Treachery's Devotion (The Masters' Admiralty Book 1) Page 13

  Glancing toward Tristan, James noticed his new husband was also taking advantage of the opportunity, his eyes softer now as he watched her sleep.

  Tristan gave James a tired grin when he caught him looking. “Probably not a bad idea for us to get some rest too.”

  James nodded, thinking sleep would be elusive. He was wrong. Several hours passed when he roused himself. Tristan was still asleep, but Sophia was awake, her alert eyes telling him she’d been up for a while now.

  “Feel better,” he asked, his voice groggy, deep.

  She nodded as Tristan stirred and glanced at his watch. “I didn’t intend to sleep that long.”

  “We needed it,” Sophia said. The earlier tension still hovered, and James decided it was time to guide them to safer waters.

  “It’s been at least a hundred years,” James said.

  “What?” Sophia asked.

  “Earlier. You asked how long it had been since a fleet admiral was murdered. A hundred years.”

  He could see the effort Sophia put into loosening her anger. She tipped her head to first one side, then the other, relaxed her tense jaw and unclenched her fists. Finally, she took a deep breath. “One hundred years? Do you know who the last fleet admiral to be killed was?”

  The last rays of sunlight coming in through her window struck her hair, lightening it to mahogany brown. Sunlight gilded her cheek, nose, and lips.

  James forgot whatever it was he was about to say. “My God, you’re beautiful.”

  “Yes, you are.” Tristan was seated across the aisle from Sophia, and he’d turned to watch her too.

  Sophia looked at each of them in turn. “Many men have called me beautiful.”

  James tracked her expression, trying to understand what was going on in her mind. Was she insulted? He understood, he really did, how hard it was to be judged solely on physical appearance.

  He was about to apologize when she spoke again. “But those men weren’t my husbands.” She shoved the blanket off and undid her seat belt. “Perhaps it is time we got to know one another better.”

  James’s cock was a hundred percent sure she meant they should have sex, and mini James was down with that plan. Actually, he was up, very up, with that plan.

  Tristan looked like a fox in the henhouse, his gaze tracking every movement of Sophia’s body—the rise and fall of her chest, the way her neck moved when she shook back her hair.

  “You deserve better than a plane.” Tristan’s words were entirely at odds with his hyper-intense focus. “We would be wankers to fuck you on a plane.” His accent had slipped, and was now hard and sharp, filled with the cadence of southeast London.

  Sophia tipped her head to one side, her hair sliding like silk over one shoulder. “You English have no imagination. There are plenty of things we can do without fucking.” Her smile turned predatory. “Take off your shirts. Both of you.”

  Sophia watched them as raw, base desire clawed at her insides. Normally her need wasn’t so primitive. Maybe it was in reaction to the violence and death she’d seen, maybe it was because these were her husbands. Whatever the reason, she didn’t just want them, she needed them the way a drowning woman needed air.

  There was a pause, a moment that lasted just long enough that doubt crept into her heart. What if they didn’t need her in this moment the way she needed them? What if they were unhappy with the marriage? What if, what if…

  Both her husbands undid their seat belts and stripped off their shirts. Sophia sighed in relief as the doubt was washed away by a fresh wave of desperate desire.

  She took a minute to examine them. They were hers. It was her right, her privilege, to look over them, enjoy them.

  James was thick with muscle—his shoulders and arms huge and powerful, his stomach a smooth, hard expanse of delicious brown flesh.

  Tristan was just as powerful, but in a different way. He was leaner, muscles defined. His chest and stomach were those of a bodybuilder or underwear model—his upper four abdominal muscles visible, even at rest. His arms were particularly delicious—roped and corded with hard muscle. She’d held his sword. It was heavy. It was no surprise his arms looked like that.

  “Your turn,” Tristan growled.

  His voice had changed. He sounded like the criminals on those British police shows she liked to watch in secret.

  He was losing control.

  She liked that he was losing control.

  What would happen when he really unchained himself? Would he turn away, remove himself from the situation until he was able to hide this true, baser self? Or would he pounce on her and ravish her?

  If there was any justice in the world, it would be the second.

  She switched her attention back to James. As she looked at him, he crossed his arms. That made all those thick, heavy muscles in his chest and arms bulge.

  The barbarian king carried her into his castle, spanking her ass as she struggled and screamed. He carried her to his bedchamber, throwing her down on a bed covered in furs. He tore her clothes from her body, his hands rough and sure on her skin. She struggled because she knew she should, not because she wanted him to stop. When he plucked her nipples with his fingers, she whimpered, partially in pain at his rough treatment, partially in desire.

  “Spread your legs so I can ravish you,” James the Barbarian growled.

  “Halt!” A knight, wearing only breeches, his naked chest glistening with sweat, leapt through the door. His hair, skin, eyes, and sword were all golden. “Unhand the princess.”

  James the Barbarian slid his hand up her leg, cupping her freshly waxed pussy in his palm. “Your princess is mine.”

  “I will slay you,” Tristan the Noble Knight said.

  “Slay us?” James stroked her clit, making her moan. “Why don’t you join us?”

  Tristan threw aside his sword. “Yes, I will. I have always wanted to ravish the beautiful princess.”

  “She is ours, now,” James the Barbarian said.

  “Yes, ours.”

  “Sophia, where did you go?”

  “What?” Sophia jumped slightly as James—real James—spoke. His voice brought her back to reality. Her stupid imagination had done it again.

  Tristan reached for his shirt. “This is too much. We shouldn’t do this right now.”

  “Hold on, mate,” James purred. A slow, wicked grin worked its way across his face.

  He knew.

  “She’s not scared. She’s aroused.”

  Sophia raised her chin, refusing to apologize. That primal part of her that wanted to ravish and be ravished was howling in delight that one of her men—now they were her men—was able to read her body language and expression so acutely.

  “Were you thinking about what it will be like?” James uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, looking at her with predatory eyes.

  “No,” she purred.

  “Tell us what you were thinking about.”

  “No, no, no.” She would never speak of her crude and insulting fantasy.

  Tristan too was leaning forward, peering at her. “Liar.”

  “What were you thinking about?” James asked again.

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar.” James said it this time.

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she say? She was lying.

  “What do you want, Sophia?” Tristan asked.

  “I have a better question.” James slipped out of his seat, onto his knees in front of her, the movement careful and slow. He laid his big palms on her thighs. “What do you want, wife?”

  Sophia sucked in a breath of shocked, excited desire.

  Tristan rose from his seat and moved to stand behind her. He gathered her hair in his hand, clumsily but carefully pulling it into a tail and draping it over the back of the seat. Her neck, chest, and face were now totally exposed.

  You’re still wearing clothes. You’re not naked. You’ve lost control of the situation, but you can get it back.

  But she didn’t
want it back. She wanted to see what they would do.

  “I’ve had a ménage before,” she told them. “But always a man and a woman. I have never been with two men.”

  “And you’ll never be with anyone else but us.” Tristan’s words were absolute. The ownership and possessiveness she heard in his voice made her nipples pebble inside her bra.

  “You like that,” James said. “You like hearing that you’re ours.”

  The word “no” was on the tip of her tongue. Why lie? “Yes.”

  “What do you like, Sophia? You started this, took control. Told us to strip. But I think maybe you want one of us to take control.”

  “Both of you.” The words were out before she could stop them.

  James smiled. “Tell me what your fantasy was.”

  “It was not polite.” The arousal that thrummed through her like liquid honey was making it hard for her to think, and harder yet to speak English. “You say, ummm, not correct?”

  Tristan touched her shoulder lightly, then slid his hand across her collarbone. He slipped his fingers under the collar of her shirt, his four fingers splayed across her chest while his thumb stroked the underside of her jaw and the front of her neck. Sophia arched her neck, inviting more of the touch and letting her eyes close.

  “Do you mean politically correct?”

  “Yes,” she murmured. It was much easier to be truthful with her eyes closed.

  “Do you want us to take control?” James reached under the hem of her pants and unfastened her shoes, pulling them off.

  “Yes,” she moaned.

  She sat on her throne, the beautiful, merciless queen. “You are mine.”

  The men kneeled at the foot of the dais on which her throne—made from a giant shell and thousands of pearls—rested. They both nodded their obedience.

  “Yes, my Queen.”

  “Rise.”

  They were naked, as she’d ordered them to be, and their cocks were hard and aching.

  She rose gracefully from her throne, her long dark hair falling nearly to her ankles. She reached for the single jeweled clasp between her breasts and loosened it. Her elegant gown parted, revealing her naked flesh beneath.

  “You may worship me,” she said regally. “You may lick my sex, and you may suck my nipples.”

  They leapt forward, desperate to serve her, to please her. She sat on the edge of her throne and spread her legs.

  “Wait,” Sophia gasped.

  Tristan’s hand, sliding deeper into her shirt, immediately stopped moving. James was kneading her calves, and he too halted.

  “If this is too much…” James said.

  “I want to be in charge,” she moaned.

  A beat of silence, and then Tristan said, “This time.”

  More arousal, more dark, delicious need, poured through her.

  “Kiss me.” She’d meant it as a command, but it came out as a gentle request, and she was glad for it. It was better this way.

  Tristan bent over the back of the seat and kissed her. The kiss was upside down and a bit odd, but his lips were warm and sure against hers. He kept it chaste, just his lips on hers. When he pulled back, Sophia started to lick her lips, wanting to taste him, but James was right there. She’d been so lost in Tristan’s kiss, she hadn’t heard or felt her other husband move.

  James captured the tip of her tongue with his teeth, nipping her lightly. That made her gasp, and James took advantage of her open mouth, claiming her with a deep, hard kiss. His tongue invaded her, and her pussy ached with the need to feel that same delicious invasion.

  When James pulled back, she sighed in pleasure and opened her eyes. James was kneeling between her spread thighs, his hands braced on the arms of her seat. Tristan still stood behind her, his hand inside her top, the tips of his fingers nearly touching the lace of her bra.

  No one moved, and Sophia was about to scream in frustration before she remembered she’d said she wanted to be in control.

  There were two of them, and one of her, and that’s the way it always would be. Based on their reactions, they both preferred women over men. She herself enjoyed both, and most of the members of Rome had similarly fluid tastes in sexual partners. It was almost expected.

  Given time, her men would find their own dynamic and grow comfortable with one another. For now, it seemed that she would be in the middle between her two gorgeous, strong husbands. She was looking forward to it.

  But she was Sophia Starabba, Princess of Rome.

  And she wanted to remind her new husbands of that.

  Sophia eased Tristan’s hand from her shirt, then stood. James kept her caged in for an extra second or two—long enough to make it clear that if he’d wanted to keep her there he could have.

  Sophia didn’t acknowledge his action. She kept every motion slow and deliberate. She’d seen their reactions when they’d met, knew they were both attracted to her. While she didn’t fully understand what men found so attractive about her—she wasn’t unaware of physical appearance, but there were certainly more beautiful women—she knew how to use that reaction to her advantage.

  Barefoot, she stepped over James’s knee and took up a position in the free space in the center aisle in front of the couch.

  “Husbands,” she crooned, “would you like to watch me?”

  Tristan’s eyes glowed like sunlight shining through gold glass. James pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, his bad leg stuck out at an angle, and slid into the seat she’d vacated.

  “Watch you do what?” Tristan asked.

  Sophia undid her gold-link belt, sliding it from the loops of her pants. She wrapped the belt around her left wrist with her right hand. Both men reacted to the sight of the chain around her wrist. Buono. They would enjoy some bondage. She’d found that kinky play did well when there were three.

  She dropped her left arm and the belt slithered off her wrist, clinking softly as it fell to the floor.

  “Now, I will undress for you. And then you will touch me. Everywhere.” Her blouse parted easily, the silk-blend white fabric sliding off her shoulders and arms to puddle on the floor around her bare feet.

  Her bra was a simple tan with lace accents. If she’d known she’d be undressing, she would have worn something different, but the bra was appropriate for the shirt.

  “Ah, woman, you’re gorgeous.” James practically purred the words.

  Tristan said nothing, only watched her with those intense eyes.

  She unfastened her pants. Rather than slide them off, she undid the zip and then folded the fabric back, showing them an inverted triangle of skin and lace.

  With her pants held up by nothing more than the curve of her hips, Sophia reached up to her breasts, cradling their familiar, comfortable weight.

  She squeezed them, digging her fingers in, showing them that she could handle rough touches. Then she pressed her breasts together, her cleavage glorious when she did so.

  She released her breasts and scraped her nails over the cups of her bra. It was lined, but she could feel the scrape of her nails just enough that her nipples, already aching with arousal, peaked under her touch. She threw back her head and sighed in delight, stroking and kneading her breasts.

  Tipping her chin back down, she was gratified to see the tenting in the crotch of James’s slacks. Tristan’s lower body was hidden from view by the back of the seat, but his cheeks were lightly flushed with color.

  “Take off the bra,” Tristan demanded.

  Sophia looked at him from beneath her lashes. “Say please.”

  “Please,” James said immediately.

  Surprisingly, Tristan, who so far had impeccable manners, gritted his teeth and didn’t say please.

  Sophia reached back and undid the clasp of her bra. She slid the straps carefully off her shoulders, so the only thing keeping the bra in place was the way the cups clung to her breasts.

  “My knight,” she purred, looking at Tristan. “Would you like to see my breasts?”

 
He nodded stiffly.

  “James,” she murmured, still looking at Tristan, “remove my pants.”

  James pushed himself out of the seat and knee-walked over to her. It was a slow process, and for a moment, the spell arousal had woven around her, slipped as she looked down at James with concern. She needed to know more about why he limped, what was wrong with his leg. She did not want to be cruel and ask him to do something that would cause him pain.

  If she stopped now, the moment would unravel, so she would have to trust James to know his own body and his own limits.

  On his knees, his head was even with her bare stomach. He was so deliciously big.

  He laid his big hands on her stomach, and she sucked in a breath. His hands were warm against her skin, which had grown cold from the air conditioning in the plane.

  He fumbled for a moment with the zipper of her pants, which she hadn’t lowered all the way. His big fingers found the tiny tab and unzipped the final inch of zipper. The waistband loosened and the pants started to slide. Her generous hips and thighs didn’t let them fall far, but with a quick tug, James had them down around her ankles.

  Rather than step out of them, Sophia held perfectly still, letting him look.

  Looking wasn’t enough. James’s big hands closed around her ankles, circling them completely, and slid up to her knees, then higher still. He turned his wrists so that his thumbs were stroking the insides of her thighs.

  His hands didn’t stop. Higher and higher they rose, Sophia’s breath growing shallow as he neared the apex of her legs.

  James’s thumbs pressed against her pussy, the touch sure and firm. Sophia rose onto her toes for a moment, but he kept up the pressure.

  “She’s wet,” he reported. “Soaking through her panties.”

  Tristan made a sound low in his throat and dashed out from behind the chair. He grabbed the strap of her bra and jerked it off her arms. The cups were ripped away, leaving her naked except for a pair of thin, silky tan panties.

  Sophia’s nipples were diamond-hard points of need. She wanted, needed, their fingers and teeth on her flesh.

  Tristan cupped the back of her head and kissed her, a single savage meeting of lips. He broke the kiss, leaving her gasping, and dipped his head to her breasts.