by Nicole René
“No,” she shook her head, jerking on her wrists at the same time that she tried to move her lower half away from him. “No!”
His only answer was gripping her cheeks with so much strength that she was sure he would leave fingerprints, and spreading them wide.
“Tyronian!” she half sobbed, half moaned.
Something wet pressed against her puckered hole, the sensation so foreign, it shouldn’t have felt good. Her body jackknifed.
“This isn’t right,” she gasped, tears pricking the corner of her eyes. “This isn’t right!”
But it felt right; she hated that it was making her feel good. He was licking her like he licked her cunt, and though the sensation felt odd, she could feel her womb contract, the familiar tightness and almost violent pull in her stomach warning her that she was close to climax.
He moved his lips away only long enough for him to murmur, “I’m going to make you come like this. With my tongue shoved into this tight, untouched hole, just so that I can watch as your essence pours out of you and slides down between these cheeks. Then, I’m going to lick it all up and make you do it again.”
She shrieked when he kept true to his word. His tongue brushed across her other opening and pushed against the puckered skin. He probed, and licked, and sucked.
It was shameful, because though odd, it felt good. But that changed when he inserted a finger inside of her channel while his tongue continued to work against her rim.
It went from merely feeling good, to exceptional. Before she could think for long enough to feel ashamed at how pleasurable this was for her, or even breathe, she splintered into tiny pieces with the power of her orgasm.
She blinked, still dazed from the effect of her release, when she realized how Tyronian had used his grip on her ass to push her butt higher, spreading her wide. With a start, she realized what he was looking at because she could feel it.
Her release was sliding down her inner thighs to exactly where he wanted it to go.
Namoriee stopped trying to stifle her cries, but she wasn’t screaming with pleasure the way he wanted her to. She was sweaty, wisps of hair pressed against her brow, and her chest glittered like misty grass.
He had made her come, and he watched as she started to become aware, her glazed eyes slowly coming into focus until they landed on him. He was standing at the foot of the bed, having left her to take off his pants. He hissed when he gripped his engorged cock, fisting it once. Her eyes followed his hand, and her breathing became uneven again. His cock was jutting straight out. The broad head flared red as it wept its need to be inside of her.
“If I didn’t love having you helpless and at my mercy, I would rid you of your bonds. I can think of a few things your hands could do,” he told her in a voice that he hardly recognized, it was so raspy.
He went back to her and settled between the apex of her thighs. Her hips shifted, either to move away or get closer, he didn’t know which. But he didn’t give her a chance to pull away.
He rubbed his shaft up and down her slit to make it wet before he gripped her underneath her bottom, lifting her to reach his thrust. He slid inside of her tight heat, and she moaned at the sudden intrusion.
He was too ramped up.
He positioned into her with sure thrusts, keeping her body angled in the way that he knew touched the most sensitive part inside of her. He wasn’t going to last long this first round, but he wanted to get her to scream before he came.
“Let go, my sweet,” he panted into her ear. The sound of their flesh joining echoed around them; it was turning him on as much as her whimpers and moans were. Her hands were still held above her head. Her breasts bounced with the rapid pace of his hips, drawing his attention there. He could already see his marks darkening her tanned skin.
He could feel her womb start to clench his member, and he groaned at the feeling.
“I can feel myself stretching you,” he growled. “It makes me want to roar with triumph because I’m the only one who’s been inside of you.” He faltered for just the amount of time it took him to change his angle, pressing into her harder, deeper.
She cried out, her legs wrapped tight around his waist and squeezing.
“Does it hurt?” he groaned, knowing that it had to, but he wanted to hear her say it. “Does it, my sweet?”
“Yes!” she wailed, her eyes squeezed shut in discomfort while her mouth parted in pleasure.
“And why is that?”
“Because,” she arched her neck, shuddering.
“Because why?” he whispered, nipping her earlobe. He needed to hear her say it. “Namoriee, why does it hurt?”
“Because you’re stretching me,” she finally relented on a whimper. He grinned, something darkly sensuous overcoming him. He reached up, gripping her bound wrists with one hand while the other reached down between them until he could feel her wetness.
“Time to start screaming,” ordered. Then he pressed down on the ball of nerves at the same time he sped up the tempo of his thrusts.
He became unaware of his surroundings, his sole focus on his wife’s face as it changed with the extent of her pleasure and pinches of pain. Her brows drew forward and she bit her lip, her nails digging into the thick leather holding her captive.
It could have been minutes, days, months, but he didn’t stop. Even when he spent himself inside of her and she came around him, he kept going until his arms were shaking, threatening to give out on him. Their bodies were slick with sweat, beads of it pooling on each inch of their skin, making the sheets grow damp beneath them.
Her whimpers became moans, her moans became cries, and her cries became pleas. She was almost incoherent with what she was saying, and damn if it didn’t turn him on.
But, finally, she gave him what he wanted.
She screamed.
She screamed his name, she screamed with her pleasure, and she screamed with her release.
He finally took mercy on her when he pulled out of her liquid heat so that he could come all over her stomach and parts of her breasts. He could only think one thing: he wasn’t just obsessed with Namoriee.
He was in love with her too.
“You’re disgusting,” a twenty-three-year-old Tyronian grumbled. Tristan laughed, and the sound almost made him grin. They used to laugh all the time in their youth, but things changed when Xavier became chief. His cousin and best friend grew more withdrawn; their laugher was a rare sound to behold nowadays.
“What?” Tristan asked, still chortling. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done it.”
“There’s a difference between ramming your cock into a whore’s ass, and pleasing it.”
Tristan scoffed. “I’m not interested in pleasing them. I take what I want, when and how I want it. What are whores for if not to use them as I see fit?”
No matter how many times Tristan denied it, there were times when he was scarily similar to his brother. While neither ever had any trouble getting women, Tristan was by far the one who frequented the pleasure found between the thighs of a woman the most. There were times where Tyronian and Tristan had shared the same woman between them concurrently, a system that worked. Tristan was rough, almost brutal, using them as he saw fit, while Tyronian was there, giving them the attention they lacked, enticing them to endure until they were both done.
Tristan was pain, while he was pleasure. It was enough for him . . . until it wasn’t.
“You’re a god, Tristan,” Tyronian mumbled, his tone bitter even to his ears. “All shall bow before you and your cock-of-pain.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Tristan scowled. “Have you not had your dick sucked lately or what? You’re a right bastard these days.”
He’d like to deny it, but he had a strong feeling it was true. He didn’t know why he was so irritable these days. Even Xavier had given him an odd look when he snapped at Samanthia for dropping his cup when she went to refill it a few nights ago. It was an accident, one that usually wouldn’t even give him the s
lightest pause, but it did that night.
“Not all of us consider that a priority, cousin.”
Though, it probably wasn’t a bad idea. He couldn’t remember the last time he had bedded a woman. Maybe that did explain why he was so high-strung.
“Or is your mood perhaps pertaining to the young mute girl Hunt’yr has set his eyes to claim?”
It was a bastard move, and Tristan knew it because with just that one sentence, Tyronian became high-alert with the unwitting anger that coursed through him. His cousin’s expression was smug when Tyronian grabbed his forearm and slung him in front of him.
“What are you going on about?” he demanded.
Tristan’s eyes danced with humor. “Hunt’yr is claiming Namoriee. He’s been scoping her out for weeks, helping her do her chores and escorting her to and fro. He’s become her little guard dog.”
Tristan’s humor seemed to grow with the same speed as Tyronian’s anger, until he was practically vibrating with glee.
“He plans to kiss her tonight, at sundown. Which would be about, oh, I don’t know . . .” Tristan pretended to ponder it, a grin stretching across his face. “Now.”
Tyronian wasn’t even aware that he’d let Tristan go, or of his cousin’s laughter behind him, or his feet stomping in the direction of the path that he knew so well. All he knew was anger—hot, teeth-grinding, anger. It was a reaction that he had no right to. In fact, it was wrong to be feeling this way over a girl who wasn’t nearly close to being a woman yet, to be angry at the fact that a puny sixteen-wintered boy had the audacity to think that Namoriee could be his. That he had the right to kiss her.
But he was. He was furious, a feeling that doubled when he saw Hunt’yr a few paces ahead of him, traveling the same destination that he was heading.
With a savage growl, Tyronian spun him around by the shoulder. He had his hand wrapped around Hunt’yr’s throat before he could even blink.
“Tyroni—” Hunt’yr choked on his words when Tyronian squeezed.
“I’ve been hearing things as of late,” he bit out through gritted teeth. “Things that I don’t like to hear. Not. One. Bit.”
Hunt’yr was valiantly trying to struggle against his hold, and if Tyronian wasn’t so enraged, he might have felt sorry for him because of how pathetic he looked.
But it was just another reminder of how unworthy Hunt’yr was.
“I’m going to make myself real clear here,” Tyronian said, his expression unrelenting. “You don’t look at her, you don’t talk to her, and you most certainly don’t kiss her.”
“I . . . I . . . don’t—”
“Listen to me, you little maggot,” Tyronian snarled, cutting off his pathetic attempt at innocence. “From now on, she doesn’t even exist for you.”
Hunt’yr’s face paled, and Tyronian knew his smile was all teeth when he pulled him in closer so that he could see the white of Hunt’yr’s eyes when he delivered the severity of his demands.
“If I ever find out you even thought about her, or catch you snooping around Namoriee again, I’ll slit your throat. You got me?”
He was surprised Hunt’yr’s neck didn’t snap with how fast he nodded.
“Glad we came to an agreement,” Tyronian beamed, releasing his throat and stepping back. He watched with contempt when Hunt’yr fell, not even able to catch himself in time and land on his feet.
Tyronian turned to leave, taking a step before he paused, then twisted around to face Hunt’yr.
“Oh, I almost forgot!”
With quick efficiency, he grabbed Hunt’yr’s wrist and jerked it to the side at the same time his foot came up, and he stomped down on his arm.
The satisfying crack of Hunt’yr’s bone and the shrill scream he let out when his arm broke met Tyronian’s ears and left him in high spirits for the rest of the day.
It might have been barbaric, but it got his point across. Hunt’yr left Namoriee alone from that day on. He should have felt guilty that Hunt’yr’s cold shoulder made Namoriee’s face fall whenever he would practically run the other way at the sight of her, but he didn’t.
Because deep down inside of him, he knew that the only lips she would kiss were his.
He’d make sure of it.
During the next few months, Namoriee and Tyronian followed a routine. Each morning, Namoriee would go to Leawyn’s hut and help her and Xillik get ready for the day. Tyronian would spend his days either on the training grounds with the boys who were victorious during the Warrior Choosing, or performing the duties that Xavier was unable to attend himself.
They had spent weeks away from the village, and upon returning she was sworn to secrecy about what she saw. She had scowled when Tyronian teased her, saying how she wasn’t very good at keeping her sworn vows of silence, but he believed in her. Namoriee likewise had stuck to her word and made a conscious effort to give their marriage a chance.
Though she still found herself uncomfortable, even she could admit that marriage to Tyronian hadn’t been as bad as she feared.
But . . . there was always that dark cloud of doubt over her head that one day the rain would drop and he’d realize that she was right. But most of all, she felt as if she never should have kept her promise to Tyronian.
It was a blaringly hot day. The sun was high, the rays dangerous in their strength, scorching the skin of the Izayges inhabitants. It was the kind of heat that was still and heavy, not a breeze to be had to give even a little bit of respite. Namoriee wiped the sweat that beaded across her brow, waving a hand in front of her face to try and cool her damp skin.
“It’s so hot! Are you sure you’re okay?” Namoriee asked, shooting a worried look to Leawyn, who was sitting under the only tree that offered shade.
They were in the practice area, watching their husbands train their respective troops—Xavier with the men, Tyronian with the boys. Tyronian had asked Leawyn to come down if she was feeling well enough to help with the bow and arrow weapon training.
By now, Leawyn’s skill with the bow was renowned after the war, her marksmanship equal, if not better, to her husband’s skill.
“Yes, I’m fine. It shouldn’t be long now. Tyronian is already dividing the group up. I can’t imagine he’ll have them train for much longer.”
Namoriee followed her gaze, and sure enough, Tyronian sent over a group of fifteen boys, all varying in age. Since they weren’t official warriors yet, they didn’t get the honor of wearing the Izayges armor, and instead dressed in plain leather chest plates and breeches. Most had their training swords strapped to their hip, while others who were more confident in their skill had them strapped over their back. Each held their bow and quiver.
“They look so serious,” Namoriee quipped.
“It’s easy to forget that they’re not just children anymore.”
Leawyn was right. Although there were boys who were only at the tender age of ten winters, they weren’t children. Their childhood died the moment they were chosen as recruits. They were warriors training to be the best, and by the time they reached their sixteenth winter, they will have slain their first man. Namoriee looked at Castic, who was one of the trainees and someone she knew Leawyn had a soft spot for.
He was only thirteen, but from what Tyronian told her, he was one of their better recruits. He showed great promise as a warrior, and he could be one of the few who would take the Prova Sinavi early.
The Prova Sinavi was the last test to pass for trainees to become full-fledged warriors of the tribe. Sent into the wild for days, they were to hunt the prisoner that their tribe had set free and bring them back as their own prisoner. Upon returning, they would have to decapitate their burden in front of the entire village.
Equipped with only a rope, they would be responsible for creating their own weapons and catching their own food. It was the hardest of tests, and only the strongest survived. The shame of returning as a failure was great, and if they did, they would never be allowed to be a warrior.
If Castic
was chosen, would he survive? It was a sobering thought.
Namoriee looked over to Leawyn, taking her in as she started to divide the boys into two groups. Namoriee knew enough on how to shoot to assist the beginners, while Leawyn focused on the advanced group. And judging by the first arrow shot in Namoriee’s group, it was going to be a long day for her.
“Good!” Namoriee beamed when Kono, a boy of twelve winters with a face full of freckles, hit the middle ring of the target. It was the closest he’d gotten to the bull’s-eye.
“Very good, Kono!”
Kono’s smile was full of pride before he seemed to remember that he was surrounded by his friends, and his smile dropped. Namoriee smothered her laugh when he settled on giving her a nod and began practicing again.
She continued down the line until a shout caught her attention.
“Fight! Fight!”
Namoriee rushed over to where the chant originated, the boys circling around something.
“Boys! Stop it right now!”
She picked up her pace, hearing Leawyn’s demand. She was standing outside of the ring, an angry scowl on her face. There were two forms grappling on the ground, trying to trade blows with each other.
It was Castic and Karneer.
No way would Namoriee or Leawyn be able to break them up. In perfect timing, Tyronian pushed through the crowd before she could call for him and pulled Castic off of the other boy.
“Enough!” he barked, yanking Castic back when he went to lunge for Karneer again. He looked around, noticing the attention the fight gained.
“Alright, that’s enough! We’re done for today.” No one moved.
“Move!” Tyronian boomed, and like magic, the crowd was suddenly gone, dispersing with the chaos of a beehive.
“Not you,” Leawyn growled, yanking Castic back by the neck of his shirt when he motioned to leave. “You’re staying right here.”
