away from the fireplace and left the study, and headed to his bedchamber.