Something Special: The Three Graces Book Six

by Nia Farrell

  God damn mother fucker. I cannot wait to tear him a new one.

  “How much of a fight do you want?” Sir Piers asks me. “If he needs to, he’ll pull punches, make it look real for her.”

  I stare at him on the screen. Good looking as ever, but he’s not as big as I remember. I’m down from what I used to be when I fought competitively. Evidently he is, too.

  “Size-wise, it’s a close match,” Sir Piers observes. “Jody is a life coach and personal trainer now. His reflexes might be a bit rusty. Then again, he’s had time to prepare since he was hired. Hand-to-hand is always an option with this particular setting.”

  “I’ll take him,” I promise Nico, myself, and Grace. “If you can, let him know, I’ll do my best to pull punches.” I’m not promising I won’t land a few, but everyone will be happier if we can put on a show good enough to appear realistic without either one of us getting hurt. I plan on spending the next twenty-four hours after that in bed with Grace and Nico, and Cavalry Captain J.T. Santiago has plans for his recovered captive and his Indian scout. Drilling. Lots of drilling. I don’t need bruises and cuts, cracked ribs or broken bones.

  “Jesus, look at her,” Nico murmurs. “I can almost hear her. This is so much better than porn.”

  Tearing my eyes away from our wife, I see that Blondie has most of her clothes ripped off and has three warriors using her mouth, cunt, and ass, while five others watch, stroking themselves, waiting their turns.

  “At some point, there’ll be fisting,” Sir Piers remarks. “I understand it’s a hard limit for your sub. Perhaps once she’s seen it, she’ll be open to trying it, hmm?”

  Just the thought makes me harder than I’ve ever been. Swear to God. It’s all I can do not to push Nico’s head in my lap and have him take the edge off. Back in the day, I’d abstain before a fight, funneling all that pent-up energy into my legs and hands. Once I was in the cage with my opponent, I’d let it fly. My mind remembers. My body will too. I’m not worried about my PTSD at this point. In my heart, I’ve gone back to before my service, before Afghanistan, before the attack that nearly cost me my life. I’m back to when I was young and hungry and whole – the contender who’ll finally have a chance to beat his greatest rival and claim his greatest prize.

  Fuck, yeah.

  Chapter Nine

  “Are you okay, Miss?”

  Playing the part, I interrogate Grace, who’s still in shock from seeing me fight for her. I’ll have to admit, it was fun tangling with Savage Joe, and more than satisfying taking him down, even if we were pulling punches.

  It still looked real as shit to Grace. Nico stood behind her, whispering, making sure our baby girl was good with this, more worried about her having a past-life meltdown than a this-life panic attack. But she stayed with us. Held her breath and flinched at every blow Joe landed. Son of a bitch still has it. There’ll be bruises, but I know two mouths that will be more than happy to kiss them better.

  “Missus,” she says, correcting me. “I’m married. I’m fine. My baby….”

  She places a lily white hand on the slight curve of her belly. “We’re okay,” she smiles. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “Can you ride, ma’am?” I ask her, aware of the cameras rolling, one in my hat, another in Nico’s breastplate. We signed permission to film for our private use only. I figured Cam could show me how to edit, starting with the wedding footage. I plan on piecing together a honeymoon video that we can watch on our anniversary for years and years to come.

  Grace looks at me, her green glass eyes full of emotion. “Yes,” she says, beaming. “Yes, I can.”

  Thank fuck we won’t have to wait for the wagon to get fixed. Taking the pack off the back of my horse and handing it to Nico, I find and fold a blanket to place behind the saddle, fashioning the Old West version of a rumble seat. Lifting Grace onto it, I help arrange her skirts before mounting up. I swear, Nico fucking leaps onto his horse, as eager to get Grace away from here as I am. Over the hill and far away, to grandmother’s cabin we’ll go.

  I order my lieutenant to take charge of the patrol and see to the couple we’ve recovered; I personally will see to the safe delivery of this mother and her unborn child. Behind me, Grace shivers, and her arms tighten around my waist. “Thank you,” she murmurs against the dark blue wool of my shell jacket. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  We’re not taking any chances with our precious cargo. We keep the horses to a walk, rocking with the motion like a rolling ship on the gentlest sea. Thank fuck Grace’s morning sickness is better. She’s good every time I check, not that our ride takes that long. We go to the end of the valley, veer right at the split in the trail, and follow it into the next valley over, where a pioneer cabin is nestled in a stand of trees, halfway between a babbling stream below us and the rugged crest above.

  “Oh, look,” Grace chirps when she sees the curl of smoke rising from the rough stone chimney. “That’s it? It’s ours?”

  “Yes, ours,” I say, resisting the urge to kick my heels and make the horse to go faster. “Until noon tomorrow.” Not that standard check out times apply to exclusive BDSM resorts, but we have a flight to catch. We’ll have a two-day layover in Chicago to show Grace the sights, then it’s back home for the rest of the week-long honeymoon, before the three of us return to the daily grind.

  Dismounting first, Nico ties his horse to the picket line spanning two sturdy trees, then holds our gelding while I dismount. I grip Grace’s waist and help her slide down, making sure she’s steady on her feet before releasing her.

  “I’ll get you settled, then we’ll tend the horses,” I tell her. Given a choice, I opted to take care of things ourselves, keep it just the three of us. Sure, it’s more work, but nothing we can’t handle. I’m even looking forward to the hearthside cooking we’ll need to get started, if we’re going to eat lunch. After this morning, I’m sure that Grace’s body is craving meat – and not just mine and Nico’s.

  The interior of the cabin looks like something out of a Sam Elliott western. One large room, with an oversized bed below and a sleeping loft above a third of the board planked floor. To the left is a large fireplace where someone’s built a fire and left a footed cast iron kettle of what smells like pot roast over a layer of coals on the hearth. The trestle table nearby holds an uncut loaf of bread on a wooden board. A serrated knife and a crock of butter rest close by. Grace is thrilled by the wheel of cheese and bowl of apples. She wastes no time inventorying the hutch cabinet full of enamelware plates, cups, bowls, cookware, and serving pieces, with pewter flatware and utensils in the drawers.

  “The blanket chest by the bed is a cooler,” I tell her, grateful we won’t have to worry about food poisoning, at least. Cell phone reception is sketchy, depending on provider, but Nico and I both have resort-issued phones that will work out here, should any need or emergency arise. It’s a primitive cabin, with no electricity, but it seems to have everything we need. There’s plenty of firewood, for cooking and warmth. A cistern of potable water that can be hand-pumped for drinking, cooking, doing dishes, bathing. Food in the pantry and cooler. A bowl of strawberries and grapes and a bottle of wine by the quilt-covered bed. I won’t point out that California kings aren’t exactly period correct, but I’m thankful as fuck that we won’t have to spoon caddywampus just to fit.

  I excuse myself and help Nico with the horses, taking off their saddles, rubbing them down, watering them, re-securing them to a picket line. Before going back inside, we place a small pile of hay for them to graze on, to supplement the sparse grass that’s within reach. We wash up on the porch, hands, faces, and necks rinsed clean enough to pass meal-time inspection.

  Grace is in domestic goddess mode, with an apron tied around her waist to protect her work dress. She has the table set and is ladling lunch onto the enamel plates. Fork-tender pot roast, potatoes, carrots, celery, and what looks like parsnips. The rich broth is perfect for sopping up with the homemade sourdough bread. I’m su
rprised Grace hasn’t cut into the wheel of cheese, but she’s probably saving it for later, to eat with the apples – one of her favorite snacks. I don’t know how I missed it, but there’s peach pie for dessert with sweet cream from the cooler to drizzle on top.

  Grace thinks we should do dishes. I tell her to think again. Scrape them, yeah. Put them in the fucking cooler if she’s worried about attracting ants or bugs or something bigger like a raccoon or possum, but the cabin is stocked with enough extra place settings, we don’t have to wash anything we don’t want to. Sir Piers is making sure we’re taken care of. He knows what we’re here to do.

  Fuck.

  Fuck, yeah.

  “Ma’am,” I rumble, glancing at my hat that I’ve placed on a shelf and pointed towards the bed. I take off my leathers, hanging my sword belt and pistol on a hook by the front door. “I don’t want an argument on this. I’d rather you show your appreciation for being rescued. I searched for you. Found you. Fought for you.” Reaching, I take hold of her braid and wrap it around my hand, pulling her closer to me with each turn. “And now,” I say, “I want to fuck you. We both do.”

  Grace inhales sharply, her nostrils flaring. Her small fingers curl against the fabric of her skirt.

  I smirk at her. “What would your husband say if he could see you now, hmm? From the look on your face, I’d say you want the both of us, too.”

  “My baby,” she whispers, still in role-playing mode.

  “Makes it where he’ll never know. It will be your secret. Our secret. We’ll take what you have to give and give you everything you can take.”

  Suddenly, Grace giggles and looks at Nico. “Jesus, that’s almost exactly what you said the day we met at the Irish festival, when we were still waiting for J.T. to come. You said, ‘Once he gets here, we’ll give what you can take, and take what you can give.’ Fuck, I’d almost forgot.”

  I growl and pull her by the braid until she’s pressed up against me, balanced on her toes, her hands clutching at the blue wool shell jacket I’m still wearing. Her green glass eyes widen, then grow smoky with arousal. “Take off your clothes and kneel,” I order. “No more talking. I have a better use for that mouth, woman.”

  She’s so turned on, I can smell the scent of her sex. Nico stands behind her, stroking himself through his fringed buckskin pants. I’d rather see him in a breechclout and leggings, framing his erection, but he looks damn good in anything, especially leather.

  Grace unties her apron, lets it fall to the floor. Reaching for her neckline, she unfastens her buttons, slipping them free, one by one, from top to bottom. Her skirt and petticoats go next, followed by her corset cover. Her breasts swell above the boned casing, and I can’t help seeing Savage Joe’s hands on them.

  “Did you like it?” I grind the words, feeding grist to my sexual mill. “Did you like being held against your will? Touched without permission? The one who had you, when he played with your breasts, did he grind his cock against your ass and wonder what it would be like to take you there?”

  I grab her hand, pull it to my crotch, and let her feel the erection I’ve been fighting for hours. “Does your husband take your back door?” I smile darkly, because Nico and I both know the fucking answer to that question. “When his cock is slick with your cream and he taps on it, do you moan and let him in?”

  “Fuck.” This, from Nico, who’s as hard for our wife as I am.

  “Yes. No. Yes,” she whimpers, trembling, like her knees are on the verge of giving out. A heartbeat later, she buckles to the floor at my feet, scrambling to get my pants unfastened. When she undoes the fly and tugs, she looks at me in confusion. I realize that the suspenders that keep my pants in place are preventing her from pulling them down.

  There’s something about being a Dominant dressed while your sub is naked and exposed, but seeing Grace in a state of en déshabillé, her maternity corset framing her burgeoning breasts, her hips covered in crotchless pantaloons, is sexy as fuck. “Hands behind your back,” I growl. “Open that mouth and hold still while I fuck it. I’d better not feel any teeth, or you’ll wish you were still with your Indian friends.”

  I reach through the split of my linen drawers and pull out my dick, nine inches and counting. Grace licks her lips and opens wide. I’m so big, I’m sure she’s wishing she could unhinge her jaw when I push my way in, welcoming the sweep of her tongue, the wet warmth of her mouth, the erotic spasm of her throat when I invade it. I fist her hair and jack my hips, pumping into her mouth with increasing speed and depth, while Nico does the same to himself with each stroke of his more than capable hands.

  He doesn’t know it yet, but I’m about to give us both a very special wedding present – something I’ve never done, something I know he’ll be good at and enjoy. Just thinking about it almost makes me come too soon.

  We had the talk the first night we met, when I sensed he wanted to submit to me. I told him then, submission is a gift, and whatever form of pleasure I wanted, he needed to be willing to give or use his safeword. We’ve been together long enough now, I don’t think that will be a problem. Pegging is typically a bottom experience, but it’s different when done for the Dom’s pleasure. Technically, I’m the only virgin of the three of us, and our honeymoon seems the right time to have Grace and Nico peg me.

  To let Nico take me.

  Fuck.

  I lose it, coming hard, shooting streams of jizz across Grace’s tongue and down her throat. “Goddamn.” I keep coming, an endless orgasm while my cock jerks, my fisted hands tighten their grip on her hair, and my legs shake in my boots. “Him next,” I order, pulling out of her mouth and motioning Nico to take my place.

  Before we make the switch, I kiss Grace, tasting myself on her tongue, then kiss Nico, giving him a taste of the two of us. I step aside, and he moves in, his eight inch length of copper clad steel jutting out like a lance aimed at her lush, swollen lips.

  She inhales him, head bobbing down, then up, her hollow cheeks drawn in from the suction she’s got going on. Nico hisses between clenched teeth and takes control, fucking her face like there’s no tomorrow, only here, only now. Aware of what’s coming, I start stripping. Boots. Socks. Dark blue jacket trimmed in yellow. Off white suspenders and sky blue pants. Shirt. Drawers.

  I check myself, hoping there are no bruises bad enough to freak Grace, who until today has never watched me fight. Technically, she has yet to see it. This morning’s brawl was old school Hollywood stunt man stuff, peppered with a few hits that landed rather than punched through. There’s a pretty good size bruise on my right ribs (thanks to a left-handed hook the bastard managed to sneak past my guard), some small ones on my arm and chest, and at least one on my jaw that should be covered by my beard. No breaks. No blood. We should be good.

  “Make him come,” I order Grace. “I want to see you swallow every bit.” I figure it won’t hurt to take his edge off. He’ll go slower and last longer when it’s my turn.

  Rocking his hips, Nico pumps into Grace’s mouth. Holds. Pumps again – short, hard, jerking strokes that tell me he’s right there. I spit in my hand and fist myself while Nico shatters, coming apart, the language of his father’s people falling from his lips.

  Sweat beads his face when he meets my gaze, smiling like a son of a bitch. “You good, sweetheart?” he asks Grace, sensitive to her needs, as always. I just need them both to be sensitive to mine.

  Our wife nods. He helps her up, walks her to the bed, and sits her on the edge, where she’ll await my instruction. “Clothes off, brother,” I tell Nico. Not that I don’t like him in leather. He’s fucking hot. But I want him as vulnerable as I will be, once we head into uncharted territory.

  While Nico sheds his Indian scout garb, I ignore the growing pile of leather and rummage through my haversack for what we’ll need. Lube. Lots of lube. A small plug. A small vibrating dildo. A larger plug – though I think I’d rather Nico use his fingers to finish prepping me. Nothing against toys but a personal touch is always nice.


  There’s a primitive bedside table that matches the rough-hewn headboard, built like an open frame – two uprights and an empty beam across the top, crying out for ropes and wrists. I put what we’ll need in easy reach, then turn my attention back to Nico, who’s stripped off his boned breastplate and fringed leather shirt, revealing the contours of his smooth, hairless chest. When he takes off his bone and bead choker, I see my collar etched in ink around his neck that forever marks him as mine.

  When Nico’s as naked as I am, I think: Two down. One to go.

  “Come here,” I tell him. “Help me undress her. I want us all skin to skin for the next round.”

  While Nico unties Grace’s shoes, I sit on the bed beside her and push my hand into her crotch. No surprise, she’s soaking wet. I let my fingers do a little slip and slide before pulling the drawstring tie of her pantaloons. Loosening the waist, I hook two fingers and pull it down, over her hips, past her buttocks, revealing the smooth-shaved mound, the gateway to her secrets. I kiss her belly, nip her thigh. Her squeak slides into a moan when my tongue comes out to soothe the sting.

  Nico pulls off her other shoe. Once her pantaloons have joined the little pile, each of us unties a garter and peels down a stocking. The bright red, not quite thigh hi’s add a naughty splash of color on her crotchless white cotton drawers.

  I catch Grace staring at my chest, her green eyes shimmering with tears. “If you want to help, you’ll kiss them and make them better,” I tell her. Piling the pillows in the center of the headboard, I lean back against them, spread my legs, and draw her to kneel between them. Lips, hands, soft brushes and tender touch, she radiates healing energy that warms me to the core.