Arthur’s intense kiss left me breathless, hungry for more. I slid my fingers across his chest, relishing his hard muscles responding to my touch. I grabbed his t-shirt and dragged it over his head. He crushed me against his bulk, my breasts filling his big hands.
“No fair. Arthur’s hogging,” Flynn stuck his lip out in a fake pout. But Blake wasn’t waiting for permission. He tugged at my wool-lined leggings, pulling them down to reveal my new g-string, covered with cute dancing snowmen.
“Christmas is coming early,” Flynn grinned when he saw them. I groaned. Arthur pretended to smack him around the ears.
The boys shuffled me over to the bed. Arthur sat on the edge, dragging me down so I straddled his hips. Blake stood behind me, kissing along my collarbone as he rolled and pinched my nipples. I leaned my head back and kissed him, the angle bringing new sensations as the tops of our tongues rolled together.
I lifted my hips so Flynn could tug off my boots and roll down my leggings and socks. “I was all ready to go out…” I moaned, but my words fell away as Flynn and Blake took my nipples into their mouths. Without breaking our kiss, Arthur tugged down his pants and settled me back on top, his enormous cock twitching in anticipation.
I sighed as I slid down on Arthur’s shaft, filling my body with his warmth. I’d been aching with need all through exams and now I could sate myself with their bodies and hearts. As I ground my hips to drive Arthur deeper, I realized that all those weeks of waiting and thinking and sending filthy text messages had been worth it, for this moment right here. For Arthur buried inside me, his icy-gaze fixed on me. For Blake and Flynn’s hands roaming over my body, for Rowan and Corbin breaking their kiss to nuzzle and nip at my neck.
Arthur held my body rigid as he bucked his hips up into me, his features set in an intense stare as he poured out his heart to me through our bodies. Together we slaked our dark thoughts in the heat of our bodies, burning our flames out in each other’s light until we were glowing embers.
A wet, lubed finger drew down my spine and slid into my ass. Flynn? I turned my head, and my cheeky Irishman grinned at me. Each time I slammed down on Arthur’s cock, Flynn pushed his finger deeper, giving me a taste of what might come over my vacation, of how much I needed to escape from the university and relinquish my control and my rules and my desire for perfection and just be.
“That’s it,” Blake purred, his teeth digging into my earlobe. “All that exam stress, all those late nights studying, give it all to us, Princess.”
“Yes,” I breathed as Blake’s lips claimed mine and I had three of my guys inside me, and my body shuddered with a cosmic orgasm.
Through heavy-lidded eyes, I could make out Rowan sitting on my desk chair. Corbin was bent between his legs, his mouth wrapped around his cock. As he moved his head in a steady rhythm, Rowan’s head tipped back, his dreadlocks spilling down the chair as he dwelled in his own ecstasy.
“We’re going to be late,” I murmured, thinking that we could stay in this state, this passion, this healing, all afternoon and long into the night. There was still so much of ourselves to explore and open up.
“They’ll wait for us,” muttered Arthur through gritted teeth. His muscles tensed, and he sped up his strokes. He was almost there. I leaned back, pressing my body harder against Flynn’s finger, and claimed Rowan’s mouth in mine. He moaned and pushed Corbin’s head away, wanting to save his pleasure for me. I had to admit, I was glad of that. I wanted to have them all first. It was my right as High Priestess.
I locked my eyes with Arthur, and something in that look must’ve sparked inside him, because at that moment he lost control, his jaw clenching, his hands digging into my thighs as he released weeks of tension in one great, glorious bellow.
We fell back onto my narrow dorm bed. Blake crawled up beside me and flipped me over, sliding me up against my pillows and diving between my legs, not caring that I was now sticky from Arthur’s load. His tongue pressed against my clit and in moments a second orgasm washed over me.
I was still shaking from my orgasm when Corbin and Rowan climbed onto the bed with us. Rowan slid along my body, our skin already slick with sweat. He tangled his lips in mine as he rolled a condom down his cock and entered me.
His kisses were soft and sweet and buttery, like the baking he was so well known for. His body came undone around me, his nakedness revealing more than just his skin. His struggles over these past weeks, living without Corbin and I, dealing with the intensity of his therapy, scarred him still. I took those scars into myself, giving him only peace and love in return.
Behind him, Corbin stroked his cock as he watched us. I stretched out a hand to Flynn and gripped his cock in my fingers, stroking him hard. My Flynn, who’d found in himself a strength he’d never seen before, who’d discovered a passion for entrepreneurial pursuits that fueled his artwork. In his hands, Briarwood would flourish.
Flynn’s eyes fluttered closed, his long eyelashes tangling together as he sank into this moment with me. His lips opened, but not a single pun or awful joke passed through them. Only one word, my name, over and over.
“Maeve, Maeve, Maeve…” The sweetest sound from my sweetest boy.
In those moments, I lost track of who entered me, of whose lips were on mine and whose cock was in my hands. The six of us moved together as one, seeking our solace and strength in each other. Our bodies rippled and writhed as we drowned in our need. Magic sizzled through the room, peeling the photographs off the walls and causing a fine mist to form on the windows. I wouldn’t need to put the heat on.
Finally, we collapsed in a pile, our bodies slack and exhausted, our hearts full. I lay back on Rowan’s chest, my gaze flicking over Flynn’s painting and the photo collage on the ceiling. I’d even pinned up Kelly’s postcards from her travels. Her latest one was from Santorini. The month before that was Romania, and then Prague and Budapest. Apparently Connor was having a great time, and Jane hadn’t killed her yet. Kelly had even purchased a new, more sensible backpack.
Arthur’s strong arms fell across my chest, and my heart soared. With everything that had happened since I first came to England, it seemed impossible that we were all here now, happy and in love and leading somewhat normal lives without the fate of the world resting on our shoulders. It wasn’t easy. Corbin and I missed the guys, and Flynn wasn’t exactly the most serious castle manager, but every minute we were together was a gift.
Corbin sat up, his brow furrowing as he noticed the clock above my desk. “Shite. We really are late.”
We untangled ourselves and scrambled into our clothes. I ran a comb through my hair, but it was beyond saving, so I just pulled on my thickest wool beanie and left it at that. I’d dyed my bangs a variety of rainbow colors a few weeks ago to join Corbin in a campus queer event, but the dye didn’t take and now it was just a mess of orange streaks. Oh well, at least I looked like a real freaky witch.
After pulling on my thick coat, scarf, and gloves (I was discovering just how bitter cold English winters could be, especially when you lived in a medieval building) I led the way down the winding staircase and out into the quadrangle. Outside the college gates, we hopped on the bus out to the suburbs. Oxford’s “dreaming spires” gave way to modest Victorian townhouses and the rolling Cotswolds hills beyond. The bus dropped us off on a suburban street lined with identical brick semi-detached homes, and we followed Corbin to the house.
Four pairs of boots – one with striking spiked heels and pointed toes that looked like it was straight off a Paris runway – were lined up next to the usual family sneakers and sparkly Wellingtons. I pushed open the door. Laughter burst from the kitchen. Aline, Isadora, Daigh, and Smithers sat across the table from Corbin’s parents, sipping from mugs of steaming tea while my mother regaled them with some recent story of their underworld rule.
My heart surged. I spoke to Aline every couple of weeks in my bedroom mirror, but it wasn’t the same as being able to embrace her. But she now carried witch, fae, and demo
n essence inside her, which meant she could travel between the worlds whenever she wanted, although bringing her harem with her sapped much of her energy. Thankfully, the young demon she’d recently taken into her harem wasn’t able to leave the underworld, so at least we didn’t have to eat our Christmas feast with a creature of nightmares. Aline still wore her scary crown, which Corbin’s sister Tessa kept trying to steal.
It took some time to get through the greetings and hugs before Bree and Andrew ushered us all into the reception room and found enough seats and teacups for everybody. My heart soared. I loved having everyone together, talking over each other and fighting over the Christmas cookies (biscuits, I had to keep reminding myself). Smithers sat by the window and sang to himself under her breath. Aline’s powers had restored much of his cognition, but he still had a strange way about him.
“I wanted to tell you all something,” Aline said. She set down her cup and stretched her hands in front of her, her lip trembling a little, as though she were nervous. Smithers took her fingers in his, knitting their digits together. On her other side, Daigh patted her hand like he was indulging a puppy.
“What is it?” I asked, hoping like hell it wasn’t some problem that would derail my vacation.
“I’m pregnant,” she purred, touching her smooth stomach. “Maeve, you’re going to have a baby sister.”
That was not what I’d expected. But at the news, my heart soared. A new baby, born of a union like mine – a binding of magic – would be a welcome joy, and it would cement Aline’s rule over the dead and ensure he good work continued long into the future.
It was odd to think that I’d be watching Aline raise my baby sister when she was really no older than me. I’d be more like an aunt than a big sister. I thought I could deal with it. I couldn’t help but wonder about all the interesting epigenetic possibilities.
“That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.” I hugged her and Smithers. Daigh put out his arm for me, but I backed away, shaking my head. I’d gotten myself to the point I could be in the same room as the guy without tearing his face off, but I’d never be able to embrace him as an ally. Not when my parents’ bodies still burned between us.
My parents taught me that Jesus forgave, but that didn’t mean I could forget.
“What about you?” Aline asked me.
“What about me?”
She batted her eyelashes. “Are you ever going to give me a grandchild with one of those strapping lads of yours?”
Behind me, Arthur choked on his biscuit. Corbin coughed, and Flynn burst out laughing.
“Mother!”
“What?” she grinned. “I’m allowed to ask sometimes.”
“I guess so,” I smiled. “Right now I’m just focusing on college. Or university, as they call it in Jolly Old England. But I’m definitely up for babysitting duties whenever you need me.”
“And me!” Flynn piped up. “I love little babies.”
“I may just take you up on that,” Aline smiled, touching her stomach again. “It will be good for your sister to learn about life without demons trying to stick pitchforks in her little bum.”
After a delicious dinner, we said goodbye to Corbin’s parents, and to Aline and her harem, and piled into cars. Simon had driven Clara down from Crookshollow for the occasion, so between Ryan’s fancy Bentley and Arthur’s heap of junk, we had enough space for all of us. Three guesses which car I chose.
As Simon drove through the center of Crookshollow. I peered out the window at a construction sight – “What’s that?”
“The Halt Institute,” Clara answered from the front seat. “It’s a new arts and culture building that will offer local artists, writers, and performers space to showcase their work. The bottom story will house a witchcraft museum, with exhibits that chronicle the history of the village as well as witches in popular culture. There will even be a witch-themed bookshop.”
“A witchcraft museum? The town hasn't revolted?”
“They begged for it,” Flynn beamed. “We had a public meeting and there was so much enthusiasm. I’ve already got ten volunteer docents lined up and the museum hasn’t even opened yet.”
“Things are changing around here,” Clara said. “People are realizing that witches are part of Crookshollow’s history, and they might even play a role in the town’s future.”
“I love it.” We passed by the village green, and I saw the witch statue in the center had acquired a friend – a half-man, half-wolf rearing up to reveal enormous paws and sharp teeth. Two kids chased each other around the statues while their parents looked on. “But where did the money for this art institute come from? Last I remember the village didn’t even have the funds to repaint the kindergarten.”
“A certain reclusive artist may have had a hand in it.” Clara lifted an eyebrow. Flynn grinned. So that’s what Ryan did with the money from the witch painting.
It was only a few minutes later when Simon rounded the last bend in the drive and slid to a stop on the gravel in front of the inner gatehouse. I gasped at the changes to my beloved castle. The curtain wall and the front-facing battlements had been scrubbed clean of soot and repainted. They looked like they’d been built yesterday. Flynn had the carcass of the Victorian stables demolished and the area cleared. He and Ryan had been working together to create a new design, and then they’d have to apply for a building permit, which Flynn had said could take a while because of the castle’s status as a listed building. In the meantime, a small portable pod had been set up there, and Flynn had covered all the external walls in bold paintings. Obelix luxuriated along the apex of the roof.
I climbed out of the car and linked arms with Flynn and Blake. The others crowded around me, and we gazed up at the castle. Behind the walls, I could see the tower and internal courtyard were still in a bad way. The ticket office was still out of commission, and the portcullis hadn’t been replaced yet. One of the walls on the eastern wing had collapsed, and although there was a makeshift wall in place to keep the building watertight, rubble still littered the ground in front of it.
“I hate how broken she looks,” Corbin whispered, squeezing my hand.
“She’s not broken,” I said, my fingers grazing Arthur’s scarred arm as Rowan rested his head on Corbin’s shoulder. “She wears her scars proudly. They make her stronger.”
Briarwood castle had stood for centuries. Its foundations were strong. Stones could be re-cut, walls rebuilt, flagstones re-laid, tapestries replaced by Banksy-esque graffiti art. But the true Briarwood wasn’t the stones or the beams or the uneven staircases. It was the people who dwelled within her walls, the scarred souls held strong and fast and who fought for what they believed in – the hearts that dared to love against impossible odds.
As long as we had each other, Briarwood Castle would always stand.
THE END
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He’s an arrogant, reclusive artist, and a complete and utter prick. So why can’t she get him out of her head? Fall into Ryan and Alex’s story in Art of Cunning, book 1 in the Crookshollow Gothic Romance series, free from your favorite store - READ NOW
(Turn the page for a sizzling excerpt).
Excerpt: Art of Cunning
Alex
"James Alexandra Kline!"
I cringed as my full name reverberated off the hallway walls. Through the glass wall in my office I could see Matthew storming toward me, his round face puffed up like a pimple about to burst. Across the hall, Tara – the visiting collections curator – looked up from her desk, her face alight with the promise of intrigue.
Matthew was mad. Which meant only one thing. He'd found out that—
"James Alexandra! The Raynard exhibit is opening in two weeks. Where the fuck are my paintings?"
I sank down lower behind my desk, wringing my hands in my lap. I'd known this confrontation was coming
. In my head, I screamed at him that they weren't "his" paintings. Matthew Callahan was the director of the modern art department at the Halt Institute, a prestigious art gallery in the heart of Crookshollow village. He could no more paint an exquisite work of art than he could recognise one. He didn't even really care about art. He had only one trait that made him a competent curator: he was loud and bolshy and could usually get his way. Except, of course, when his assistant curator messed things up.
The assistant curator being me, although judging by Matthew’s voice, probably not for much longer.
"Well?" Matthew loomed in my doorway and barked. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, James?"
"No," I muttered, staring at my knees. I hated it when Matthew used my real first name. He only did it because he knew it made me uncomfortable, and Matthew loved making people uncomfortable. Silently I cursed my parents for naming me – their only daughter – after James Fauntelroy, my famous male ancestor. Who does that?
But now wasn’t the time to be thinking about my parents, especially since that usually brought up some tough memories. I had a bigger, angrier problem hurtling through my office door.
A thousand excuses loomed on my lips. It wasn't my fault the paintings were late. The Halt Institute won the contract for one of the most anticipated exhibitions in the entire country. The artist, Ryan Raynard – despite being one of the darlings of the modern art scene (and my favourite English artist) – was a recluse. He lived in his family's crumbling manor not far from my own flat in Crookshollow, but he hadn't been seen outside the manor walls for at least ten years. Despite never having exhibited, never doing press, and never schmoozing with the rich collectors who made the art world go round, Raynard was one of the most sought-after artists painting in the modern impressionist style. Buyers snapped his pieces up as soon as they hit the auction houses. His paintings leached into the market through his secretary, Simon Host, who was the man I had been dealing with over Raynard's first-ever public exhibition.
The Castle of Spirit and Sorrow Page 25
