Treachery’s Devotion_Masters’ Admiralty 1

by Mari Carr

  His warm, wet mouth closed around the aching peak of her breast, the ruched flesh of her nipple making contact with his hard teeth. He bit gently, then licked the captured flesh.

  Sophia wrapped an arm around his neck, holding tight. His hand came around her back, as if reassuring her that he wouldn’t let her fall.

  Lace scraped against her arousal-sensitized flesh as James pulled her panties off. Sophia stepped out of them and then spread her legs. James’s fingers parted her labia, letting cold air touch her wet, heated flesh. Even that was enough to have her moaning. She wouldn’t last long—she was ready to come, her body ready to take off like a race car sedately following the pace car before the flag was waved.

  The physical stimulation they were providing was certainly wonderful, but it was the mental stimulation that had pushed her so close to orgasm so quickly. These were her husbands—her husbands who, like trained tigers, had leashed their savage natures. They’d accepted her control, just as she would later accept theirs.

  They were virtual strangers, but they had a mutual attraction. Trinity marriages had been built on far less. They were lucky.

  James sat back on his heels, then pulled her forward, onto his mouth. James’s chin and lips nuzzled the plump mound of flesh at the top of her sex.

  A warm, hot tongue delved between the lips of her pussy and found her clit. Sophia buried the hand not holding Tristan into James’s hair. She tried to be gentle, but she was so close to coming that she made a fist, pulling his hair and grinding herself against his face.

  Tristan grasped the breast he wasn’t sucking, kneading the flesh for a moment before pinching her nipple and giving it a little twist. There seemed to be a direct line between her pussy and her nipples, and Tristan’s nips and twists paired with the long, slow strokes of James’s tongue.

  “Sto godendo.” She wasn’t speaking English—she didn’t have the brainpower to translate right now. Hopefully they understood. She’d have to teach them enough Italian so they’d understand her during sex.

  The pace of James’s licking increased, and Tristan plucked her nipple, pulling it out and then letting it slide between his pinched fingers.

  Sophia thrust her fingers into Tristan’s hair, and held tight as the orgasm took her. Her body arched back, a thin scream escaping her parted lips. Without Tristan’s arm at her back, she would have fallen. Sophia didn’t even consider that—she knew Tristan wouldn’t let her fall.

  James laid his tongue flat against her clit as she came. Sophia would have to find the woman who’d taught him oral sex and thank her profusely. The steady pressure of his tongue as her body pulsed and throbbed in pleasure was perfection—anything more would have been irritating on her orgasm-sensitive flesh.

  Tristan cupped her breast, warm palm over the nipple, and released her other breast from the hot prison of his mouth.

  Sophia lifted her head, blinking. Now it was her turn. She reached for Tristan’s pants, but he stepped back, out of her reach.

  Sophia froze, a little fissure of insecurity working through her.

  James kissed her mound once, then tapped her right ankle. When she lifted it, he slipped her panties over her foot, then tapped the other side.

  Tristan was scanning the floor. He scooped up her bra and handed it to her, then grabbed her shirt and shook it out.

  “What is happening?” she asked.

  “We’re landing. The flight attendant has been making desperate announcements for the past two minutes.”

  Sophia’s cheeks, flushed from the orgasm, heated more.

  She jerked on her clothes and they threw themselves into their seats, tugging on seat belts. Sophia looked down at herself, checking to make sure everything was in place. Her belt was missing. She scanned the floor but didn’t see it.

  Tristan was in the seat across from her, while James was in the seat beside her, just across the aisle.

  “Looking for this?” Tristan held up her belt, the gold links swaying with the motion of the plane. Metal clinked.

  She reached out for it. Tristan captured her hand, then slowly wrapped the chain around her wrist. Once, twice, a third time.

  Sophia’s body, satiated but still sensitive, hummed and throbbed at his touch.

  Tristan’s gaze held hers as he finished wrapping the chain around her wrist, placing the loose ends into her palm. Then he sat back, his eyes heavy-lidded.

  Her angry Apollo. No, not angry—aroused and frustrated.

  The door to the cabin opened and the flight attendant peeked his head out warily. James shifted in his seat, adjusting his pants.

  “I’m sorry,” Sophia murmured to them.

  “You will be,” Tristan murmured.

  The flight attendant stopped to check their seat belts. Sophia met his gaze and smiled lazily. She wasn’t ashamed. A bit embarrassed, of course, but not ashamed. The flight attendant, a trim man a few years older than her, blushed right up to the roots of his hair as he looked at her.

  “Walk away,” James told him.

  The flight attendant nodded, then took his own seat up near the galley. It was far enough away so they could speak without the man overhearing.

  James was looking at Tristan. “‘You will be’? What happened to ‘you deserve a bed’?”

  Tristan looked down at his lap, then at James. “Give me a minute and I’ll calm down enough to stop wanting to…”

  “To what?” Sophia asked with desperate interest.

  Tristan clenched his jaw and shook his head.

  James chuckled. “We’re going to have a good time, the three of us.”

  They were strangers. They were married.

  But they were going to be very good in bed.

  Sophia looked at her husbands and her smile widened. “A very good time.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tristan woke instantly when he heard the soft knock at the door. He ignored his body’s instinctive response—to yawn, stretch, or even ignore the sound altogether in favor of more sleep. Instead, he slid off the bed, sword in hand. He’d taught himself to sleep anywhere and to survive on catnaps. The knights had even had a sleep scientist come in to give a lecture on the science of sleeping in small intervals. It was based on sleep schedules developed for solo sailors who couldn’t risk sleeping for too long. It had taken some training, and the knights who’d served in the military were far better at it than he was, but Tristan had learned to sleep wherever, whenever, and to wake instantly.

  He held his sword in his right hand, blade pointed out to the side. If the person knocking was a threat, having the blade pointed at the floor would mean losing the tactical advantage that the heavy blade afforded him. If he held it straight out at waist level, he could easily arch it into an upswing cut that would slice open an opponent from waist to opposite shoulder, or lower it if there was no threat.

  He eased the door open with his left hand. Sophia stood on the other side, her eyes dark pools in the dim light of the hall.

  “My father is here,” she murmured.

  Tristan nodded and stepped out into the hall before sheathing his sword. He was fully dressed and ready to move.

  James was not. When they knocked on his door, their husband was dead asleep, lying on his side. They had to let themselves into the tastefully decorated bedroom Sophia had assigned James yesterday. Had that only been yesterday? No, the day before.

  Sophia spoke softly and touched James’s shoulder, but got no response.

  “Let me.” Tristan took a step forward, but she waved him back.

  Sophia pulled back her hand and slapped James’s ass.

  He jerked awake, rolling onto his back and blinking furiously. Sophia let out a little laugh.

  “Ouch,” James said.

  “I’m sorry, but you wouldn’t wake up.” Sophia leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

  Why didn’t I get a kiss?

  Where had that unhelpful thought come from?

  Stop being a fucking moron, Tristan told hi
mself.

  “What time is it?” James groaned and stretched.

  “It’s nearly noon.”

  Tristan checked his watch. “It’s eleven fifty-two a.m. We have one hour and eight minutes before Greta alerts the admirals at twelve p.m. Greenwich Mean Time.” Rome was one hour ahead of the Isle of Man.

  James peered at Tristan. “One hour and eight minutes. Right.”

  “My father is here.” Sophia pulled their attention with her simple words.

  James nodded and then rubbed his face with his hands. “Give me a second.”

  Tristan bit back his impatience.

  “I have to get dressed,” Sophia said. “Meet me at my room. You know where it is, yes?”

  James pushed off the bed, grimaced, and then did a few squats. “Yes.”

  “We leave to meet with the admiral of Rome in eight minutes,” Tristan told both of them. “I need to call the admiral of England no later than eleven forty-five, English time.”

  Sophia dismissed that with a little shrug. “A half an hour to speak to my father is more than enough. We don’t want more time than that. I will need at least fifteen minutes to get ready, so we won’t be leaving in eight minutes.” Sophia turned on her heel and walked out.

  Tristan followed her. He could have stayed with James and hurried him along, but he wanted to stay with Sophia. It had been just over twelve hours since they’d landed. Since then, they’d driven from Rome back to the villa, eaten a hurried, quiet dinner, and then each gone to get some sleep.

  There’d been an awkward moment when they rose from the dinner table last night. They’d looked at one another, each clearly wondering if they should stay together, share a bed. But exhaustion had outweighed anything, and James had smiled and headed for his room, which allowed Tristan and Sophia to do the same.

  “James knows where your room is?” Tristan asked. Damn it, that was not what he’d meant to say.

  Sophia arched a single dark brow as she led Tristan up to the third floor. “He escorted me to my room.”

  Tristan looked around, taking in the elegant, expensive decor. “Of course.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  If the question had been serious, he wasn’t sure how he would have reacted. As it was, there was a teasing note. Or maybe it was hopeful.

  He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes as they started down the hall. “Should I be?”

  She shrugged in that very Italian way. “It could be interesting.”

  “Interesting?”

  “The jealous sex. It might be interesting.”

  Tristan’s body hummed to life. When they’d gone to their rooms, he’d had to slip into the shower to deal with the pent-up frustration left over from their flight. He should have taken a cold shower, but it would have woken him up too much. Instead, he’d braced one hand against the wall, closed his eyes, and jerked off to the mental image of Sophia stripping off her clothes and teasing them.

  “Interesting…” he repeated.

  Sophia put her hand on a doorknob, pushing it open while keeping her attention on him. “I like you like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “When you forget you’re a knight.”

  Tristan jerked as if he’d been shot. He snapped his gaze away from her face to the open door. He put his hand out to stop her from entering, careful not to touch her.

  He slid his sword free, his jaw tight.

  He was a knight.

  Sliding into the room, he glanced around. He hadn’t forgotten what the Domino had said—that she was meant to die too. Maybe it was something he’d said only to try to scare them.

  Or maybe the fact that the original bodies had been found less than a mile from her family’s home meant that there had originally been more planned. Perhaps when they’d headed to the Isle of Man, it had thrown off the Domino’s plans, forcing him to abandon whatever else he’d wanted to do here and go to Man.

  But then why leave the clues?

  Too many questions, not enough answers.

  Sophia’s room was beautiful. He quickly checked what was behind the two doors—a closet the size of his London flat and a spacious bathroom. Then he opened the French doors that led onto a small third-floor balcony with a wrought iron railing and view of the Italian countryside. Unlike the balcony on the second floor, this one was not connected to anything else.

  “It’s safe,” he called out.

  He kept his back to the room, staring out at the landscape. He’d nearly forgotten about the cave, about the trinity who had suffered and died. The man had watched his spouses being murdered. Watched them suffer. Had they loved one another? Triads had to support and protect one another, but they were, after all, arranged marriages. There wasn’t always love.

  Her footsteps were muted on the plush carpet, but not totally silent.

  Sophia laid her hand on his back, and Tristan couldn’t hide his reaction. His whole body shivered in response to her touch.

  “I upset you.” Now both her hands were on his back. “Can you tell me why?” She stepped closer, and he could feel the heat of her body against his back, a sharp contrast to the cool air washing over him through the balcony doors.

  “I am a knight,” he said.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I worked hard to become one. If at any time my behavior is not that of a knight, then I need to correct my behavior.”

  Sophia pressed flush against his back, wrapping her arms around his waist. She didn’t speak.

  Her touch did something to him. He relaxed, letting the point of his still-drawn sword rest against the flagstones of the balcony. “Who I was before I became a knight was not a good person.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  He snorted and laid his left hand over hers, where it rested on his waist. “I was a thug. I grew up mostly on the streets.”

  “You were homeless?”

  He wondered if she was trying to sound neutral. It wasn’t working, because he could hear the horror in her voice. “Not exactly. My mum was a junkie. She had places she stayed—never hers, always a friend’s, or a boyfriend’s. I’d sleep on the couch or the floor.”

  “When you were a child?” Now the horror was readily apparent, and she squeezed him…as if she could protect him from his past.

  “I lived with my granny until I was eleven. She was poor as dirt, lived in the east end. She cleaned houses. But my life was normal, just poor. Until she died.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Tristan tried not to think about his grandmother. She’d been a hard woman, but loving. She’d taken him when he was only an infant and raised him on her own. He’d always called her “Granny,” but he’d said it the way other children said “Mum.” When she died—heart attack while cleaning an apartment less than a mile from home—Tristan had been lost.

  He still remembered that day, as a series of painful moments. Walking home. Doing his after-school chores. Waiting for Granny. Looking at the clock. Wondering where she was. Making dinner—baked chips, which were his favorite, so he knew how to make them. Watching TV. An emotion he hadn’t known to call dread sitting heavy in his stomach. Looking out the window. Making her a plate of dinner, wrapping it in aluminum and putting it in the oven. Waiting. Worrying.

  Late that night, after he’d put himself to bed, there’d been a knock at the door. The police were there, along with a woman. He could still picture her face—Mrs. Bagler had been his caseworker from that moment until he’d turned eighteen. She’d seemed old when he met her then, but as he aged, he’d realized she must have been in her mid-twenties when they met. She was beautiful, with dark skin and curly hair. She always wore a brightly patterned head scarf, and he’d liked to guess what color she’d have on the next time he saw her.

  “What happened?” Sophia asked.

  Tristan started. Had he said all that out loud? Maybe he was more tired than he realized.

  “Mrs. Bagler did her best. She even helped my mom get custody
of me. My mom was working at the time, had her own apartment. That lasted for about a year. I started hanging out with her friend’s kids. Petty crime, vandalism. Drugs.”

  “They allowed you to stay with your mother?”

  “I wanted to stay with her. I didn’t tell Mrs. Bagler what was going on. I didn’t want to end up with strangers. She eventually figured it out, of course, and she tried to get me into programs to keep me out of trouble.”

  Sophia rubbed her cheek against his back between his shoulder blades.

  “I like to read, thanks to Granny. And Mrs. Bagler and I would sometimes meet at the library. I started reading spy novels. True crime books. I would read them and root for the criminals. When I was sixteen, I came up with a plan to steal gold from this rich bloke in Kensington.”

  “Steal gold?”

  Tristan laughed a little at himself. “I thought I was the ringleader of some criminal empire.”

  “What happened?”

  “I tried to get my friends on board. Tried to have a meeting, like they do in the movies, to talk about our heist.” Tristan shook his head. “I couldn’t get anyone to listen for five minutes. So I decided to do it alone.”

  She made a little noise of distress.

  “I broke into this house, and my plan was working perfectly. I had my stethoscope so I could listen and crack the safe. It was a Tuesday night, which was perfect, because Tuesday nights the owners always went out to dinner and their chef stayed late prepping food for them, so the interior alarms were always off. I snuck in and hid until the chef left.”

  “You did all this at sixteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Impressive.” Her hand slid across his abdomen and the muscles of his stomach rippled in response. She made a pleased noise. “You would have made a very sexy burglar.”

  He wanted to turn around and kiss her, taste that feminine power and pleasure. Instead, he decided to finish the story. She needed to know who he really was.

  “I, uh, made it upstairs, and that’s when I heard it.”

  Her hands stopped moving. “Heard what?”

  “A drumming sound, then a sound like someone gagging. I should have turned around and run, but instead I headed for the sound. It was a bedroom, with a massive bed. The biggest bed I’d ever seen. There was a man lying on the floor beside the bed. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and he was shaking, hitting the floor with his heels.”