Bound To You: Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
John
For a moment, there’s only the howling wind.
It whips off the craggy peak of Arthur’s Seat and tunnels through the ancient abbey. And, with it, I hear the thunderous roar of my pulse and the near-silent rasp of Blanche’s uneven breathing.
I’ve pushed her too far.
Later, I’ll allow in the guilt. Later, I’ll question how I can possibly love one while craving another, all in the same breath. But right now, there is only stark truth and raw honesty. I bared my soul and now I want the same of her.
I saw the flush that worked over her moonlit skin when I brought up Henry and witnessed her pupils dilating the moment when I pushed her against the stone wall. I’ve never been one to share—never been the sort of man who divides his time between two bed partners—but there’s no denying how my cock stiffened to the point of pain when I thought of Blanche watching me fuck Henry.
It’s wrong.
Taboo.
I’m going to burn in Hell for this.
Then, with her warm breath striking my throat, my wife destroys me:
“You’re hard.”
All the blood rushes south to my knob, as if the bastard needs any more help misbehaving. A brush of fingers against the tip, a sweep of a palm against the base, and I’ll come. That easy, that quick. Like I’m a lad all over again with his first dirty magazine.
Feeling like I might burst out of my skin, I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “Yes.”
“Is it for me?” Blanche tilts her head back, sinking the base of her skull into my waiting palms. She touches her tongue to her bottom lip, and a groan reverberates through my chest, wild and free. “Or it because you can’t stop thinking of him?”
Him, Henry.
Him, the man I would sell my soul to save.
I need to return to London and hunt the stupid bastard down before Holyrood gets to him first. Yet I can’t bring myself to step away from the woman who echoes my untamed spirit with every word that slips from her tongue. I’ve entered purgatory. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
“I thought of you,” I manage hoarsely, “watching me with him.”
Her lips part.
A jagged exhalation wafts over my throat.
“You sat in a chair. Naked. One leg thrown over the armrest, your fingers edging down past your belly to where you’re glistening and wet.” Her fingers wrap around my wrists, holding tight. Holding me to her. I meet her gaze, her amber eyes so hot, so dilated, that I feel raked over by lust. Fucking hell. “You circled your clit with a single finger,” I husk, my short nails scraping her skull as I utter the words against her damp lips. “Harder, I’d tell you, faster.”
“I wouldn’t obey.”
“To punish me?”
“To punish myself,” she rasps, churning her hips restlessly against my thigh, “for wanting what I cannot have.”
“Which is?”
“You on your knees, Your Highness.”
I move one hand to clasp her thigh, hiking it around my waist so I can grind against her. The move backfires, though, for it’s my deep-seated groan that can be heard tangling with the wind. “You’ve had me on my knees.”
“But has he?”
The question slams into me, an explosion without a grenade.
I’ve hesitated for less than a second—no more, no less—but it’s all Blanche needs to turn my world upside down for the second time tonight. Her palm grazes the bulge in my trousers, and I release a hiss from between clenched teeth. Then slam a hand against the stone beside her head, needing the support because her hand on my cock has me seeing fucking stars.
“You rule over everyone,” comes her sweet voice that’s so at odds with the feverish way her hand runs up and down my length, fast, faster, until I’m struggling to pull air into my heaving lungs. “A prince who will one day be king. A man who expects the entire world to fall at his feet.”
“It’s confidence,” I manage, grappling for a thread of awareness beyond the red haze of desire pounding through my blood.
“Arrogance,” she corrects swiftly, squeezing the base of my cock. “You married me, thinking I would never learn about Godwin. You brought me here, to this abbey, without telling me a thing about Holyrood or their expectations.”
“I said that I was sor—”
“I want you just as much as I’m desperate to hate you, and that’s only after weeks of knowing you.” She rises on her toes, the heel of her right foot digging sharply into my lower spine for stability, and then she touches her lips to the underside of my chin. “Godwin has known you for years and something tells me that you have never—not once—been at his mercy.”
With a sharp inhale, I feel her fingers grazing my stomach as she works the button free on my trousers. The zipper comes undone. The fabric is shoved aside. I gasp when her bare hand circles my cock and tugs, hard. “Blanche . . .”
“I’d touch myself”—up and down, up and down, her fist works me over—“to the visual of you sinking to the floor. How the mighty prince falls, I’d whisper. Godwin would laugh and you, dear husband, would reach for him. Undo my trousers, he’d demand, and you’d do it because you want to. You’d do it because you want me to see, to watch you. Isn’t that right?”
I’m dying.
Hand against the stone, fingers curled into a tight fist. I dare a glance downward to see my wife jerking me off, her thumb catching the bead of come at the head on every pass. I’m unable to formulate words. There are only incoherent sounds—a grunt, a guttural moan. My fingers dig into her thigh, and I’m vaguely aware of thrusting into her grip like it’s not her hand I’m fucking but her wet cunt.
Henry’s tight ass.
Oh, God. Oh, fuck.
“There’d be no relief for you,” Blanche says with another sweep of her lips against my jaw. “Godwin’s trousers would fall open, like I’ve done to you now, and his knob would spring free. It would be long like yours, I imagine. As thick, too. Have you tasted him before, Your Highness? Have you ever felt his cock under your tongue?”
Shame and lust spiral through me.
I’m hanging on for dear life, choking on whatever spell my wife has spun around me like a spool of yarn. I’m fucking her hand and staring deep into hot amber, and—
“No.”
She doesn’t slow down at my confession. If anything, her gaze sharpens like she knew all along that would be my answer. I’m a selfish bastard. A selfish bastard who possessed Henry like a caveman, willing to cede nothing of myself while expecting everything in return from the man who had already given his all. When we fucked, it was my cock that did the fucking. When we were naked, it was his tongue that lapped at my length and his hair that I buried my hands in to monitor the pace.
Hard.
Uncompromising.
Blanche’s hand stalls at the root of my cock, and the sudden halt of pressure and friction rounds my shoulders as I shudder violently. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t—”
“We’ve come to the fork in the road,” she interrupts, her voice just as breathless as my own. “Two choices, two outcomes. What do you do?”
I scrape my fingers over stone that’s been weathered smooth by centuries of facing down the elements. Instinct demands that I wrap my hand around hers to work myself to orgasm. I can feel the pressure building, desperate to come, desperate for relief. It’s been years since the simple act of a hand around my cock has pushed me this close to the edge, and I want the surcease like a priest needs prayer. But I know . . . Fucking hell, I know that if I give in to base need, I’ll ruin this moment.
Destroy it and send Blanche running far, far away from me.
I’ve barely survived Henry leaving; I won’t survive them both gone.
So, I sink my teeth into the cushion of my bottom lip, tugging on the sensitive flesh to ease the beast-like dominance stampeding through my veins. I hold my wife’s gaze and give her what she wants: “I’d beg to taste him, to put my tongue on the crown of his cock and swallow him down.”
Her thumb swipes over my own crown. “You’re leaking, John.” One blond brow arches high in her forehead. Leaning forward, she breathes, “Maybe, just maybe, the thought of you tasting him after all this time makes you just as wet as I am.”
And then brings her thumb to her mouth, painting her Cupid’s Bow with the bead of moisture.
My come on her lips.
My essence being swiped by a pink tongue and savored.
The beast emerges.
With a snarl, I crash my lips down onto hers. The kiss is messy, violent. Blanche moans into my mouth and any hope of doing the good thing, the gentlemanly thing, disintegrates into ash when I spin her around and plant a hand on her spine. She sinks forward, ass thrust out, and then we’re both fumbling with her trousers. The fabric tears down her thighs to tangle around her knees. I sink one foot into the elastic material, driving it down to the pebbled ground.
“John,” she whimpers. “John, please—”
“Spread your legs.”
She inches them shoulder width apart, one hand balanced on the stone pillar. Holyrood Abbey has seen centuries of history—prayer and warfare, death and rebirth—but here, right now, it witnesses the destruction of my soul.
I cup Blanche’s ass, spread her cheeks, and thrust in deep.
The wind shrieks like a banshee.
My wife cries out, her spine arching with the invitation to glide my palm up, up, up, and fist the pale blond strands.
She’s hot around me, too bloody tight.
I don’t release my hold on her hair, unable to let go, even if she begged me to set her free. I told her I’d shackle her to my bed, and it was not a lie. I’m torn in two, in love with my best friend and completely spellbound by the woman who ought to walk away from me before I ruin her for good.
Bending my knees, I angle my hips and her answering scream shatters the night.
“You’re mine,” I growl, pumping hard. “Do you hear me, little wolf? You. Are. Mine.”
Her free hand finds my fingers wrapped up in my hair. She holds onto me, head thrown back, gorgeous face turned up to the sky. A groan pulls from my chest when her cunt pulses around my cock. Fucking hell, I’m going to come already. She’s worked me up, tore down every fortressed wall that I’ve spent a lifetime stacking high.
I think of Henry.
Of the image she painted for me, of me down on my knees and dragging my tongue up the length of his erection. I imagine the tortured twist of his rugged features, of his calloused palm on my nape, urging me on, silently demanding that I take him deeper, to the back of my throat, until I’m choking on him to the soundtrack of Blanche sinking one finger, then two, deep into her dripping cunt.
My cock jerks.
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.
With a grunt, I release Blanche’s hair and lower my chest to her spine. Using my foot, I nudge her legs a little wider so that I can reach around her waist and set the pads of my fore and middle fingers against her swollen clit.
“All that is you, is mine,” I rasp in her ear, my orgasm winding me tight, tight, tight. “And all that is mine will be forever yours.”
“John!”
I circle my fingers fast, adding pressure that sends her swaying on her toes. “Come for me, wife. Let me catch you.”
Let me love you.
I feel the moment she climaxes, her inner walls squeezing, the heat of her enveloping me so tight that I gasp for air and bury my head in the crook of her neck. I pump my hips, flexing my thighs, driving into her over and over again. Her cry echoes in my ears and my hoarse shout reverberates against her damp skin.
We come, together.
Breathe, together.
Only when I’ve wrapped an arm around her middle, to ensure her legs don’t give out, do I murmur, “What door did I choose?”
Her shoulders roll within my embrace, and I get the feeling that she’s trying not to laugh after we’ve probably woken all of Holyroodhouse.
I touch my lips to her nape. “Tell me.”
She turns her head, chin to her right shoulder, so that she can peer up at me. In the moonlight, her amber eyes are luminous. Hopeful. “The road that leads you to Godwin . . . with me at your side.”
____________
Dear God. Who else needs a fire extinguisher, a fan, and at least five tumblers of vodka after that? I am dyingggg over this chemistry and this scene. And there’s more to come!
I can’t WAIT to share Chapters 21 & 22 with you in two weeks, so buckle up and drop your feelings below. Or pop them into BBA with a spoiler alert note at the top of the post!