Dark Moons Rising

by Nia Farrell

  His thumb traced her lower lip. She looked at his mouth. So very serious. And his blue eyes. Deep and mysterious, indeed. With his humor hidden for the moment, the look on his face was riveting.

  Thorne blew out softly. “Deidra, do you know what you are asking? You know what we are.”

  “Aye,” she said. “But I also know that Mordred would rob me of light. Eventually, he and his men would drain me. He cares nothing for my needs. He lusts for power and covets mine. He was waiting to mark me, hoping that, with training, I would be more open to him. If I shielded myself when he set his seal upon me, he would never draw more, at any other time, than at that moment.”

  Deidra looked from Thorne to Ragan. “I do not know what stories you have heard, but the words I speak are the truth, I swear by the goddess. I am a child of Sola, a daughter of light. It is our nature to help and to heal, but what we give must be renewed, by bathing in the rays of Sola or by drinking spring water charged with her light. Marking,” she said, “is best done over the heart center, when a willing woman, radiant with Sola’s lifeforce, is at the peak of power and of passion. My light has waned with the stress of the day, but I swear, I will give it freely, to you and your brother, if you will safekeep me from all others.”

  Ragan studied her, considering. “You would share your light? And our bed?”

  Deidra nodded. Better their slave than Mordred’s.

  “Words,” growled Thorne. “We need to hear it from your lips.”

  “I will share,” she whispered. “My light and your bed. This I promise you. Will you accept my offer, and pledge your protection in return?”

  “Aye,” said Ragan, his voice thick with desire.

  Thorne nodded his assent. “You have my word as well.”

  Deidra released her breath and tendered a soft, sad smile. “My lords, I regret to say, the marking should wait until the morrow, when I’m back in full power. There’s no time for a custom piece, but I’m certain we shall find something that will work. Two somethings. I have been told, in such circumstances, it is intent that matters most.”

  Ragan touched the furrowed line between her brows and tsked. “Cease your worry, dove. We have seals.”

  Normally used for imprinting hot wax on missives, the personal sigils could be heated on a brazier for service as brands, creating the marks that would forever bind them. There would be pain, of course, but the worst would be over in a moment. She reckoned it a small enough price to pay, to be joined to males such as these.

  Deidra paused as a vision of their future flashed before her mind’s eye. She was destined to grow old with these two brothers. Their blood and hers would be joined in their children, and their children’s children, creating a legacy that would survive them all, praise the goddess.

  “You will need to bind me and set your marks at the same time, front and back, over my heart center. I wish it could be tonight,” she said regretfully. “The sooner the deed is done, the safer I am. Your seals will serve as talismans. While I wear them, Mordred cannot take light from me without your permission, freely given, so long as one of you yet lives.”

  Thorne studied her, concern etched in the lines of his handsome face. “If we do this…if you share our bed…” He sighed softly. Shaking his dark shaggy head, he crooked a smile and laughed at himself. “If. If. If. By the rood, I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he confessed, noble intentions clearly warring with his man’s desire. “Last chance, Deidra. If you let us love you tonight and mark you tomorrow, there’s no going back. Think carefully, daughter of light. Are you certain this is what you want?”

  Ragan caught her hand. The kiss he pressed against her palm threatened to buckle her knees. “Stay with us,” he whispered. “Say yes, and we will make you ours, in all ways.”

  Ours. A shiver ran through her at the thought of their possession.

  Lust flared in Thorne’s eyes, and Ragan moved to step in close behind her, his scent of home and hearth – wood smoke, gall ink, parchment, and pears – complementing his outdoorsman brother’s. Between the two, she felt sheltered, surrounded, safe.

  Sanctuary.

  Looking from one brother to the other, she answered, “Yes, Thorne. I want this. Yes, Ragan. I will stay.” She assumed a standing presentation pose but kept her gaze on them, her lips curved in a smile that nearly outshone theirs. “Now that that’s settled,” she said, “what would please you, my lords?”

  Chapter Three

  Ragan took command. “First things first,” he told Thorne. “Food. Drink. A nice, hot bath, to start. I’ll have Lot ready the tub in my room. Merta set leftovers on the kitchen hearth, should you fail to come back with game.” Ragan paused to look at her, studying her with a discerning eye. His eyes darkened, full of secrets, and his nostrils flared, as if he could smell the scent of her arousal. He tapped the cleft in his clean-shaven chin. Sighing with regret, he told his brother, “Eventually she’ll need clothes.”

  At that, both men seemed to undress her with their eyes. The thought of being between them, naked, caused her breath to seize in her chest.

  Ragan chuckled when she flared. “I think she likes the idea, brother. I confess, as much as I wanted to win our bet that you’d come back empty-handed, I am exceedingly glad you didn’t. Come, little dove. Thorne was supposed to bring home food. He can fetch enough for you both. Thorne?”

  It was less of a question than a command. Ragan settled himself in the heavy, leather-clad arm chair at the end of the table. Deidra followed two steps behind and sank gracefully to the floor, kneeling on the cushion he plucked along the way and placed at his feet. Falling into companionable silence, Ragan was content to play with her silken hair until Thorne returned with two trenchers piled with food, a bottle of wine, two table prongs, and a pair of chaised metal goblets.

  Deidra bit her lip, embarrassed when her stomach growled loud enough to be heard across the room.

  Both men chuckled. “Here, dove.” Ragan skewered a tender piece of roasted meat and held it to her lips. She took it carefully from the sharp points of the prong and chewed well before swallowing. If asked, she would have proclaimed it as good as anything from Ravenhill’s kitchen.

  “Drink.” Ragan sipped first, then lowered his goblet. Deidra forced herself to drink the wine slowly, grateful to take the edge off her thirst but careful to pace herself. Thanks to a lifetime of endless feasts in countless banquet halls, she well knew how much she could handle before her senses were muddled.

  The trenchers were piled with cuts of meat, chunks of cooked vegetables, and thick, crusty bread whose texture was perfect for wicking the tasty broth. Thorne wolfed down his meal and refilled his cup. Leaning back in his chair, he watched Ragan feed her until she pleaded for him to stop. “Please, my lord! No more, I beg you!”

  Ragan set down the bit of bread he was poised to sop. “Very well. Come, then. Let’s get you clean.”

  Pushing away from the table, Ragan rose from his chair and headed for the stairs. Deidre followed, with Thorne close behind. Passing four closed doors, they entered the room at the far end of the hall.

  The master chamber spanned the east side of the lodge and contained a sitting area, a writing desk and chair, wardrobes, chests, and a massive bed. Four pillars rose from its corners, supporting the framed canopy and curtains that could be pulled, either for warmth in the winter or for privacy, if the chamber was shared. The room was well lit, with wall sconces ablaze in addition to a dozen or more candles scattered about the room. Hunting tapestries warmed the thick stone walls, creating a distinctly masculine retreat that begged for a woman’s touch. A steaming tub large enough for all of them sat before the hearth, where an intimate fire blazed with tongues of heat and licks of light and scented the air with the fragrance of fruited wood.

  While Ragan checked the temperature of the water, Thorne handed her a long leather lace. “Here. To keep your hair dry while you bathe.”

  Remembering her training, Deidra parted her hair in three
sections and braided it. Tying it near the end, she coiled her braid into a knot at the back of her head and bound it with the remaining length of lace.

  She toed off her slippers, untied her garters, and peeled off her stockings, setting them in a neat pile on the floor. Loosening her bodice, she pulled off the tattered remnants of her dress. The thin shift she wore beneath left little to the imagination.

  “Nice. Very nice.” Thorne ran a finger along the gathered neckline, found the bow in the center front, and pulled on the ribbon. The neckline widened, falling off her shoulders and catching on her breasts before drifting to pool at her feet. Blushing profusely enough to glow pink, she stepped free of her clothing. Two sets of appreciative eyes made her acutely aware of her nakedness when she took Ragan’s proffered hand and allowed him to help her climb into the bathing tub.

  “Coming?” Thorne asked Ragan as he clubbed his hair and started stripping, shedding and tossing aside his jerkin, boots, stockings, trousers, and shirt, revealing a body that must surely rival any of the gods, a living sculpture carved of muscle and sinew. His engorged manhood was huge, rising rampant against the trail of dark hair that narrowed below his lightly furred chest and ended in the thatch at his groin. His heavy testicles swung as he stepped in the steaming water and settled himself across from her – the better to watch, she supposed.

  Ragan remained where he was, standing behind her. “I’m clean.” He leaned over, handing her a sponge and a bar of soap, scented sweet and mild, like a hint of honeyflower carried on the summer breeze. “Though you’d never know it, if you could read my mind, little dove. So many dirty thoughts and naughty words, and all of them for you.”

  Deidra shivered and soaped her sponge, welcoming the distraction. Across from her, Thorne used a different cake of soap, no doubt utilitarian in nature, something practical for cleaning a hunter’s dirt and grime. He wielded a square of rough-woven cloth, scrubbing himself from his forehead down while she did the same.

  Her body seemed super sensitive, and every response was heightened. Her breasts ached with unknown longing. When she ran the sponge across her chest, her nipples tightened until the ruched tips drew into hard, pebbled nubs. She dragged the sponge down her arms, ribs, and belly. She could feel – actually feel – their eyes upon her when she took the bar of soap, worked it into a rich, fragrant lather, then slid the sponge down to clean her nether parts, which were swollen to the point of throbbing.

  Bending a knee to her shoulder, she lifted each leg to bathe them, one at a time, wielding the sponge with a care for her wounds. None of the scratches were deep, but she had no wish to reopen them.

  “We have ointment,” Ragan murmured against her ear, his breath caressing her skin. “I had Lot bring it earlier. Come, dove. You’re clean enough.”

  He held out a towel. Woven large enough for one of the brothers, it wrapped around her like a sheet. While Thorne dried himself, it pleased Ragan to attend her, using the corners of the towel to wick beads of moisture from her face, neck, shoulders, and arms. He dried her breasts, paying particular attention to their pastel pink tips, smiling when he pinched a nipple and elicited a gasp. Moving behind her, Ragan continued his ministrations while allowing his brother an unobstructed view.

  Even with the towel and his clothing between them, Deidra could count every hard inch of steely flesh that Ragan pressed against her back, letting her feel the strength of his desire. His breath grew deeper, harsher as his hands forsook the towel and freed her knot of hair, allowing her braid to trail down her spine. He pulled on its length, testing, at the same time he slid a hand to her front and stroked downward to press it, splayed, across her belly. His other fingers abandoned her braid to explore the triangular patch of soft, short curls at the juncture of her thighs. He threaded through them and stroked her seam, coaxing moisture from her folds, discovering her pearl of pleasure and teasing it with his thumb.

  Thorne dropped his towel and stepped closer, wedging her between them. Cupping her face with his large, callused hands, he bent his head and kissed her. His lips were warm, firm yet pliant, molding to hers as if they were made for each other. He caught her bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, sucking on it briefly before slanting his mouth across hers and claiming it with fierce possession. He parted her lips with his own, insistent, his tongue delving into her mouth to tangle with hers and mate with it, stroking it in a way that blatantly imitated lovemaking. He slid one hand down, dragging the backs of two fingers along the line of her neck and across the span of her collarbone. Tracing her feminine curves, he twisted his wrist and cupped her left breast, lifting its weight then spreading his fingers to knead and mold her flesh like a master potter worked clay, keeping the hardened peak pressed against the center of his palm.

  She moaned into his mouth. Her legs threatened to buckle when Ragan bit the back of her neck and plunged his fingers deeper, testing her responses. One large finger worked its way into her inner sanctum and advanced, inch by inch, until he was knuckle-deep in her quim. He withdrew, then pushed in again, curling it, stroking a place inside that made her thighs clench and her knees grow weak.

  “Oh, goddess!” she cried when the urgency grew. She pushed her hips forward, pressing against Ragan’s hand, desperately seeking relief from his exquisite torment. Thorne tugged on her nipples, catching them between thumbs and forefingers with a pinch and a sharp, pulling twist felt all the way to her womb. She stiffened and cried out with her climax, grinding against Ragan’s fingers as the well of her womanhood overflowed.

  “Bed,” Ragan ordered gruffly. His one hand glowed faintly as he pulled free of her folds, the light fading as Sola’s gift was absorbed through his skin.

  Thorne broke off their kiss and led the way, turning down the covers. When her knees threatened to buckle, Ragan swept her up and carried her to the bed, kneeling on the edge so that he could place her in the center. She lay, boneless, wordless, awed by the power of her release.

  Thorne stood beside the bed, stroking his length, his large fingers twisting at the end of each pull. If anything, he was bigger, harder than she remembered. A thick-veined column of man’s flesh rose proudly, its nine-inch length crowned by a bulbous, purple-red head that reminded her of a ripe, luscious tarin. A drop of man juice glistened like dew, beaded in the slit at the tip.

  His gaze swept up the length of her body to fasten on her mouth. Deidra wet her lips in silent invitation. Growling, he fisted himself and climbed on the bed to kneel by her head, thighs spread so that when she turned her head, she could nuzzle his hair-dusted sac with her nose. She inhaled the fresh, clean manly scent of him and drew each fleshy stone into her mouth, gently sucking and tonguing them as she had been shown.

  Thorne groaned his pleasure. His breath hissed between his teeth when she angled her head and fastened her mouth on the sensitive spot at the base of his shaft, paying it homage before continuing her pilgrimage northward to the next station, the v beneath the head of his cock. This, she tongued to his delight, teasing his trigger, then tracing the rim. Kissing the crown, she opened wide and held her head still as he pushed his manhood into the welcoming warmth of her mouth.

  All this time, she was conscious of Ragan watching, divesting himself of clothes in a manner that bespoke both patience and control. He was a man attentive to details, folding each piece and laying it carefully aside before tackling the next. She wanted to look at him, but with Thorne commanding her attention, she could do no more than briefly meet Ragan’s eyes, part her legs, and extend a hand, inviting him to join them.

  Chapter Four

  Two large hands urged her knees further apart and moved upward, thumbs blazing a path up the inside of her legs while callused fingers slid along the tops of her thighs, stroking their length from bottom to top. The next thing Deidra expected to feel was the head of Ragan’s cock, poised to invade and conquer. Instead, she experienced the warmth of his breath, the press of his lips, the touch of deft fingers that parted her folds, the lick that
traced her down and back, tasting, delving, promising infinite pleasure. Then the scrape of teeth and the press of his tongue against her pearl, swollen in its setting and already sensitive beyond bearing when Ragan covered it with his mouth, joining them together with sweet, searing suction.

  It was her turn to moan, a hum that vibrated around the thickness of Thorne’s rod and inspired a similar response in him. Thorne caught her braid and wrapped it around his hand until his firm grip straddled the fine edge between pleasure and pain. He rocked his hips, thrusting his cock as deep into her throat as this angle would let him. Adjusting her pose with a twist of her torso, she rose on one elbow to better align her neck and drew a fingernail along the hair-dusted skin of his underside. Feeling him shudder, she wondered if he was the type of man who welcomed play with his dark rose, but she knew better than to pluck it without an invitation.

  None came, and she focused on the feel of his cock in her mouth, hollowing her cheeks as Thorne fucked her face with increasing passion. Lower, Ragan had added fingers to his mix, one digit, then two, opening the virginal passage to her womanhood, preparing her for possession. His fingers curled, pressing, at the same time Thorne thrust deep into her throat and held himself there. Robbed of breath, she clutched the muscled trunk of his leg while her own thighs clamped around Ragan’s head. A moment later, his mouth and fingers brought her to fruition.

  She exploded against Ragan’s tongue and he drank her light, absorbing her essence into his being. Thorne withdrew for the length of a breath, then shoved his erection back in, rubbing against her tongue as hot streams of semen erupted, spewing down her throat. She swallowed as fast and as much as she could, but even then, some escaped the corner of her mouth.