Dark Moons Rising

by Nia Farrell

  Thorne released her hair and sat back on his haunches, a satiated smile on his handsome face as she wiped the drip and licked her finger clean. The eroticism of the act was not lost on her when, amazingly, she saw that his half-hard cock was already stirring, readying for a second round.

  “Thank you, my lord.” When she whispered the traditional response for the gift of a man’s seed and the sharing of his lifeforce, she realized that she truly meant it.

  Thorne smiled his pleasure and turned to meet Ragan’s gaze in the kind of silent conversation exchanged by twins, or brothers who seemed as close as twoborns. Thorne had given her his essence, and Ragan had received hers. Either one of them was a young woman’s dream, the perfect kind of lover to end her innocence, but the two of them would have to decide who would take her first. There was no way she could choose. Thorne, with his gentle humor, who’d found her, or Ragan, clearly the elder brother and lord here, his broad shoulders easily bearing the mantle of responsibility for all those in his care, including her.

  Ragan left them briefly, returning with a jar of ointment. He treated the scratches on her legs, then dipped two fingers into the jar and pulled out a generous portion. Part went between her legs, adding to the moisture already pooling. The rest, he spread on the tip of his erection. Getting her first real look at it, she understood why.

  Thorne was huge, but Ragan was gigantic, easily ten inches long with a girth to match. If not for her training, she was certain she would have swooned.

  Deidra bit her lower lip and watched his preparations. “Hands above your head,” Ragan ordered. She thought Thorne might bind them, but he caught her wrists instead and held them firmly in his grasp.

  “Relax as best you can, love,” Thorne murmured, kissing her forehead. “Just close your eyes and think of me.”

  Ragan growled and cast a black look at his brother. “Shut the fuck up, Thorne. Don’t listen to him, Deidra – except for the relaxing part.”

  She smiled, struggling not to giggle. Here she was, pinned by one man to a bed of another she’d met not three hours past, who was about to take her virginity, and he and his brother were bickering like schoolboys. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, looked at Ragan, and promptly burst out laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “But you two…”

  “Yes. Quite a pair, are we not?” Rather than be offended, Ragan seemed glad to see her so at ease with them. “For better or worse, we are yours, little dove. Now relax. That’s it. That’s right. Perfect. Just breathe. Breathe. And keep your eyes on me, dove. Once we get past the pain, I swear to you, I shall make you fly.”

  Ragan spread her knees with his own and settled himself between them, bracing on one forearm to keep most of his weight off her while he stroked her with the tip of his cock, parting her nether lips. Finding her wellspring, he poised on its edge. A second later, he pushed his cockhead inside her, stretching her opening, giving her body time to adjust before pressing on.

  “Fuck,” he hissed between his clenched teeth, struggling to maintain control. “You’re tight. So fucking tight. Hold on.”

  He flexed his hips and plunged into her, deep enough to rob her of breath and obliterate the membrane that guarded her secrets. He paused there, partway in, partway out, with half of his length gripped by her tight passage.

  Thorne kissed her tears. “That’s the worst of it, dearling. It gets better, I swear. Better and better. Breathe, Deidra.”

  “I’m…trying,” she panted. “Dear Goddess. But it’s hard, with a monster cock shoved in me.”

  Ragan’s dark smile broke through the intensity shaping his face, transforming it like a blessed ray of sunshine emerging from the clouds. “Monster cock?” Grinning, he flexed his hips and gave her an inch more of it. “No, dove. The monsters are out there. In this bed there are just two dark lords. A sizable challenge, to be sure, but nothing you can’t handle, I promise. Now, ready or not, here I come.”

  She barely had time to draw a breath when Ragan shoved himself inside, claiming her more fully, driving deeper, deeper, each thrust of his hips taking him closer and closer to the mouth of her womb. He did not stop until he reached it, pausing only when the length of him was buried in her depths to his root and his sac rested against her bottom.

  Bowing his head, he kissed the freshest tears from her cheeks and flexed his back, arching into her and hitting bottom once more in a move that elicited both pleasure and pain. When Deidra mewled, Ragan brought her knees together, bringing his to the outside and bracketing her legs with his. The position made her quim even tighter, but it kept his strokes shallower, allowing her to relax the tension she’d unwittingly held and enabling her to truly enjoy his possession.

  “Better, little dove?” he asked when he’d reestablished his rhythm.

  Deidra looked up at him and offered a shy smile. “Aye, milord.” And it was. The pain of her deflowering was nearly a distant memory, replaced with new sensations as his meaty girth stroked her, inside and out. After long, delightful minutes, Ragan spread her legs once more, but this time he settled back on his heels and lifted her hips to continue where they’d left off. He reintroduced himself with shallow strokes, his movements building in depth, strength, and speed while her body welcomed his. This new position gave Thorne the room he needed to join them, making use of her mouth once more.

  He pumped above; Ragan pumped below, both men using her, filling her, coaxing her most intimate response. Thorne fisted her hair in one hand and squeezed her breast with his other, catching her nipple between his fingers, pinching, tugging, pulling, twisting its elongated length. “These would be perfect to pierce,” he told Ragan. “Two rings, with rows of fine chains hanging between them. Can’t you see it?”

  Deidra’s body clenched at the thought. Feeling it, Ragan chuckled and slammed into her at the same time his fingers found her sensitive button of flesh and pressed it, setting off fireworks that threatened to consume her. The tension built, then broke, and she was flying, flying, soaring as Ragan’s massive cock and magic fingers brought her to peak after peak of pleasure. As she came down from the last one, she realized that Ragan was moving again, this time turning them both so that he lay on the bed, still joined with her atop him.

  Thorne had the ointment jar.

  There was no hiding the gooseflesh that dimpled her arms, or the tremor that started in her core and spread outward. Ragan lifted her face and bade her look at him. “You are trained for this, are you not?” He punctuated his question with a raised brow and an upward thrust.

  “Yes. No. My lord,” she breathed, “I escaped before my training was complete. I’ve just worn beginner’s plugs, singles in my dark rose only. I had not yet worked up to the twins, but I want to please you. With care, I believe I can pleasure you both. May I try, Sire?”

  Ragan slid his hand behind her neck and drew down her head for a kiss that possessed her as surely as his manhood had claimed her maidenhead. He tasted like fine wine, full bodied and inviting, so delicious, he nearly succeeded in distracting her from what Thorne was doing.

  Thorne settled himself between their spread legs and parted her nether cheeks. She felt the cool slather of ointment, then the press of a finger against her rose before she allowed it to slip inside. He worked it deeper, then added another, urging her to blossom, plumbing her depths in time to Ragan’s gentle thrusts.

  “By the rood, she’s tight. So. Fucking. Tight.” Thorne set the jar on a nearby table and wiped his hand on the washing cloth, still damp from their bath. He looked at his cock, its impressive length shiny with lubrication, and slathered another layer of ointment on the first two inches before climbing back onto the bed.

  Beneath her, Ragan stilled. Deidra held her breath, obeying the press of Thorne’s hand on her back, urging her to flatten it. Pushed against Ragan’s chest, she nuzzled his mat of black hair and kissed his teat, catching it between her teeth and teasing it with quick flicks of her tongue. She linked right and left pe
aks with a line of kisses, lashing the other hard tip with her tongue before fastening her mouth over it and suckling.

  “Fuck.” Ragan’s breath hissed between his teeth, and she swore she felt his manhood swell inside her. He cupped the back of her head and held it in place, whispering all manners of darkly erotic and exotic things he planned to do with her. Meanwhile, Thorne spread her crevice with one hand and positioned himself with the other, tapping his shaft against her crack as he might knock on a door to ask entry. When the crown of his manhood touched the pucker of her most intimate opening, she curled her fingers in the fine linen sheets and braced herself for his invasion.

  “Breathe, dove.”

  Deidra needed Ragan’s reminder as much as she welcomed the distraction he provided when he hooked his thumb in her mouth. Ordered to suck it, she pleasured his thumb the same way she would the part of him that filled her, unmoving, while his brother prepared to take her other virginity.

  The tip of Thorne’s hardened length breached her opening. Grasping one of her hips, he pushed carefully forward, until the crown was inside and the tight ring of muscle had closed around him. Breath hissed between his teeth, and his hands claimed both hips with a grip so strong, she was certain that his fingers would leave bruises on her tender flesh.

  “Fuck,” he growled, flexing his pelvis and pushing deeper. Only a thin wall of flesh separated the two brothers. Deidra thrilled at the feel of being joined with them both.

  “Kiss me.” Ragan commanded, and she obeyed, bemoaning the loss of his thumb until she felt its wet tip circling her nipple, flicking and teasing while his tongue did the same, claiming her mouth in a kiss that was as sensual as it was playful.

  Behind her, Thorne shifted his weight, climbing higher in the bed, advancing by inches while his hands held her in place, impaled on Ragan’s length. “By God, you are perfection,” Thorne swore, arching his back and burying himself in her depths. “Too much?” he asked when he tested her, withdrawing partly, then pushing deep in a move that stole her breath.

  Ragan kissed her gently and repeated his brother’s question.

  Deidra felt the blush that flooded her face and made her glow pink. “Nay,” she whispered. “I just never…have never…” She caught her lip between her teeth, aware of Ragan’s darkened blue gaze fastened upon it. “I had no idea it would feel this way. So full. So…right. Does it please you, milord?”

  Ragan’s answer was to thrust his hips and delve impossibly deeper. “You please me,” he said. “You please us.” His steadfast, heated gaze underscored the truth of his words. “But,” he added, “your pleasure is ours. You must tell us if we need to slow down, or stop. You said you are not fully trained. If need be, we can seek a swift end. You are so tight, so sweet, so tempting, just the feel of you is enough.”

  “And you, my lords. The feel of both of you, inside me…words fail to describe it.”

  Full. Fulfilled. Wanted. Desired. Wanton. Fevered. Hungry for them both.

  “Please,” she whispered, tearing her gaze from Ragan’s to look past her shoulder at Thorne. “Take me. Make me yours.”

  Caught between them, she felt safe in their intimate embrace. When they alternately thrust into her, she felt claimed. But when Ragan nodded at Thorne, and both men moved to fill her together, she felt…possessed.

  Theirs.

  Shameless, she moaned and pushed herself up, pressing her back against Thorne’s chest as he drilled into her, his masculine hair abrading her tender flesh. Ragan took advantage of the room she’d created and slid a hand between them, finding her pearl with his thumb, circling, then pressing it at the same time Thorne’s hands claimed her breasts.

  Thorne fastened his mouth on the base of her neck. The love bite he gave her triggered her release, and both men joined her, pouring themselves into her while the waves still rolled.

  “Thank you, milords,” she whispered when she could speak again.

  Ragan cupped her face. “You are ours now, well and truly. Never doubt it.”

  She looked from him to Thorne, whose face was full of wonder. Some of her light had transferred to him. Once the glow was gone, he hied himself to the hearth and washed himself in the remnants of their bath.

  Squeezing out her sponge, Thorne returned to bed with it, a clean washing cloth, and a towel. He lifted her free of Ragan and cleaned the sweat and juices from her body, following the sponge with the towel.

  Ragan made used of the bathwater that remained, then climbed back in bed and stretched out beside her. Rolling to his side, he propped his dark head on one hand, the better to watch Thorne minister to her as she lay on her back between them.

  Satisfied, Thorne tossed aside the sponge and towel and stretched himself out on her other side. He folded the extra cloth like a moontide pad and tucked it between her legs to catch what was certain to leak out. She had no frame of reference, of course, but both men seemed to produce copious amounts of man juice. Perhaps it was due to their massive sizes. Perhaps it was a trait of their dark race. If they were potent as they felt, she’d soon have a babe in her belly.

  Somehow, the thought was not displeasing.

  “What?” Ragan whispered, tucking his finger beneath her chin and coaxing her to look at him.

  “I was just thinking.” She searched his eyes, finding comfort and confirmation in the lambent warmth of his gaze. “Of younglings. I have one more boon to ask, my lord, that any fruit of our union be freeborn.”

  Ragan looked appalled. “Deidra, what did you think when I said you were ours? It’s clear that you are of noble blood, though fate and Mordred have robbed you of your birthright. You are neither servant here, nor thrall, nor comforter. You are a free woman. You asked for sanctuary, which we give you gladly. When we mark you on the morrow, there is one more step we will take. A contract of marriage, my lady, if it pleases you to have two husbands.”

  Marriage. They wanted to marry her. A proposal, from two men willing to protect her and make her theirs in all ways. It didn’t matter whether they were manorborn or baseborn, human or manbeasts. The past few weeks at Ravenhill had taught her the true measure of a man. She realized now that a commoner with a strong arm and good heart was worth more than a titled nobleman who might prove to possess neither. The way these brothers treated her, the way they cherished her, she would have stayed with them regardless.

  Blessed be, blessed be, blessed be.

  “Um, is this…is this the manner of your people?” she asked when she’d found her tongue again. She hoped they would not regret a poor bargain. “I fear that I know nothing of your customs,” she confessed. Struggling not to feel inadequate, she reminded herself that she was uninformed, not unintelligent. In time, she would learn all that she needed to survive and to thrive here.

  Ragan and Thorne exchanged a look. “Plural unions are allowed,” said Ragan, “but to answer your question, no. It is common for a man to have two wives, or a wife and a concubine. Two husbands is the exception to the rule.”

  At his words, Deidra fought back the tears that blurred her vision. “And you would do this.” She looked from Ragan to Thorne. “You would both take me as wife.” The realization of what that meant made her head fairly spin. Yesterday, she was an orphan, a comforter in training, facing a future as dark as tonight’s moons. And now, she belonged to not one, but two ebon-haired giants, whose unexpected kindness and generous natures were enough to bring her to her knees.

  “Aye.” Thorne crooked the grin that she was coming to know so well. “If you will have us. Say yes, and we will care for you, provide for you, protect you – and do the same for the younglings that are sure to come, so help me God.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, rolling over to kiss Ragan. Turning on her side so that her back was to his front, she pressed her hips suggestively against him.

  Facing Thorne, she threaded her fingers in his hair and drew his head down to meet hers. “Yes.” She whispered against his lips, then kissed him. They were hers. She was th
eirs.

  She spent the rest of the night proving it.

  Something Else

  Grace Murphy is the local psychic medium who dreams of her soulmates – the two men she reincarnates with time and again. While reading at an Irish festival, she meets Nicolas White, a bisexual American Indian musician. A shaman with visions of his own, Nico recognizes Grace from his last sweat lodge as the red-haired woman in the south. Now that they’re found each other, surely the third one will come soon.

  Six months later they meet J.T. Santiago, an ex-Navy SEAL and former cage fighter who owns a gym and teaches mixed martial arts. J.T. is a dominant, but he’s never had a male submissive and Grace and Nico are a package deal. It’s a learning curve for all of them, with J.T.’s initiation into MMF and MM relations and Grace’s introduction to BDSM. With Grace’s yin, J.T’s yang, and Nico’s centerbalance, the three of them come together as far as J.T.’s PTSD will allow, but forging a future means healing the past, however painful it might be.

  Something Different

  Singer/songwriter Anna James is getting desperate. Even with a day job, money’s tight, and she’s wound tighter yet, having sworn off sex to reconcile with her mother who’s in chemo and her father who disowned her for her wild, wicked ways. No sooner than her psychic best friend predicts an end to Anna’s self-imposed drought, rock stars Jackson and Jacob Thomason come to town, with the dream of an indie album co-written with local American Indian flutist Nico White and his songwriting partner AJ McPherson.

  Jackson and Jacob are attracted to Anna, who gives as good as she gets. Learning that Anna’s alter ego AJ puts the “twist” in Nico’s “tribal” music only makes them want her more. The part-Comanche Thomason twins need an album’s worth of songs. That means spending night after night, working closely, getting to know each other, learning how to co-create.

  Anna’s never written music with anyone but Nico. They’re comfortable with each other. The Thomason twins, who perform as No Mercy, make her anything but. What’s a fangirl to do, when submitting to her rock star idols means exploring the darker side of passion?