Bound with Passion Page 11

  Trevor laughed and waved his arm toward the west. “Go!”

  With that, the horse ran, hard and fast and blissfully free—back toward the stables and the beautiful Bathsheba, to whom he was already becoming devoted.

  “Watch out!” James cried when he saw Georgie raising her crop to strike Trevor. Unflinching, Trevor turned quickly toward her, and with one easy, swift motion, grabbed the short leather whip out of her hand before she came anywhere near making contact.

  Georgie was as tall as James, but Trevor was a few inches taller—and far bigger: his shoulders wide and strong, his neck thick, his hands powerful. James watched as Trevor crowded her, slicing the crop repeatedly through the air beside them with a menacing swoosh. “You would hit me, you demoness?”

  She looked as if she wanted to take a step back, away from the obvious threat of Trevor’s fury, but her pride wouldn’t let her. She held her ground, but her head recoiled an inch.

  “You would sleep in my house,” Trevor continued, “eat my food, steal my horse, and then you would hit me? What have I ever done to make you despise me so, Lady Georgiana Cambury?”

  She continued breathing hard, but refused to answer.

  “Or is it Mr. George Camden?” Trevor nearly growled.

  James watched how the name affected her. When she’d told them how she’d passed herself off as a man in the Middle East, she’d described the thrilling combination of power and freedom.

  “What if I am?” Her voice was slightly deeper, and James realized this was not a role, not like it was when she wore a beautiful silk dress and Italian slippers and a peacock feather in her turban. Nor like it was when she was Georgie, wearing her mannish riding coat that was still embellished with all sorts of decorative flourishes, frilly cuffs, and other feminine concessions to some idea of herself as part male/part female.

  She was no longer an idealized version of anything. This was the real person. Her shirt was a simple white cotton man’s tunic that she’d tucked haphazardly into her buckskins. But she’d apparently been in too much of a rushed snit to put on her usual confining underbodice, so her full breasts were pushing erotically through the thin fabric. When Trevor spoke to her like that, accusing her of all those abuses and then taunting her with her fake—or was it her real?—masculine name, her nipples peaked beneath the fabric and her body betrayed her.

  Trevor swatted the crop through the air one last time, hard, and James and Georgie gasped in unison. He was so full of power, throbbing with it. Trevor was a gentle soul, and he didn’t like to bully or intimidate, but dear God, when he chose to exert his strength, it was a beautiful thing to behold.

  “Mr. Camden.” Trevor bowed to Georgie. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. Now name your weapon.”

  “What?” Georgie collected herself enough to force out that one word.

  “If you wish to fight me, quit with the skirmishes and the sallies and make a proper attack. And don’t you ever again raise a hand to me while my back is turned.” He flipped the crop handily and presented the handle for her to take. “If you want to attack me, face me like a man.”

  “Trevor.” Her voice—James didn’t even know how to describe it. It was everything knotted together: desire, anger, frustration. But mostly, it was raw lust.

  Trevor thrust the handle of the crop closer to her face. Then he grabbed the front of her shirt and fisted it into his other hand. He shook her twice, practically punching her chest while he did. “Damn you, Georgie! Fight me or fuck me! I just want to feel it. I want to feel you.”

  She was coiling up for action, like she was actually contemplating her chances if she decided to fight him, to force his hands from where they were gripping the fine white linen of her shirt. Pulling away slightly to test him, she was jerked closer, and the rough handling caused an immediate gasp to escape her slightly parted lips.

  “Don’t you dare treat me like a girl,” she gritted out, her teeth clenched. It came as more of a plea than a warning. James was inexorably drawn to them, the roiling desire they created pulling him in like a whirlpool. He stepped away from the tree and moved closer to where they were standing.

  Trevor whispered hotly, his face close to hers, “I will give you no quarter, George.” He trailed the braided handle of the crop along her lips, down her neck. James hovered close behind Trevor and then shuddered when he felt the energy snap and sizzle around them while they stood locked in that violent clutch.

  She turned to look at James, and he startled. Her eyes were mad, aflame with lust and submission and wanting. “I mean it.” She was including James in her demanding confession. Then she turned back to face Trevor. James watched as a beautiful peace settled over her. The truth. “Otherwise you will be tender and gentle and horrible.”

  “Drop your trousers, sir,” Trevor ordered, shoving her away from him.

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “You heard me.” He whipped the short crop through the air with powerful assurance.

  “Trevor—”

  “No.” His voice was resolute, but he never raised it. “If you are going to act like a spoiled brat, you are going to be treated like one.” He narrowed his eyes when he looked at her. “Humiliated like one.”

  She gasped, probably from a mix of shame and lust. James knew from many years of firsthand experience: it was undeniably erotic to hear Trevor speak in that way. Smiling wickedly, James said, “You heard the man.” Then he tilted his head. “Or are you too much of a coward to take your punishment?” James couldn’t tell in the moonlight, but he thought Georgie’s skin heated even more than it had a few minutes before, when Trevor began swatting that devilish crop and telling her to show him her bare arse.

  Now, here, under the moonlight, with the sound of the horse’s hooves receding into the distance and the lake water lapping and the leaves murmuring overhead, they were all stripped down to bare essence. Over and above nature’s whispering chorus, it was their breathing that made the most noise, three human animals preparing for battle.

  For a moment, James thought Georgie was going to make a dash for it. He almost wished she would, if only to see Trevor chase after her and pull her down into the muddy grass like a lion taking down a gazelle.

  But then she began to unbutton the fall of her trousers.

  Trevor kept slapping the end of the crop against his palm, probably anticipating how he was going to dole out her punishment . . . and the obvious sensual implications of her bare arse right there for the taking. When she was finished undoing the buttons, her trousers were around her knees and her shirt was hanging a few inches above them, so only a strip of her pale thighs showed in the moonlight.

  “Turn around, George.” Trevor and that voice! James was ready to explode.

  Georgie did what Trevor commanded, and James could’ve sworn she even let out a little anticipatory sigh. Of course. She wanted this as much as Trevor did. As if to prove the point, she slowly lowered herself onto her knees and then leaned forward. She used one hand to move the fabric of her shirt up to the middle of her back, so her beautiful round arse was exposed and submissively offered up to Trevor.

  “Do it,” she whispered, resting her cheek against her forearms on the ground, so James and Trevor could see her profile, see the desire warring with shame.

  “Oh, I’ll do it all right.” Trevor walked around her while he spoke. “When I say do it.”

  She huffed or whimpered; James wasn’t quite sure.

  “In fact, I don’t want to hear another word out of you. Gag her, James.”

  She made that whimpering sound again, but James could tell now it was a sound of eagerness, not defiance. She wanted this more than she would—or could—ever admit.

  “Gladly.” James found his cravat in the grass and worked it between her lips, fastening it in a tight knot at her nape. She made no pretense of resisting; in fact, she looked happier than he’d seen her anytime since she’d arrived back in England. “Oh, she’s done this before, Trevor
. Mark my words.” James settled himself cross-legged in front of her. “I want to be right here, to see her beautiful tears.”

  She groaned against the fabric in her mouth, and James could see the tension in her jaw as she bit down on it. He settled her chin so she was looking up at him. Her forearms and knees were pressed solidly into the muddy earth, bracing herself. Then she stared up at James.

  Trevor didn’t waste another moment. He took the first swat—a fast crack—and she looked as though she might have an orgasm from that one bit of contact.

  “She’s already loving it,” James said.

  “Why don’t you take out your cock,” Trevor suggested.

  “Better and better.” James undid his trousers and his cock sprang free. Georgie’s eyes widened and she moaned through another swat against her arse. Her eyes were glistening like gems. “She loves it. Don’t hold back, Trevor.”

  And he didn’t. He worked up a steady pace. With so many fond memories of being on the receiving end of Trevor’s confident strokes, James could practically feel the swats against his own skin. He worked his cock in a concurrent rhythm and watched how Georgie’s eyes streamed with those delicious tears that only came from the kind of release where exquisite pain and pleasure blurred. Even though the gag prevented her from using her mouth, she leaned her face down to be closer to James’s cock. He laughed and called to Trevor, “She wants more. Do you think we should let her have it?”

  Trevor had worked himself up into a sweat and paused to catch his breath. As if he were checking her temperature, he took a break from the crop and put his hand between her legs. “Yes. She’s responding very well.” Trevor reached across her back and slid his moist fingers into James’s mouth. “I think she’s earned a small treat, don’t you?”

  James sucked the taste of her off Trevor and hummed his agreement.

  Trevor smiled and slowly pulled his fingers free. Then, tossing aside the crop, Trevor undid his trousers and dropped to his knees. “Because this is what you want, isn’t it, George?”

  She grunted against the fabric in her mouth as Trevor spread her slick moisture up and down the crack of her arse, getting her ready. “Take the gag off, James.”

  Undoing the knot took a few long minutes, which Trevor apparently used to test Georgie’s resistance and readiness. She was obviously slick and primed when James finally got the gag free, as she cried out into the cool night with unintelligible longing.

  “Answer me,” Trevor ordered, slapping her arse with his bare hand. “Is this what you want?” James watched as Trevor pushed one, then two fingers into her arse.

  “Yes!” she cried out as her hips canted up to receive Trevor and her head dipped down toward James’s cock, without quite reaching.

  “Yes, what?” Trevor removed his fingers and taunted her with the thick head of his cock. “How do you ask politely, George?”

  “Yes, please,” she whispered softly, right before James thrust into her mouth and Trevor thrust into her arse.

  All three of them erupted into a quaking ecstasy—without a hint of tenderness. While Trevor slammed into her over and over, she moaned against James’s cock with a low, desperate rumble and deep suction. The rhythm created a perpetual motion that coiled through all of them until Trevor reached around to Georgie’s clit and hurled her over the edge.

  As soon as she went, Trevor cried out, and then James came in her mouth with a guttural release. She kept sucking him until the last tremor had passed. All three of them fell together and lay across each other, heaving and panting like the animals they had become.

  Georgie was unable to differentiate her limbs from theirs. They were wound together like one of the endless knots in traditional Moroccan jewelry: impossible to tell where one strand finished and another began. Even their breathing seemed to weave them closer together. One of her hands was gripped into someone’s thick hair; a hard-muscled leg was wedged between her thighs from behind; hot breaths warmed her stomach.

  Two men at once—well, three if she counted herself. How glorious of Trevor to demand that of her, to treat her like George, the young man in need of discipline. She must remember to thank him for that at some point. Some later point . . . when her mind wasn’t floating through the night air like a downy feather, and her body . . . Lord, her body had never felt more relaxed, more subdued and grateful.

  A warm hand was circling the tender flesh of her bottom, where the crop had left its cruel marks of devotion. She bit her bottom lip and hummed her pleasure, enjoying the simultaneous comfort of that hand and the way it caused a stinging reminder of her splendid beating. “Yes, please,” she whispered.

  Both men pulled in closer, and she could feel them touching her and each other all around her. She had never been one for the smoky pleasure of the hookah, but she imagined this was how it must be: simultaneously attuned to every blade of grass, every human millimeter, and oblivious to everything beyond this extremely narrow perimeter.

  She leaned forward a few inches into the musky darkness of an elbow or shoulder, and began to lick the salty skin—it was Trevor, she could tell immediately—then she sucked hungrily where the soft skin of his upper arm pressed against the taut muscle of his chest. Squirming to taste more of him, her mouth grazed across a few inches of skin until she found his nipple and toyed with it, her tongue playing until his skin was a hard nub. His groan of pleasure inspired her to persist.

  Both men, meanwhile, had their hands all over her. A large bank of passing clouds covered the moon, and the darkness seemed to afford her far more initiative, as if she could be anonymous even in this intense intimacy as long as she was hidden. Fucking was one thing; the tender assault she was performing on Trevor’s beautiful body was something else altogether—something she wanted to hide from herself and the moon.

  After she became lost in licking and mapping his chest and stomach, her body was hauled roughly onto her back, and she was engulfed by four strong hands and two eager mouths. She heard and felt them kissing each other while they kissed her. Two tongues dipping and sliding around her throbbing entrance. She could feel the moisture of her previous release—and Trevor’s—coating her inner thighs, and the sloppy sounds of mouths and fingers probing and seeking pleasure.

  Some remote part of her brain thought she should be concerned about the men devouring her that way, but she was too consumed to care. Everything felt both dreamlike and bone-breakingly real. She normally despised having a mouth on her pussy, much less two. She far preferred the hard penetration of a cock in her arse over what she’d come to think of as the tender ministrations of some delicate flower, of mere lips against lips.

  But oh God, how different it was when Trevor and James were rough and sure, so demanding with her. So when slick fingers entered her—in front and behind—and mouths nipped and sucked hard against her clit and pussy, she felt like the act was strong and right for the first time in her life. Not some weak feminine rippling, but a glorious fight to the finish. She bit her lip and cried out.

  And still the two men worked on her. Fingers, tongues, the occasional hard slap, first on her ass, and then, to her shocked delight, a rain of hard taps and pinches on her clit. She began to beg—for it to continue forever, for it to stop or she would die, for it to go on and on, for it to never end—all in wordless, moaning desperation. She felt the shiver of her own approaching climax—then James with hot spurts against her back, where she’d felt Trevor handling him with sure, knowing pulls, and Trevor—glorious Trevor—released again, in warm jets onto her stomach. His hand—someone’s hand—was tight in her short hair, praising her and owning her all at once.

  Her own release came roaring through her then, brutal and all-consuming. She screamed into the night, squeezed her eyes tight, and dug her hands into the muddy grass so she didn’t disintegrate altogether and fly off into a million particles in the night sky. Crash after crash slammed her as they kept up their hard suction and penetration, until she finally began to soften from the violen
t aftershocks.

  A strong fingertip traced her jaw and a throaty voice whispered from far away, “That’s a good lad.”

  Her last vague thought before she fell into unconsciousness was that she had done well.

  After a time, Trevor leaned down and kissed her lips gently. Then James bent forward and kissed her as well. Then the two men kissed each other, and it was all exactly how Trevor had dreamt it would be. One part of his warm, spent body was flush against Georgie’s soft hip, while his other arm and leg were slung across James’s hard shoulder and thigh. Every element of his being, the hard and the soft, the brutal and the tender, had found its counterpart reflected in these two people in his arms.

  For many minutes they clung to each other like that, the three of them caressing and kissing, tending to one another in the most intimate ways they could—warming each other’s skin, massaging sore muscles, smoothing back disheveled hair.

  “We will all catch a terrible chill if we don’t get up from this cold ground,” Trevor finally said, regretting that he would have to release either one of them.

  “Don’t make us move,” Georgie pleaded on a contented sigh. “I’ve never known such a feeling of peace.”

  Trevor kissed her again. “A feeling that shall be repeated for many years to come.” He felt her stiffen slightly against him.

  She sat up. “Let’s start with a few days, and maybe work our way up to years, shall we?” She looked from James to Trevor and smiled. “All right?”

  Trevor tried to repress the look of worry that passed briefly across his face while Georgie wasn’t looking, but he knew James caught it. James sat up too, then smiled and kissed Georgie lightly on the tip of her nose. “Yes, you dirty thing, we will defile you a little at a time . . . minute by minute . . . day by day . . .”