by Lucy Leven
“Yes,” Claria said simply, not quite sure what manner of bravery had overtaken her. “Please.”
A shimmering flare of golden magic, the robe slid from her shoulders and slid out of being, and Claria was bare — bare before Estienne and the sky above, bare to herself in a thousand crystal mirrors made golden in the magical light.
Claria was cold indeed, but it was a coldness she enjoyed. The type of coldness that pricked her skin to a sharp awareness, that pinched her nipples tight and ready.
The type of cold that stood in stark contrast to the Beast’s fierce heat, the heat burning behind her — that heat that made it hotter still, and better, just like the heat between her thighs.
“But this is not quite fair, is it?” the Beast said in her ear, low and amused.
Claria could manage nothing more than an unsteady, “Hmm?” Her entire being thrummed with some strange, peaked awareness. She thought she might come undone upon but the barest touch. There was not space within her to fathom the Beast’s twisting mischief.
So just as well that the Beast looked up, raised his voice as he looked to Estienne. “I would have you bare, Captain.”
Estienne smiled. It was a soft smile, a little bashful, familiarly rueful. Well pleased. “Yes, my lord.”
No magic in Estienne’s undressing. Just his own hands pulling his tunic over his head, his own hands unlacing his leathers and pushing them down past his already bare feet.
The breath Claria took at his unveiling was shallow and strange. The gods, he was such a sight to behold. There was not an inch of flesh upon him that was not carved and hewn. The light hair that scattered his chest darkened as it trailed a path down to his groin. And there, his manhood was already past simply stirring — for he was already plumping, already growing in strength.
And strange though it seemed, he was growing in vigour at the sight of Claria in all her bareness.
He did not touch himself, though Claria supposed he must long to, for she longed to touch herself as she longed to touch him too.
But instead, Estienne stood, awaiting order.
For though he may have no longer been a soldier, he still had the bearing of one — so straight and upright, so watchful and purposeful. So intent.
So intent on her.
Claria did not break his warm, gentle gaze. She did not look to the mirrors, nor to the sky. She did not close her eyes. She looked only to Estienne, as he looked only to her.
But even caught so, she could feel her heaving breath, imagine the sight of her breasts lifting with it, see in her mind’s eye her nipples pinked and peaked high in the cold — tighter still with the thrill of her brazenness.
“Touch yourself, lass,” the Beast whispered in her ear, that warm, shivering rumble. “Touch yourself so that he might see.”
Claria did. With one hand, she reached up to cup her small breast, to tweak and pinch her already tight nipple to a tighter, sharper pleasure. With the other hand, she reached down to touch herself, to slide her fingers through her curls, to gather her slipping wetness and tease the bud of her pleasure so.
And not once did she break gaze with Estienne. He watched her back, stood perfectly to attention, and even in the golden half-light, his eyes darkened under heavy lids.
“Oh,” Claria whispered, a strange, thready sound made thready all the more by the little quivers of pleasure beginning to build and coalesce into something altogether more pressing — and distracting.
Just as distracting as the Beast’s huff of a laugh in her ear. He was not laughing at her, though, but at Estienne, for his mouth had tipped open a little, and it was not Claria’s imagination that his breathing seemed, too, a touch ragged.
“What is it that you wish for, lass?” the Beast asked. “You might have anything that your heart desires.”
What did she wish for? Claria wished so many things that she was overwhelmed at the choice before her, of everything she might ask for and surely be given.
So in the end she asked for the simplest thing and, as it was, the truest.
“To be kissed,” she said. “By Estienne. And by you.”
“Easily done,” the Beast said. With a gentle touch, he tipped back her chin and took her mouth, in his wonderful, commanding way. Claria surrendered to him. She clung to the arm he held tight around her middle and kissed him with abandon. Kissed him and kissed him until she had to break that hot, heavy kiss to simply breathe.
And then to gasp — for whilst she had been aflame in the fire of his hot attentions, the Beast had drawn Estienne to them. And now his hand was tangled in the golden fall of Estienne’s hair, and now he pulled Estienne towards him and claimed his mouth, hard and sharp and unforgiving. Estienne kissed him back just as fiercely, full of the very same fire.
Claria watched as they kissed one another, so caught up in one another, intent and intense, no quarter given. The heat within her was fiery at her core, reaching out across her whole being, a maelstrom of desire. She wondered that she might find her release simply from watching the Beast and Estienne take pleasure in one another’s touch, and in the kiss they shared.
But then — the Beast broke that wonderful kiss for a reason just as wonderful.
“Kiss her, lad,” he told Estienne, his rumble of a voice as warm as the embrace he still held her tight within. “Kiss your sweet lady, lad.”
Estienne smiled, his scar crinkling as the corners of his eyes did too. “With pleasure, my lord.”
That handsome face dipped down towards her. Claria could hardly breathe, so taut was the anticipation within her.
Estienne’s hair fell about her face as his own breath fell upon her lips, the startling thill of his closeness setting her skin atingle, and the sweet anticipation of his touch…
When it came, Estienne’s kiss was nothing as in the manner he had kissed the Beast, Instead, it was softness itself, so gentle and full of quieting care. Claria sighed into it, taking all the gentle pleasure he would give to her, and taking it gladly. And when he drew away, her breath left in yet another wistful, happy little sigh.
Oh, she loved him so very much.
Estienne smiled down at her as he had smiled against her lips. He kissed her again, but now his tongue teased at her lower lip, and Claria could only open her mouth to him and to his bidding, gentle still but hotter now, and growing only hotter still.
He pressed closer, Estienne to her front and the Beast behind. And as Estienne kissed her with such plundering passion, Claria could feel the thick strength of him leaking hot against her stomach, just as she could feel the Beast’s hardness strong and warm through his leathers, pressed tight against her back.
The feeling of it — to be so caught up in their strength and held just as strongly by the both of them, held between them, pleasured and treasured.
Claria sighed into Estienne’s kiss, and then into the Beast’s just the same as he took her mouth anew, sighed as he made to draw her down to lie atop the flagstones.
And how she wanted that, to lie with Estienne and the Beast both, all as one, a tangle of hot intention. But if she was to have that, then she must have that in all ways.
So, “No,” she said, breaking the Beast’s kiss. “Please,” she said. “Oh, Beast, your bareness upon mine.” She looked to Estienne, pleading. “Upon both of us. That is what I want”
Estienne’s smile for her was gentle, and for the Beast nothing but coy. “You promised sweet Claria all she desired, my lord.”
“That I did,” the Beast agreed on an easy, lazy smile of his own. “And so I must oblige.”
The room, with its sparkling mirrors and sparkling snow, glowed golden for but a heartbeat, and then the Beast was just as golden, revealed in all his staggering glory.
And so he stayed as he laid her out on the flagstones, and on his front he went, between her spread legs, the legs he spread wider with his shoulders as he hooked them atop those same shoulders in turn, as he opened her up to his gaze, and to Estienne’s gaze too, when he pulled him in.
All at once, the both of them were busy between her legs, their clever tongues and teasing fingers playing upon her bud, a maddening confusion of touch that had Claria crying out in startled pleasure as she lifted her head to see. But see she could not, even in all the mirrors that surrounded her.
A shift and her legs were handled wider still, a spread that felt so deliciously sinful and wanton. A tongue delved deep into her warmth, a powerful slide. A mouth suckled hard at the centre of all the hot sensation that tormented her so.
Claria cried out again, a strange, broken sort of sound. A few heartbeats of stuttering, shuddering pleasure, hot and gushing, and the relief of release washed over her, all golden, dripping like honey.
She could hold up her head no longer. Back it went to lie on the flagstones. And those flagstones should have been chilled, such was the fall of snow all around and the fierceness of the winter air, but they were not chilled. Instead, they were smooth and warm under her — smoothed by magic, she knew, and warmed by it. Warmed by the Beast’s magic and his care, just as she was.
Just as Estienne was.
And no thought to shivering then, with the Beast behind her, rolling her onto her side and drawing her to him. No thought to shivering with Estienne to her front, his hand to her breast, to her side, to her bottom, kissing her as he touched her so softly and reverently. No thought to shivering with Claria held between them, caught like a precious jewel on a glittering chain.
Estienne lifted her leg then, slung it gently over his hip so that she was open to him. She could feel the slick head of his girth brushing against the tight opening of her warmth.
“Can I?” he asked against her mouth as he kissed her, soft and sure. “Can I, sweet Claria?”
All thought of marriage beds and vows to the gods left her. All she wanted was Estienne, his strength and his vigour. She wanted all of him, but most of all, she wanted him inside of her.
Claria nodded, a jerking motion, made awkward with the fierceness of her desire. “You can,” she whispered. “Please.”
Behind her, the Beast bent his head, let out a breath of a laugh between her shoulder blades, and Claria well knew why: all her virtuous talk, and she would willingly give such a thing to a man who would never marry her. Could never marry her. The gods on high, he was a duke, and she was but a lowly baker’s lass, and a fallen one to boot.
A wave of such horrid, sour despair washed over her.
She had left the village infatuated with a man who had never loved her, and now she found herself in love with a man who could never love her back.
What a fool she was. What a fool she would always—
“Oh!” Claria gasped, for though she had felt the teasing touch of fingers within her, no matter how broad those fingers, they felt slender in comparison to Estienne and to his girth.
And it was that hot, hard girth that pressed into her then, and kept pressing — a slick, shivering slide — and just when she thought that he could go no further, he did. So deep and deeper still, until the whole of him was sheathed within her, so fully she could hardly fathom it.
So full she could hardly breathe, hardly think. So full of pleasure, so overwhelmed by it. So taken by Estienne. Her beautiful, handsome Estienne.
He had stilled, watching her so carefully, and she gasped a little as he shifted but a little in turn. “Do I hurt you?” he asked with a look of such sudden concern.
“No,” Claria said. “Oh no, you could never.”
He watched her yet, and took her words to be true, for he kissed her gently, the barest brush of lips, and began again to move, but the tiniest of shifts, letting her come to know the feel of him within her. But soon enough, upon her pleading, ragged pleas, those shifts became strokes, and those strokes became long and fast and commanding.
Commanding her pleasure and the undoing of it.
Claria came to a tumbling, bubbling, wonderful release. She laughed with it, overcome with sensation and affection both. She laughed, her face tucked into the crook of Estienne’s neck. “Why do you stop?” she gasped. “What of your pleasure?”
“Ah, but that can wait a little longer,” Estienne told her, laughter in his voice too. “For the master of this castle must have his pleasure first.”
“The master…” Claria pulled back to look at Estienne, and then at the Beast in turn. “Oh, Beast!” she exclaimed, her hand to her bitten-red mouth.
“Forgotten about me, lass?” he asked, his expression sly.
In truth, Claria had, so taken had she been by Estienne’s attentions. But the Beast did not appear affronted by her rudeness — only gently amused.
He reached for a small jug of oil that sat suddenly on the floor beside him, and he oiled his staggering girth in turn. Behind her he came, pressed close, his hardness sliding against her bottom as he lay down fully. Then he drew her legs closed and slid his breathtaking manhood once more between the soft, oiled press of her thighs.
Claria moaned, a high, whining sound — shock and pleasure as one. With her legs held closed so, held tight so, she could feel the slow slide of Estienne within her all the more, felt the silken hardness now of the Beast between her legs, felt his heat and his overwhelming strength, felt that girth sliding a time or two upwards, so that his lazy thrusts pushed between her bottom cheeks. The feel of his girth slipping across the tight clench of muscle there was a torment such as Claria had never known.
To imagine that he might press with just a little more intention, that he might press the head of that terrifying, wondrous manhood into—
With a bitten-off groan, and with a hand to her hip, the Beast rolled away. Claria turned her head, startled, watched as he came to his knees on the flagstones, and saw that the Beast was blood-hot still and glistening with pleasure denied.
“Beast?” She wondered why he did not spend that pleasure — upon her stomach, or her bottom, or upon her face as he liked often to do. “Why do you—“
Estienne drew her face to his and kissed her, a teasing nip at her lower lip, a soothing touch of his tongue to follow. He shifted her gently, so that she lay beneath him on the flags. “The master of the castle means to take me as I take you,” he told her.
Claria did not need to see herself in any looking-glass to know her eyes were wide. The thoughts of only a few hot moments before roiled in her mind. “But that—” she stuttered. “The gods— You cannot—”
Estienne stilled entirely within her, and his own eyes were puzzled as he gazed down at her. He pushed back her curls so that he might see her face more clearly. “What is it that we cannot do?”
Claria had no time to answer. The Beast leaned past Estienne to kiss her. When he had her breathless, he pulled away again and said, “Our beautiful Claria does not like to offend the gods, my dear Captain.”
The puzzled look had not yet left Estienne’s face. “What gods would find offence in such pleasure?”
The Beast’s face shaped around a sly smile. “Claria’s gods, it would seem.”
“Then damn those gods,” Estienne said as easy as his tone was fierce. “For what do they know? Nothing worth knowing, I should think, if they would deny this, and deny it of us.”
Claria looked to the Beast, but he had no reply but the twitch of his dark brow. And so she took a breath, and, “Damn the gods,” she said.
Of all the many things the Beast had taught her, Claria thought she had learned that best of all.
And the pleased smile the Beast gifted her then showed that to be well, and to be true.
A dull clink of fired-clay upon stone, a glimpse, again, in the mirrored glass of that little jug of oil.
Claria could smell the fruit of it, she could see the Beast’s fingers gleaming with that same oil as he drizzled it over them. But then the Beast lowered his hand, and she could see nothing but Estienne and the taut, anticipatory look on his face — the same look that broke open upon the Beast’s first intimate touch.
Claria watched him all the while. She
could not even think to tear her eyes away.
She saw his mouth tip open and his breathing hitch, saw his eyes flutter half-closed, though he watched her still, his gaze hooded and hot.
All at once, Claria was overcome with the desire to see the Beast at work, to see what even her hottest imaginings could never fathom, to see what it was he did that made Estienne so unravelled and ravished in his countenance.
She turned her head from side to side, her movements a little despairing, for though the room was a sparkling, magic-lit hall of mirrors, the breadth of the Beast’s strong shoulders hid all from view.
She could glimpse the flex of the long muscles of his forearm at work. She could feel shivering tremors of pleasure tremble through Estienne as they shivered, terribly teasing, through her in turn. But she could not see.
And how she longed to.
Her breath left her in a despairing, thready sigh.
“Do you wish to know what he does, my darling?” Estienne asked, a laughing warmth in his voice. “Is that why you crane your neck so? He opens me up with his touch. Men do not open there readily, not as women do here.” Estienne reached down between the sweat-slick press of their bodies, to slip his fingers across her bud, down to where he lay sheathed, hard yet, in her throbbing warmth. “So he touches me within, all slick with oil. He touches me to make me slick for that prick of his. And I shall need to be slick for it, shall I not? Behemoth that he is.”
Claria could only nod. If there were any words left within her, she could find them not.
But Estienne had words enough for the both of them. “But you are already slick, darling Claria. So slick and wet and obliging.” He kissed her, a gentle brush of lips, as his fingers played at the entrance to her heat, dipping in alongside his manhood. He smiled down at her, soft and approving as he said, “For you are such a good lass. So gentle and obedient.”
He kissed her neck, the dip of her throat, cast delicate kisses along her collarbone. And then he gasped there, his breath leaving him in a harsh, ragged heave as the Beast took him and as the Beast began to move.
Began to thrust.
