Noble Romance Publishing, LLC
www.nobleromance.com Forbidden Love ISBN 978-1-60592-053-5 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED My Outlaw Copyright 2009 Stormy Glenn Forbidden Copyright 2009 H.C. Brown Poisoned Heart Copyright 2009 Anna O’Neill Deliverance Copyright 2009 Aleksandr Voinov Cover Art by Fiona Jayde This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without written permission from the publisher. Contact Noble Romance Publishing, LLC at PO Box 467423, Atlanta, GA 31146. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Book Blurbs: My Outlaw, by Stormy Glenn After getting injured and losing his horse during a cattle drive, Daniel Branson is ordered to ride the stagecoach back home. Little does he realize that it will put him in the hands of the notorious outlaw, Black Bart. And the handsome outlaw has plans for Daniel that don’t involve holding him for ransom! Forbidden, by H.C. Brown England 1075—Sir Renoir Danier finds himself in an intolerable situation when he is ordered by King William to marry an elderly Spanish countess. Five years earlier, he met the great love of his life, Sir Sebastian. This deeply sensual dark angel taught him all that a man could give to another. Renoir became a slave to his erotic punishment. After a month of bliss, Sebastian sailed to Spain. Will he return or leave Renoir with a shattered heart? Poisoned Heart, by Anna O’Neill The ultimate betrayal . . . . In Edo-period Japan, a prominent family might choose to foster a son from another clan in order to encourage peaceful political relations. When Raiden's family invites twenty-three year old Masashi into their lives, their gesture has the
opposite effect: Masashi kills Raiden's parents. Now years later Raiden is studying with a master of magic who allows Raiden the chance to go back in time to kill Masashi before Masashi can lift a finger against his family. But when Raiden is faced with his guest-brother once again, much to his horror he finds that his old feelings for Masashi return. With the weight of the future bearing down on Raiden's shoulders, can he overcome these troublesome emotions, or will his new weakness destroy everything? Deliverance, by Aleksandr Voinov William Raven of Kent joined the Knights Templar to do penance for his sins. Formerly a professional tournament fighter and mercenary, William is brought face-to-face with a past he'd thought he had escaped. ~***~
My Outlaw By Stormy Glenn Texas, 1880 “Are you traveling far, sir?” Daniel Branson glanced across the dusty stagecoach to the young woman sitting across from him. He smiled at her and shook his head. “No, ma’am, I’ll be getting off at Brownsville.” “You have family in Brownsville?” Daniel nodded. “You could say that, ma’am.” The woman glanced at the older gentleman who seemed to be sleeping beside her. Daniel didn’t understand how anyone could sleep through such a rough ride. Every few minutes, the stage coach hit a rut or a pothole and lurched from side to side. His ass felt like it had been dragged through a pile of cactus brush. “Do you know any outlaws?” she whispered as she glanced over at Daniel again.
He chuckled. “I haven’t met any personally but I hear Black Bart and his gang hole up out this way.” “Black Bart?” The woman gasped, her eyes widening. “Is he an outlaw?” “One of the worst, ma’am.” Daniel leaned forward a little. “Why, I hear he’d just as soon shoot you as look at you.” “And he’s in Brownsville?” the woman asked, a hand covering her mouth and her eyes growing wide. Daniel shrugged, sitting back in the seat. “I can’t rightly say, ma’am, but I’ve heard a lot of tales about Black Bart since I entered the territory.” Daniel glanced out the small side window as the woman’s face paled. He could tell from her manners and dress that she had never set foot west of the Mississippi River. He’d wager she was from way back east, maybe even as far as Boston. He wished the best for her. The west could be an unforgiving place for people not prepared for the rough, harsh realities of life in the uncivilized territories. Many didn’t make it through their first winter before high-tailing it back to civilization. “You don’t think he’s around here now, do you?” Daniel turned his attention back to the young woman. He felt a little bad that he had worried her but not enough to take back what he had said about Black Bart. Most of the people he had met on his travels west had no business being out here. He wished they would all just turn around and go back home. The west was no longer built on dreams from the 1849 gold rush. It was made with the blood and sweat of cowboys and ranchers and settlers strong enough to fight tooth and nail for every inch of land they could dig out of the cold, hard earth. “No, ma’am, I’m sure he’s moved on to some other area.” “How can you be sure?” “Brownsville isn’t a big place. It’s mostly ranchers, some townspeople, and a few outlying farms. I don’t imagine there’s a lot to keep any outlaw in the area for too long a spell.”
The woman seemed to regard Daniel for so long he began to grow uncomfortable. He tried not to fidget, clasping his hands together in his lap to keep from pulling at the collar of his white woolen shirt or the blue bandana tied around his neck. “If there’s not much in Brownsville, why do you stay there?” the woman finally asked. Daniel could see the curiosity covering her pert little face. Underlying that was a spark of interest he would rather ignore. “I live just outside of Brownsville, ma’am,” he replied. “I was point rider on a herd of cattle we drove up the Chisholm Trail to Abilene. My horse stepped in a prairie dog hole on the way back, just outside of town, and I had to put him down. I injured my ankle when my horse fell. Cattle boss told me to catch the stage back to the ranch.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the woman said quietly. Daniel could see the sympathy in her face, hear it in her voice. Even a woman from back east knew the heartache a cowboy felt when they lost a horse, especially a cattle cutting pony. It took years to train an animal to work cattle the way Stickler had. He’d missed that damn peg pony. When the young woman glanced at the man beside her again then smiled over at him, Daniel’s stomach fell to his feet. He had seen that particular look on enough female faces to know that the flirting was about to begin. Before he could dissuade her, a loud gunshot sounded outside and the stagecoach jerked to a stop. Daniel leaned out of the side window to see what was going on. His heart pounded frantically when he spotted the five masked men surrounding the stagecoach, their guns drawn. “What is it?” Daniel turned to see the young woman had gone as pale as Texas butter. The older man next to her still slept. Daniel held his fingers to his lips and glanced back out the window. He grimaced as the shotgun rider tossed his rifle to the ground and climbed from his seat. The stagecoach driver followed behind him. They both immediately held their hands up in the air and moved off to one side of the stagecoach. This was not good.
“You in the wagon,” someone called out. “Step out with your hands in the air.” “Oh my God,” the woman cried. “What do we do?” Daniel glanced over at her. He smiled, trying to reassure her. “Just do what they say and don’t cause any problems. You should be fine.” He reached for the door and opened it slowly. He cast a cautious look at the masked bandits as he stepped from the stagecoach. There was something about the largest of the masked men, something Daniel couldn’t quite place. He held his hand out and helped the young woman from the stage, then waited as her companion stepped down beside her before shutting the door. Watching the armed riders carefully, he placed himself in front of the two terrified passengers. “Keep your hands where we can see them and everything will be just fine,” one of the bandits ordered. Daniel had no intention of doing anything else. One wrong move and he’d never make it home alive. He still might not. “What’s your name, cowboy?” Daniel glanced up at the biggest man in the group. His heart beat faster. His eyes widened as he took in the man’s impressive form. Damn, he was huge. Sitting astride his black horse he looked even bigger. The black shirt, pants, boots, and cowboy hat he wore—not to mention the black mask covering his face—made his features seem more menacing. Daniel could only make out the deep, grass green eyes staring intently back at him. That powerful gaze sent a shivers of excitement blazing through him. The man nudged Daniel’s shoulder with his horse. “You hear me, boy?” “I heard you,” Daniel replied, mesmerized. The startling eyes seemed to be filled with an interest only a man like Daniel would understand. “My name is Daniel Branson.” “What outfit do you ride with?” Daniel’s lips thinned. “The Double B.” The man raised one dark eyebrow. “The Branson ranch?”
“Yes,” he replied and all the pride he felt at being able to claim such an association sounded in his voice. The owner of the Branson Ranch had one of the biggest cattle spreads in the area. He had built it up from just a few head of cattle into a herd numbering nearly ten thousand. Daniel had been there for most of it, working right alongside his boss. Daniel’s family had been massacred during the war. He had drifted for a few years until finding the Double B ranch. Branson had taken him in and given him a home, taught him everything he knew. He had even given Daniel a name he could be proud of, making Daniel his heir. Daniel respected the ranch owner more than any man on earth. “Well, boys, seems we have a notorious man in our midst.” The large man chuckled, sending a shiver down Daniel’s spine. “One of the Double B’s own ranch hands.” Daniel didn’t like the way the man looked at him. Something in his powerful gaze told Daniel that his trip was about to take a detour, and the outcome would be unlike anything he had ever envisioned. The man crossed his arms and rested them on the pommel of his saddle as he leaned down toward Daniel. “What should I do with you? I’d be willing to bet Branson would pay a pretty penny to get one of his drovers back, now wouldn’t he?” Daniel gulped past the lump in his throat and shrugged. “Only Mr. Branson can answer that.” The man gave Daniel a low chuckle. “Why don’t we see just how much you’re worth to your boss, cowboy?” One of the bandits tossed a rope and Daniel grunted when it hit him in the chest. He caught it before it could hit the ground then looked up at the tall man in confusion. “What am I supposed to do with this?” The man smirked. “If you work for the Double B you have to be a smart man. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Daniel frowned. He started tying the rope into a knot then looped it over his wrists. He grabbed the other end with his teeth and pulled it tight, wincing when the rough twine bit into his skin. He glanced up at the man on the horse. “Happy?” “I’m gonna be,” the man said. With one hand he reached down and grabbed Daniel by the collar and pulled him up to lie over the top of his saddle. Daniel wiggled in protest until a large hand came down on his ass. “Stay still or this is gonna get a lot harder on you,” the man warned. Daniel stilled. He felt ridiculous lying over the top of a horse, his butt in the air and the lower and upper halves of his body hanging down the sides. He probably looked ridiculous too. “You get to Brownsville, little lady, and you tell the sheriff there that Black Bart has one of the Double B’s ranch hands. You tell him I’ll be in contact about a ransom. You tell him that if he sends a posse after us it’ll go bad for his cowboy.” Before Daniel could protest again, Black Bart kicked his horse into a quick canter. Within moments they were out of sight of the stagecoach and moving off the road to a small trail cutting through the underbrush. Daniel felt a hand move over his ass as they rode. He didn’t know whether to be intrigued by the touch or horrified. His cock certainly seemed to have no problem making up its mind. It hardened right up, causing Daniel to wince when the unforgiving leather of the saddle pressed against his aching flesh. With his cock pressed between the saddle and his body, and Black Bart’s hand caressing his ass, Daniel was afraid he would embarrass himself and come right there and then. And wouldn’t that put him in a pickle? He was being held captive by the infamous Black Bart and his gang of masked men. Daniel had no idea what plans the man had for him but none of it could be good. The horse he lay across came to a stop. Daniel tensed. “You all go on ahead to the rendezvous point, boys,” Black Bart ordered, his hand firmly placed on Daniel’s ass. He gave it a slight squeeze every few seconds. “I’m gonna have me a little talk with Branson’s cowboy.”
Daniel tried to raise his head. He pushed his bound hands against the side of the horse beneath him. He kicked out with his feet. All his struggling earned him was a few more skillfully placed swats to his ass and the deep laughter of the other men as they rode off. Daniel felt like his ass was on fire. “Now, I thought I told you not to struggle, boy.” Daniel grunted. “Like I’m ever going to do anything you tell me to do.” Black Bart chuckled above him. “You’ll be doing everything I tell you to do, cowboy, or you’ll feel the butt of my gun upside your head.” To prove his point, Black Bart pressed the barrel of his Colt Six-Shooter against the back of Daniel’s head. Daniel stopped resisting. “Do you think I can at least sit up?” he asked. “I’m going to get sick bouncing along like this.” Daniel yelped when Black Bart grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him upright. Within seconds, he was sitting astride the horse. “Better?” Black Bart asked. Daniel wasn’t sure. The press of Black Bart’s muscular body against his back made him feel small, while the strong arms encircling his waist made him feel safe and protected. And the hard cock pushing against his ass made him feel aroused. Black Bart suddenly grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Daniel stared up into the dark green eyes of the man holding him hostage. His captor’s searing gaze made Daniel’s cock throb. “I believe I asked you a question, cowboy.” Black Bart snarled. “I want an answer.” Daniel tried to nod but that only increased the tension on the grip Black Bart still had on his hair. He winced. “Yeah, that’s better.” The big man grunted and let go. Daniel hunched back a bit to avoid the hands that reached around him to grab the reins. He bit his lip to keep from groaning as Black Bart got the horse moving. With each step of the horse, the hard cock behind him rubbed against his ass. Daniel knew he wasn’t supposed to be aroused. He was supposed to be resisting, fighting back, or at the very least, trying to escape.
But no, all he really wanted to do was feel that hard cock against his naked skin. Hell, he wanted to feel all of Black Bart against his naked skin, preferably with the other man just as naked. Daniel groaned inwardly. He was in so much trouble. He tried to ignore the man holding him as they rode. He tried even harder to ignore his aching cock. Both seemed nearly impossible, especially when Black Bart grabbed the reins in one hand and settled the other on Daniel’s abdomen. “I think you like being held captive,” Black Bart whispered into Daniel’s ear. “I think you like being tied up and played with.” Daniel shivered at the feel of warm breath blowing across his neck. His eyes closed as he tried to concentrate on the sounds around him, the feel of the horse beneath him, anything to drown out the feel of Black Bart’s hand drawing small circles on his body. When Black Bart separated the edges of his shirt and pushed his hand inside to caress naked flesh, Daniel knew fighting his arousal was a lost cause. His entire world narrowed down to focus on the strong, callused hand moving closer to his hard cock. Daniel ached. He cried out when that hand finally touched his cock. His body bucked, arching toward the hand grasping him. His movements were met by a low, deep chuckle from the man torturing him. Daniel’s face burned with embarrassment. He pushed his body back. His shoulders hunched as he tried to avoid Black Bart, but the man didn’t seem to notice as he continued his exploration of Daniel’s body. He wrapped the reins around the saddle horn then grabbed Daniel’s bound hands and brought them over his neck. Daniel was effectively trapped, his body laid open to whatever Black Bart wanted to do to him. Part of Daniel thrilled at the prospect. He could respond without hesitation, enjoy the feeling of the man’s hands on his body. He was tied up, unable to resist or protest. Another part of him was mortified that he was responding to his captor, but not enough to stop Black Bart from pulling at the buttons of his pants.
Daniel’s head fell back against the wide shoulder behind him when Black Bart pushed his hand deep into his pants, grasping his hard cock. The pressure was unbelievable—strong enough to let Daniel know Black Bart’s hand was there, but light enough to keep him on the edge of orgasm. It was pure torture. Daniel clenched and unclenched his hands in Black Bart’s jet black hair. His mouth dropped open as nearly silent whimpers broke free. The man had one hand on Daniel’s chest, gently pinching and tugging at his nipples. The other hand stroked Daniel’s cock. When Black Bart’s lips latched on to Daniel’s neck, he couldn’t keep his cries to himself any longer. His head fell to one side, baring his throat to Black Bart’s questing lips. His body hummed with arousal. “Please.” Daniel pleaded, not really sure what he was begging for but knowing he needed something more. “Please what, cowboy?” Daniel shook his head. He bit his lip. He couldn’t say it. If he did, that would make it real. His admission would mean he wanted the things this man did to him, the things Black Bart made him feel. The touching suddenly stopped. Daniel groaned in protest. He was so very close. He pushed his hips toward the hand holding his cock but it fell away, taking with it the hot feeling of pleasure that had been racing through his body. “Please, I . . . I . . . .” Daniel moaned. “Tell me what you want, cowboy, and I’ll give it to you,” Black Bart whispered into Daniel’s ear. “I won’t touch you unless you tell me what you want.” Daniel groaned. He couldn’t tell Black Bart what he wanted. He just couldn’t. But he didn’t know if he could live without the ecstasy of Black Bart’s touch another second. He just might die without it. Black Bart’s tongue against the shell of his ear decided Daniel’s course. He cried out, arching his body as he gave in to the feelings the outlaw provoked in him. “Touch me,” Daniel begged, “Oh God, please touch me.”
Black Bart instantly answered Daniel’s plea. He wrapped his hand around Daniel’s cock and stroked him. With his other hand he caressed Daniel’s chest, moving back and forth between his nipples to play with them both. The outlaw’s lips moved from Daniel’s ear to his neck, licking a path around to the edge of his jaw and onto his lips. Daniel’s body throbbed. When Black Bart’s mouth covered his, all the air in his lungs escaped, leaving him breathless and wanting. Black Bart’s tongue brushing against his sent Daniel into a tailspin of desire. He dug his fingers into the hard, corded muscles of Black Bart’s neck as the pressure building in his balls exploded out the top of his cock. His groan of completion shattered the silence as he covered Black Bart’s hand with pearly white seed. “That’s it, cowboy,” Black Bart murmured against Daniel’s lips. “Give it all to me.” Daniel’s only response was the deep groan that built up in his throat and roared free as Black Bart continued to stroke him through his orgasm and beyond. His body bucked, his cock sensitive to every touch. And still Black Bart didn’t stop. He kept stroking Daniel’s cock with one hand, playing with his nipples with the other. Before long, Daniel had worked his way through one orgasm and was well on his way to another. “You know I’m going to fuck you, don’t you, cowboy?” Daniel recognized the words were more of a statement than a question. He knew . . . and he feared he might even beg for it. And that thought scared him more than having a gun held to his head. Black Bart brought the horse to a stop and climbed down. Daniel absently noted the mask on the outlaw’s face, covering him from view. He had yet to see his features, except for those arresting green eyes. When the outlaw reached for him, Daniel reacted on instinct. He kicked out at Black Bart with one foot and at the horse’s flanks with the other. The horse took off like a bullet.
Daniel tried to grab the reins with his bound hands. He’d caught the edge of the soft leather when a loud whistle split the air. The horse came to such an abrupt stop that Daniel almost fell from the saddle. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, but the animal refused to budge. Frantic, hearing Black Bart coming up behind him, Daniel kicked free of the saddle and slid off the horse. The moment his feet hit the ground he took off running. He ran as fast and as far as he could until a massive force tackled him from behind. Daniel grunted when he hit the ground, his body screaming in protest. He clawed at the dirt beneath him as he tried to crawl away. He put everything he had into getting himself free, but nothing worked. Black Bart was just too big, too strong. He effortlessly lifted Daniel in his arms and tossed him over his shoulder. He beat at Black Bart’s back with his bound hands. He kicked with his feet. Satisfaction filled him when he heard the outlaw grunt. “Alright, that’s enough of that shit,” Black Bart growled. “Keep it up and you’re going to feel the flat of my hand against your backside, cowboy.” Considering his circumstances, Daniel should have heeded Black Bart’s warning. Something told him he’d regret it if he didn’t. But at the moment, resisting the man who held him, and not the consequences of his actions, was uppermost in his mind. Daniel continued to beat at Black Bart until his captor suddenly swung him around and dropped him on the ground. Daniel cried out as he landed. He turned over onto his back to glare up at the outlaw. What he saw made his eyes widen and his heart beat faster. Black Bart stood over him, hands on his waist, eyes blazing with fury. “I warned you, cowboy,” he said as he reached for Daniel. “Now you’re going to find out just why they call me Black Bart.” Daniel yelped as the outlaw flipped him over onto his stomach then lifted him into the air. Black Bart sat down on a nearby stump and effortlessly laid Daniel’s body over his legs then yanked his pants down, baring his ass. “What the fu—Shit!” Daniel yelled when he felt Black Bart’s hand land on his ass. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Teaching you some manners,” Black Bart said as he swatted at Daniel’s ass again. “Branson should have taught you better. Seems he was remiss in your education, cowboy.” “No one has the right to talk about Branson that way!” Daniel shouted as he renewed his struggles, trying to push himself away. “Whoa, cowboy,” Black Bart admonished as he held Daniel down. “You can’t talk about Branson like that,” Daniel shouted. “You’re not fit to lick his boots.” Black Bart suddenly flipped him over and stared down at him in what Daniel could only assume was amusement. He gulped past the lump that had suddenly taken hold in his throat. “And what are you going to do to stop me?” Black Bart challenged. He emphasized the situation by lifting Daniel up by his arms and settling him between his legs. Daniel was trapped. “Maybe I should have me a little talk with Branson, find out what’s so special about him.” He shook his head frantically. “No,” he whispered. “What will you do to stop me?” “Anything.” Daniel could see the intensity in Black Bart’s gaze. He felt it all of the way down to his toes. He knew what was coming even before the outlaw opened his mouth. It was a price he was more than willing to pay. “Give me what I want, no protests, and I’ll leave Branson alone.” Daniel nodded, resigned to the situation he was in. “I’ll do anything to keep Branson safe, even if it means submitting to an outlaw like you.” Daniel had to admit that the idea of submitting to Black Bart thrilled him just a little. The man was devastatingly handsome. Black Bart pushed Daniel up to stand. He untied the rope from around Daniel’s wrists then waved a hand at him. “Take your clothes off,” he ordered before sitting back to watch. Daniel’s fingers shook as he slid his shirt off and dropped it on the ground. He kept his eyes on the scenery beyond Black Bart’s shoulders. Even still, he could feel the man’s eyes devouring him as he reached for his pants.
He had to stop for a moment and kick his boots free before sliding off his pants. Once he was naked, Daniel took a deep breath and stood up straight. The slight gasp he heard had him looking at Black Bart in surprise. Black Bart’s gaze roamed over him. He felt like he was being eaten alive, and he shivered. He just wasn’t sure if he shivered in delight or trepidation. He started to move his hands to cover his most vulnerable parts when Black Bart clicked his tongue and shook his head. “My, my, my, Branson has been keeping secrets, hasn’t he?” Black Bart smirked. “If you’re as good as you look I’d be willing to bet you’re worth more than all of his cattle put together.” Daniel couldn’t help but be aroused by the outlaw’s comments, and not because his boss might be willing to ransom him. Knowing that the big man was attracted to him was something Daniel found hard to ignore. “Come here,” Black Bart directed, pointing to the ground between his legs. Daniel hesitated for a moment, just long enough to get a dark eyebrow raised at him, before stepping forward to stand closer to Black Bart. The outlaw touched him. The contact of rough, callused hands against his body brought a soft gasp from Daniel. His heart beat frantically, his blood pounded in his ears. Black Bart’s palms felt hot against Daniel’s skin. Burning hot. “I’m gonna have so much fun with you, cowboy,” Black Bart murmured. “You’re going to forget you ever heard the name Branson.” Daniel shook his head. “No one could make me forget Branson,” he insisted, but his voice shook with desire. Daniel’s hands trembled as he settled them on Black Bart’s shoulders, afraid his knees would give out at any moment. Black Bart caressed him, touched him, made his body ache with need. He longed to feel the man’s hands on him. He yearned to feel Black Bart’s cock pound into his ass. “Do you think about Branson, cowboy?” Black Bart whispered against Daniel’s stomach. “Do you fantasize about him when you jerk off?”
Daniel nodded before he could even give the thought purpose. His mind was too wound up in the sensations Black Bart created against his skin. “Do you dream about Branson fucking your tight little ass?” Daniel nodded again then yelped when Black Bart swatted him. He looked up in surprise. “Well, too bad,” Black Bart growled as he turned Daniel around and pushed him down to his hands and knees. “I’m the only one who’s going to be fucking this ass today, cowboy, and I’m going to fuck you so hard, you won’t be thinking of anyone but me for weeks.” Daniel froze in shock. Maybe agreeing to submit to Black Bart might not have been his wisest decision. He couldn’t keep himself from jerking when Black Bart’s hands settled on his hips. He shuddered as Black Bart leaned into him and rough material brushed his ass. The hardness in the man’s pants waited to be unleashed; the thin cloth the only thing separating them. Daniel cried out when spit-lubed fingers pressed against his sensitive opening then pushed inside his hole. His eyes drifted closed as sensation took over his body. Once again, his entire world narrowed down to what Black Bart was doing to him. Daniel couldn’t keep himself from pushing back against the fingers invading his passage. It felt too good. The outlaw obviously knew exactly what he was doing, and he was doing it to Daniel very well. Daniel whimpered when Black Bart pulled his fingers free. He wiggled his ass, silently begging for more of the man’s touch. He heard rustling behind him then the blunt head of Black Bart’s cock pressed against him. Strong hands grabbed Daniel’s hips and gradually impaled him on that hard cock. Daniel groaned at the slowness of the entry. He wanted to be taken, to have that cock pound into him. He pushed back, trying to drive Black Bart into his ass faster, but the man was having none of that. “My cock, my pace.” Black Bart swatted Daniel on the ass then grabbed his hip again, still moving slowly. Daniel whimpered and let the outlaw have his
way—not that he had much choice in the matter. He just prayed that if he had to submit to the man, at least he would get something out of it. “Please,” Daniel begged. Black Bart stroked his hand over Daniel’s ass cheek. “I love it when you beg, cowboy. It makes me hot.” Daniel whimpered again. If Black Bart wanted him to beg, if that was what it took to get that hard cock to pound his ass quicker, he’d beg until he was blue in the face. “Please, more, harder,” he pleaded. His plea was answered as Black Bart thrust in the last few inches, impaling Daniel so hard and so deep his breath caught in his throat. He felt so full. Black Bart’s cock filled every inch of him, rubbing against his sweet spot with every movement. The outlaw could be right. After this, he might not think about anyone else for weeks. If this got any better, Daniel would be begging for more. He might even demand it of the big man. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” Black Bart groaned. “It’s been a while since anyone’s fucked you, hasn’t it?” Daniel nodded. Hell yeah, it had been a while. A long while. He hadn’t had someone fuck him since before he had left on the cattle drive, and that had been a little over two months ago. He’d missed the feeling of a hard cock in his ass. “That’s good to know,” Black Bart murmured as he started thrusting in and out. “I’d hate to think of anyone enjoying this ass but me.” Daniel bit his lip and shook his head. He was beyond speech at this point. He knew if he opened his mouth he would beg Black Bart to fuck him harder, to take him again and again until he never even thought about another man. Black Bart’s hands dug into Daniel’s hips. The sting of pain combined with the pleasure radiating out of his body propelled Daniel to the edge of orgasm so quickly he nearly passed out. He couldn’t remember ever being fucked like this, with so much intensity, so much power. It made his toes curl and his mind reel.
Daniel wanted more. He wanted it all. Reaching beneath his body, he grabbed his cock and quickly stroked himself to the rhythm of Black Bart’s thrusts. His breath quickened. His mouth dropped open as the groans he had been trying to hold back broke free. “Harder!” Daniel demanded. “Fuck me harder, you big bastard.” Black Bart grunted, but the power of his thrusts increased until Daniel had to dig his hand into the ground beneath him to keep from being pushed forward. He was overwhelmed. Sensation enveloped his entire body. The tingle at the base of his spine shot through him before settling in his balls. He could feel his sac draw up tight against his body as he started to climax. Black Bart continued to pound Daniel’s sweet spot, driving him out of his mind. The massive cock in his ass thickened even as Black Bart roared out his release. The feeling of Black Bart’s hot seed filling him was all it took to send Daniel over the edge. “Bartholomew!” Daniel screamed as everything came together in one mind-blowing explosion and he followed Black Bart into ecstasy. Seed spurted from Daniel’s cock, covering his hand and the ground beneath him. Daniel’s breath left his body. He released his shaft. Before he could fall to the ground, strong hands caught him and slowly lowered him. A large body lay down beside him. Muscular arms cradled him close. Daniel laid his head on Black Bart’s chest and listened to the rhythm of the man’s breathing, the soft thud of his heart. He flattened his palm on the outlaw’s chest and gently ran his fingers through the smattering of chest hair there. He felt peaceful; satisfied in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He never wanted to leave the comfort of the arms holding him close. “When did you know it was me?” Daniel tilted his head back to look up into the powerful grass-green eyes gazing back at him. He smiled and pulled the mask down. He stroked his fingers along the side of the man’s face. “Since you asked me my name back at the stagecoach.” “I had my face covered. How did you know it was me?”
Daniel laughed. “I’ve heard you call me cowboy enough times to recognize your voice, and it’s not like this isn’t one of your favorite games. Besides, no one has eyes like yours or looks at me the way you do, Bartholomew Branson.” Bartholomew grunted, a pleased smile crossing his lips. “No one better be looking at you the way I do, or they’re going to be looking down the barrel of my gun.” Daniel leaned up on his elbow to glare down at his lover. “Just what in the hell were you thinking, holding a loaded gun to my head? Did you lose your mind while I was on that cattle drive?” Bartholomew smirked. “It wasn’t loaded, cowboy. Do you really think I would take any chances with my life?” “You mean my life,” Daniel corrected him. Bartholomew shook his head, his face serious. “No, I mean my life. If anything happened to you, Daniel, I wouldn’t have a life. There wouldn’t be any reason for me to continue living. I’d just whither up and die.” “I love you, too, Black Bart.” “You’d better, cowboy.” Bartholomew laughed. “You’re gonna have to get my ass out of hot water when we get into town. The sheriff may be my brother, but he’s still gonna to be pissed when he learns I held up the stage.” Daniel burst out laughing. “He’s going to be more than pissed. He may lock your ass up this time. You remember that woman who was on the stage with me? Just before you stopped us, I had been telling her about the dangerous outlaw, Black Bart.” Bartholomew rolled his eyes. “Now why in the hell did you have to go and do that? My brother is sure to want a piece of me before he gets done. He’s already warned us once to stop playing outlaw and captive. He’s still mad at us for the last time.” Daniel shrugged as he reached for his clothes. “Maybe you should have waited until I got home before kidnapping me then.” “I haven’t seen you in two months, Daniel. I couldn’t wait any longer. When one of the boys rode in and told me that he had spotted the stagecoach,
well, I just had to come get you. I rounded up a few of the new boys—ones I figured you wouldn’t recognize—and just rode out.” “If you can’t stand being away from me, stop sending me on cattle drives, boss man.” “Someone has to do it, Daniel, and I don’t trust anyone else like I trust you. Besides, the ranch is half yours. One of us has to go on the drives.” “I don’t care. Find someone else. I’ve done my time on the trail, even got injured and lost my damn horse. Make someone else go. Hell, we did good enough at the cattle market, we can hire someone.” Bartholomew looked at Daniel. “Yeah, I was sorry to hear about Stickler. He was a good horse. But I’m damn glad you’re okay. Just about tore the telegraph office apart when I heard you had been hurt.” Daniel nodded. The thought of his lost horse still saddened him and probably would for a while. “We’ll get you another horse, Daniel.” Bartholomew patted his shoulder. “I may even have the perfect one in mind. I’ve kind of been keeping it a secret from you, wanted it to be a surprise, but Stickler got to one of the mares. She dropped her foal while you were gone.” “Stickler mated?” Daniel whispered. Bartholomew nodded, a wide smile crossing his lips. “Little feller’s not much to look at yet but I think he has a lot of potential. Real cute too; looks just like his sire.” Tears prickled the corners of Daniel’s eyes. He turned his head away to wipe them off his face before they fell, not wanting his lover to see him cry. Bartholomew grabbed his chin and forced him to look back. “Don’t hide from me, Daniel,” he whispered. “Not even your sadness. I need everything you have to give me.” Daniel closed his eyes and leaned in to his lover, resting his head against the man’s broad shoulders. Bartholomew stroked the back of his head and wrapped the other hand around his waist, pulling him close. “You’re my world, Daniel Branson, don’t you ever forget that. I could lose it all, the cattle, the ranch, everything, but if I lost you—”
“You’re not going to lose me, Black Bart,” Daniel whispered back. He tilted his head to look into those exquisite green eyes. “You stole my heart and became my outlaw.” ~The End~ About the Author Stormy Glenn believes the only thing sexier than a man in cowboy boots is two, or three, men in cowboy boots. She also believes in love at first sight, soul mates, true love, and happy endings. Stormy welcomes comments from readers. You can find her web site and email address at www.stormyglenn.com ~***~
Forbidden By H. C. Brown Chapter One England, 1075 “No! I will not agree, Father. The thought of marriage disgusts me. And to that old woman? Do you think me some kind of fool?” Renoir strode to the window and stared into the distance, shaking with anger. He turned and lifted his chin, his eyes blazing with defiance. “Yes, I see that you do.” Sir Paul Danier folded his arms and glared at his petulant son. “You have no choice. It was King William’s decision. It’s not in the crown’s best interest to leave Sir Jean’s estate without a Norman lord in residence. Can you imagine if Lady Isabella requests that her brother governs Wilburn in her stead? A Spanish lord in control of an estate that borders the sea? How long will we be safe in our beds before the Spanish invade?”
Renoir inclined his head and glared. “I cannot be expected to bed an old woman, Father. I beg you to be reasonable.” Bile seeped up the back of Paul’s throat. Renoir was a depraved man, a son of the devil. He oft’ wondered if Renoir was indeed of his loins when he saw him thusly. Both his other sons were as tall as he, of muscular build, and they both had flowing black hair. They were married now, but in their day they had both caused the usual amount of trouble with the wenches. Renoir, by comparison, seemed an abomination. His fair skin was as soft as any maiden’s, and he had eyes more like a doe’s than a man’s. Renoir refused the countless offers to wed the daughters of his friends; all landed knights. It was becoming an embarrassment. The whispers of his deviation had even reached the king’s ear. “Aye, I know of your affliction, Reni. Mayhap some time with a woman of experience will bring you back to God.” Paul watched the shocked expression cross his son’s angelic face. Renoir stopped pacing and skirted the sofa to stand before him with arms outstretched. “I wish you could understand, Father. I am as God-fearing as you are. Indeed, there are many born such as I who serve as God’s messengers. My affliction, as you describe it, harms no one. All come willingly to my bed.” “Enough! Do not foul my ears with tales of your debauchery. Do your duty as a knight of the king. Agree to this joining, for as surely as you believe that God forgives your transgressions, King William will not!” Renoir raised his chin, but did not meet his father’s gaze. “As you wish, Father. Mayhap it is best we no longer occupy the same castle.” He turned on his heel and strode from the solar, then sauntered down the passageway and slipped down the spiral staircase leading to the cloisters. A light breeze brushed against his cheek as he entered. The flash of sunlight piercing through the ornate columns brought a memory that twisted his heart. Sebastian.
That day dawned the same as this. He remembered every detail in absolute clarity. The sun shone brilliantly that morning as he strode onto the practice field. The soft, gentle breeze carried the sweet scent of honeysuckle. Knights of the Spanish ruler, El Cid Campeador, were in England training to compete in the Tournament. All of King William’s knights were encouraged to uphold the reputation of the Norman king’s prowess in battle. Renoir, dressed only in leggings, pushed on his helm and taking his sword in hand stepped onto the field with his young squire . . . and time stood still. In the middle of the field, a battle progressed. A magnificent Spanish knight, naked to the waist, advanced on his opponent. He swung a heavy sword, crashing it down without mercy upon a faltering challenger. Renoir stopped to watch in awestruck admiration. His cock swelled as the dark knight stepped and twirled in a deadly dance. The knight’s hair, black as a starless night, clung to the thick sheen of sweat across his muscular, bronze-skinned shoulders. Black leggings molded to a rock hard ass and long, muscular legs. Renoir caught his breath, transfixed as the man turned, raised his sword, and delivered the deathblow, stopping short of decapitating his opponent. Then he lifted his dark eyes to Renoir and winked. Dear God, his face was like a dark angel’s, his lips so full and lush. The dark knight’s deep sienna gaze travelled down Renoir’s body and rested on his obvious erection. The heat from a blush crept up Renoir’s neck and into his cheeks, but he could not look away. The knight inclined his head as if assessing him and Renoir panicked. He would not survive a challenge from such a man. Instead, he handed his sword belt and helm to his squire and headed for the stables. The hayloft provided sanctuary from his father when the grooms were out in the field tending to the knight’s horses. Renoir walked past the stalls toward the ladder that led above. He crawled into the hay and listened to the grunts and laughter from the battlefield. Squires brought horses into the stalls and tended to them, chatting with some merriment about their masters. Renoir laid still, the rough hay prickling his bare skin. Safe in his hiding place, he amused himself by
chewing on a length of straw until the stable fell quiet but for the soft nickering of horses. After a while, the delightful aromas of roasting meat drifted from the kitchen. Renoir’s stomach rumbled. He got to his feet and climbed down the ladder, then stopped to brush dust and straw from his leggings. Footfalls pounded on the pathway outside the stable door. Renoir glanced up. The dark knight slid through the doorway, and they eyed each other in silence. The knight inclined his head. “I saw your arousal when you watched me fight.” Renoir panicked and stepped back as the knight loomed over him, his musky scent sending a rush of heat to his loins. “I beg your pardon, good sir. I meant no disrespect.” The knight ran a hand through his hair and looked at him as if contemplating his next action. “‘Tis no disrespect, but your boldness will bring you undone. I am Sebastian. And you are Sir Renoir Danier, or so my worthy squire informs me. He also informs me that you have unusual tastes.” He ran his tongue across his bottom lip and winked. “As do I.” Renoir opened his mouth to reply when he heard a groom whistling nearby. Sebastian’s lips lifted at the corners. “We will speak later?” Renoir nodded. Sebastian ran a finger slowly down Renoir’s cheek, turned on his heel, and sauntered from the stable.
***** Renoir took luncheon in his room, unnerved at the thought of seeing Sebastian so soon after their meeting. Could there be a possibility of a liaison? Jesus’ Blood, the very thought made him stiff. But where? Not here in his bedchamber. His father kept a close eye on him, no doubt expecting him to drag one of the pageboys into his room and commit rape. Mayhap the stable would be
a safe place to take Sebastian? Yes, of course; the grooms slept in a room beside the barracks. There would be nobody to disturb them in the privacy of the hayloft. Renoir climbed onto his bed and lay with his head resting on his arms. He brushed aside the pang of regret for his father’s ignorance toward him and drifted into a sweet dream of Sebastian taking him by force in the hayloft. He awoke in darkness. The bedchamber door shook with the force of his father’s fist pounding on the wooden panels. “Renoir, come down to the Great Hall at once. It is an affront to our guests to lounge in your bedchamber like a whimpering wench.” He jumped from the bed and straightened his jerkin. His skin grew hot at the thought of meeting Sebastian. He hastened along the passageway then stopped before the tall oak doors to the Great Hall to regain his composure. The smell of mulled wine, sweat and roast meat leaked through the door. He heard the sweet sound of a lyre above the knights’ bawdy chatter. His father’s voice bellowed out his name as he entered. “My errant son, Renoir. Come and sit beside Sebastian. He has many questions to ask you about the contest.” Renoir glanced around the room with an expression he hoped displayed a mild interest. Sebastian stood up and waved him to a seat at the banquet table. Renoir straightened his shoulders, walked toward the man and inclined his head. “Sebastian.” Sebastian smiled, his teeth a flash of white against his golden skin. “Sir Renoir.” Renoir sat and reached for a goblet of mulled wine. Sebastian’s leg pressed hard against his own, sending heat flowing through his leggings. He turned his head slightly toward him and almost choked when Sebastian’s hand squeezed his thigh. “Will be a full moon tonight. A good omen for a clear day on the morrow,” Sebastian declared. “Yes. The sky is filled with stars.”
“Your good father informs me that you’d be delighted to show me the weapons he took from the Saxons. Might we go and perhaps later visit the stable to see his fine warhorse?” Renoir nodded and stifled a groan as Sebastian’s fingers tightened around his thigh. The man’s full, tempting lips twisted in a crooked smile. As the meal continued, Renoir dutifully answered questions from all the visiting knights. When his father finished his food, he ordered Renoir to escort Sebastian to the armory. What could his sire be thinking? No doubt he thought to thrust his too-feminine son upon the dark knight in hopes some of Sebastian’s manliness would rub off. Little did his father know he’d shoved him right into the lion’s den . . . a den Renoir was only too happy to visit. He stood, pulled down his tunic, and led Sebastian from the hall. They walked close together, and Sebastian’s hand oft brushed his own. Renoir’s stomach clenched and he laughed at such a reaction; he acted like a maiden at her first liaison! Sebastian turned and smiled at him. “Ah! You find me amusing. Well . . . we shall see.” They reached the armory. No sooner had Renoir grabbed a torch from the wall and stepped inside than Sebastian took it from his hand and pushed him hard against the door. “You enjoyed it when I touched you. I saw you blush like a maiden.” Renoir pushed hard against Sebastian’s chest, and grunted when his efforts amounted to nothing. He would have had more luck moving a bear. Sebastian chuckled softly, cupped Renoir’s head, and wiped a path across his mouth with his tongue. His lips hovered so close Renoir could smell the tang of mulled wine on his moist breath. “You’ve had a man before, have you not?” Renoir nodded and Sebastian stepped back, glancing around him. “You have a place. Your room, perhaps?” A rush of fear consumed Renoir and he shook his head. “No, I think not. I hardly know you. My father . . . .” Sebastian stood back, his eyes ablaze with passion. “Your father cares little for your happiness. He wishes you to marry, does he not? Yet ‘tis obvious that
you prefer the company of men in your bed. In my country, many men have lovers.” He cupped Renoir’s chin and ran a finger across his bottom lip. “Please. I can’t discuss this here! Someone may overhear us.” Renoir stepped away and ran blindly toward the sanctuary of the stables. The moon filled the deserted courtyard with silvery light, bathing the stables in twisting shadows beneath the chestnut trees. He ran through the open door, slumped against an empty stall, and inhaled the comforting aromas of horse and hay. He froze when he heard footsteps running across the courtyard. The stable sank into total obscurity as the entrance filled with Sebastian’s bulk. The knight strode purposely toward Renoir and clamped a hand on his shoulder. “I know that you want me. Tell me this isn’t so?” Sebastian’s Spanish accent rolled across the words, sweet as honey. A surge of lust and need sped through Renoir’s loins. Could this vision of perfection truly desire him? A man such as he only existed in dreams. The vision inclined his head. Eyes like dark pools of hunger bored into Renoir’s soul. “Yes I want you,” Renoir whispered. “As I want you,” he replied. Sebastian pulled his tunic off over his head then closed the space between them. Hot fingers clasped Renoir’s chin and the knight suddenly lowered his lips His mouth was savage, hot, moving across his lips, sucking the air from his lungs. The knight’s demanding tongue pushed against his teeth, probing, insisting, devouring. Sensations spiraled into an erotic delirium: the warm, musky smell of Sebastian’s sweat, the sweet taste of mulled wine on his breath. Renoir lifted his hands hesitantly and explored the silky dark skin. The knight’s body felt rigid under his fingers, as if every muscle were etched in stone. Sebastian pushed Renoir hard against the ladder, his hand cupping the back of Renoir’s head, drawing him closer to oblivion. Renoir delighted in the scrape of the knight’s whiskers against his skin, the fierceness of his touch. The kiss deepened, grew more demanding, controlling each fevered breath. Sebastian’s hard body crushed him, pinning him
helplessly, burning through his clothes. The knight’s erection ground hard against him, swelling his cock so that it strained at his leggings, begging for release. The knight pulled away suddenly, his eyes wild, untamed. He pointed up toward the hayloft. Renoir took a deep breath and hastened upward. The knight climbed behind him then stood close when they reached the top, consuming him with his gaze. “You ran from my presence, Reni, and for that I must punish you. Remove your clothes, peasant,” he ordered in a low growl. Renoir’s lips burnt from the kiss. The sting of rough bristles on his chin made his entire body ache with desire. This is what he craved—complete domination, to be possessed in every forbidden way. He tore off his boots, tunic, and leggings then watched in anticipation as Sebastian removed two leather straps from a nail in the wall. He swung them both against the palm of his hand as if testing their strength. “Push that bale of hay against the center post,” he ordered, standing over Renoir as the leather straps swung in his hand. Renoir pushed the bale, and the air cracked as the strap whipped across his back once, twice. Pain shot into his balls, his vision blurred and his legs trembled when the third strike cut a stinging lash into the cheeks of his ass. Renoir’s cock bobbed against his stomach as the rousing tingle vibrated deep in his balls. His heart raced in eagerness. Yes, yes, this is what I want. “Bend over the bale. Lean on it only with your chest.” Renoir complied. His knees trembled as a sweat-soaked rag covered his eyes. Its sweet, musky odor sent a flame of forbidden lust straight to his balls. He quivered in anticipation as a strap slipped around his neck then tightened. The buckle slid flush to his nape. The knight pulled the long lead back as though restraining a stallion; so tight, so dominant. The harshness of the hay as it pressed against his flesh, the cool breeze brushing against his bare ass and balls, tantalized Renoir. The steps whined as
Sebastian returned to the stable below, and Renoir waited in darkness. Long moments passed before the knight returned. Renoir squirmed under Sebastian’s silent domination. The helpless thrill of being blindfolded and exposed terrified him. He knew he should not be doing this, but he wanted Sebastian’s touch. He craved him. Sebastian’s silent presence was daunting. The desperate longing and startling realization of the slow burning fire Renoir carried inside disturbed him. Only Sebastian could extinguish the flame now. The belt swished through the air as lashes struck Renoir’s bare ass. Sebastian comforted each delicious smack with the soothing stroke of his fingers or the flick of his tortuously wet tongue. When oiled fingers caressed his puckered entrance in slow, gentle spirals, it was all Renoir could do not to cry out in ecstasy. A warm, rough-skinned finger pressed against his tight passage and gained entrance. “So tight. A virgin ass, I wager. Ah, Reni, I will break you in two and you will beg for more.” In and out, in and out, a swirl deep inside. Renoir’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the side of the bale. This was so wrong, so deliciously forbidden. He pushed back, wanting more. Sebastian removed his finger, and Renoir shuddered in frustration. The knight trailed a warm hand up Renoir’s back. The hay rustled as he crawled in front of him, cupped his face and pressed a thumb into the corner of his lips, opening his mouth. “Show me how you suckle your master.” Renoir tasted the wet head of Sebastian’s cock as it rubbed against his lips, then opened wide and sucked it inside. He gagged at its enormous length when it went deep, hitting the back of his throat. Hot and thick, the shaft pressed his tongue down hard, tasting like heaven. Salty, musky flavors filled Renoir’s mouth as he pumped it to and fro. Fingers threaded through his hair, holding him steady. The thick cock slipped from his mouth. Sebastian moved behind him again, and Renoir trembled when a stream of hot breath blew across his balls. The hay rustled and he waited in anticipation for his master to continue. Two
hard slaps bloomed across his ass cheeks, followed by the soothing coolness of oil under rough hands. “Pull your ass cheeks apart. Show me your tight hole,” Sebastian commanded. Renoir reached awkwardly behind, grasped his ass cheeks, and pulled them apart. He flinched as the cool oil ran down the crack and tickled a tormenting path across his balls. Sebastian’s fingers slipped between his legs and grasped his cock. The touch was hot, gentle, caressing him in slow, tortuously delightful strokes. “You will not spill until I say. Now tell me what you want.” “I want you to fuck me,” Renoir murmured into the hay. Sebastian chuckled. “You forgot to say, please master.” Renoir dropped his head. His cock was sure to explode; he needed to concentrate. “Please fuck my ass, master.” Renoir’s neck jerked back as Sebastian tightened the length of leather. He faltered slightly, fighting for breath, but held his ass cheeks wide as directed. His chest bore into the scratchy hay as Sebastian dragged his head back to its limit. The sudden thrilling sensation of Sebastian’s hot cock against his ass was like a lick of fire. Strong fingers grasped his hip and he tensed as the knight’s massive cock drove mercilessly inside. The pain was intense; a burning poker splitting him in two. Through the delirium, he heard Sebastian’s growl behind him and felt a hot fullness pushing hard into his ass. The shaft began to move inside him, slowly at first. Soon, the pain melted into a kaleidoscope of unimaginable sensations. Sebastian’s hand gripped his hip and Renoir relaxed into the forbidden delight of long, deep strokes. Renoir’s cock swelled to bursting as Sebastian’s thick cock glided over a spot deep in his ass. The sensation sent tremors shuddering through his balls. He felt so full, stretched so deliciously wide. The heat radiating from Sebastian’s dick raged inside him like a forest fire. “Grab your cock and pleasure yourself.” The order came harshly from behind.
Renoir dropped his hands as the tension on his neck eased. He reached around the hay bale to pump his aching shaft. Fingers dug into the soft flesh of his hips and he heard himself cry out as Sebastian fucked him harder, deeper. Sebastian’s balls bounced against his own in an erotic dance. “Now,” Sebastian ordered. The cock buried deep inside him shuddered and filled his ass with endless spurts of hot seed. Renoir could not prevent a long wail of ecstasy as he found his release. Sebastian’s lips trailed a rewarding path down the welts on his back. Renoir collapsed before Sebastian’s cock had stopped throbbing in his ass. He sighed in sated pleasure as Sebastian fell over him, pinning him on the bale of hay. Their bodies clamped deliciously together, slipping on the sweat, and both of them trembled with passion. They rolled into the scattered hay and Sebastian slipped from him. Still in darkness, Renoir could hear him close, breathing heavily. The knight gently removed the strap from Renoir’s neck and pulled the rag from his eyes. Large, rough hands cupped his face, and he found himself staring into deep, dark, and sultry eyes. Renoir sighed as Sebastian bent to slant his mouth across his lips. The kiss was tender, as were the fingers that stroked his face and the tongue that caressed his bottom lip. “I have been waiting for you all of my life,” Sebastian whispered. ***** Even now, Renoir remembered the beginning of the most wonderful month of his life so clearly. He and Sebastian quickly fell in love and life seemed perfect. At least for a moment. He shook his head as familiar pain crushed his heart. Too soon, the king’s contest had concluded and Sebastian returned to Spain, promising to leave his regiment in the new year. Renoir had waited, expectation brimming as the festive season ended, but no word arrived.
Sebastian crushed Renoir’s heart five years earlier. For three of those years, Renoir wandered aimlessly, mourning his loss. Then Sir James arrived at the castle. He was much older, but his body was that of a young man’s. Their dalliances were more conventional, if such a word could be applied to their pleasure. Still, there was no love in Renoir’s heart for James. He would never give his heart again. How could he? It would always belong to Sebastian. Chapter Two Renoir straightened his back as Lady Isabella, surrounded by a bevy of maidservants, swept into the Great Hall. She was at least four score and five. Grey strands streaked once dark brown hair, but her onyx eyes danced as she curtsied low before him. Renoir stepped forward and took her hand, stooping to brush a kiss on her knuckles. “Lady Isabella, how nice to see you again. I trust your journey was pleasant?” “It was a boring, uncomfortable journey, but no matter. I came to see if you have grown into a man since we last met. My word, Sir Renoir, you resemble your mother. I must say I’m surprised you’ve not married. How old are you now, five and twenty?” Her voice still contained a hint of her Spanish heritage. Renoir fixed a pleasant smile on his face as his father entered the room and glared at him. “I’ve been far too busy defending our realm to think on marriage, my lady. However, it is most fortunate that I waited or else you would have been lost to me,” he replied, making his voice soft and sultry. He knew how to play this game, how to pretend the fairer sex enamored him. It was just as well he was a fine actor. The thought of kissing a woman made him long to retch. He took Lady Isabella’s hand and led her toward his father. She curtsied low again, and Renoir noticed the strange look in his father’s eyes.
He also noticed that King William’s messenger stood behind him. “Is there a problem, Father?” Sir Paul straightened and waved the messenger forward. “Repeat the king’s missive to my son and his betrothed.” The messenger stepped forward and unrolled a parchment scroll embossed with King William’s red wax seal. “The king has demanded that the consummation of the marriage of Sir Renoir Danier and Lady Isabella d’ Coutier be witnessed. He orders that the good Father Luke be his eyes with one other of your choosing. Both witnesses must make their mark on the confirmation document and return it to the king. All lands and titles belonging to Lady Isabella will be given to Sir Renoir on receipt.” Renoir shook his head in disgust. Was it not enough of a disaster that he must marry the old crone? Now they expected him to bed her! Lord, what was he to do? He turned to Lady Isabella and sighed. “Dear lady, I am sorry this has happened. Mayhap we can petition the king?” “No!” bellowed Sir Paul. “This public consummation is necessary to curtail any dispute by Spain for the ownership of the land. It is already their intention that Lady Isabella govern in her own right.” Renoir noticed Sir James leaning against the wall, grinning from ear to ear. He turned to his father. “Very well, but I insist that the second witness be Sir James. He is not wont to divulge our most personal details to anyone.” His father nodded, offered apologies to Lady Isabella, and strode from the Great Hall. Renoir motioned to one of his men. “My guard will show you to your room, my lady. I will be busy making the final arrangements for our nuptials, but I will look forward to gazing upon your beauty on our wedding day.” He pasted a thin smile on his lips as she departed with her procession of maidservants. Sir James ambled slowly to his side, grinning like a buffoon. “My word, this farce will be a marvel to watch. Methinks your cock will wither and die even if she presents that substantial ass up to you.”
“Aye,” he replied under his breath. “I am in a difficult position. My father has orchestrated this travesty. He is in the hope that bedding an experienced woman will change my persuasion. Methinks sinking my cock into the crone’s withered hole will be worth it for the chance of escaping this place.”
***** Renoir was absent from the lavish festivities before the wedding. He would make an appearance at the pre-wedding supper, but that was all, he decided. The air in the courtyard was cool, and the silence a peaceful respite for his troubled soul. He rested his back against the cold sandstone wall and gazed up at the moon nestled amongst a wealth of stars. How often he had lain in Sebastian’s arms, replete, exhausted from their glorious union, staring at this same brilliant orb. Dear God, he still missed him. His laughter, the way his smile reflected in his eyes. His scent, his touch, the heat from his body . . . and the love. So much love, it hurt. A woman’s giggle and the soft moan of a man engaged in lustful pursuit came from the open stable door. Renoir straightened and listened to the slap of bare flesh. The noise drew him inexplicably. The heavy scent of aroused female greeted him as he stepped inside. A young couple passionately involved in coitus delecti occupied an otherwise empty stall. A tight white ass pumped up and down between pale, skinny legs. Small hands wound in long blond waves that resembled his own. The man held the woman’s legs high, his long fingers grasping her thighs as he promised her the world. His powerful legs bent as he ground hard into her wet folds. He called out in triumph. His ass cheeks visibly tightened, and with a shudder, he spilled himself inside her. Renoir recognized the woman as one of Lady Isabella’s maidservants. Her face turned crimson when she spied him watching. The young man slipped from her body and washed his cock in a bucket of water before he turned, and froze.
Renoir signaled to the woman with his thumb to leave, and stared at her lover. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, waiting for an explanation. The young man, a Saxon named David, had been hired from the village to replace the old groom who had recently died. He and Renoir shared a similarity in coloring, and had the very same build, but David had a hard, more masculine face. “My lord, the woman, she bewitched me,” he cried. Renoir folded his arms across his chest and glared. “Do you believe that you can tup one of my lady’s maidservants and just walk away without punishment?” David kept his eyes lowered. His hands bunched into fists at his sides. “No, my lord, but I beg your indulgence in this matter. We are much the same age. Do not your loins ache with the need to plunder maidens?” Renoir snorted. “I have control of my urges, David. I should have you flogged, or mayhap castrated. Methinks, however, there may be a way you can indulge in your devotion toward the fairer sex and repay me for my lenience.” David’s gaze shot up. A grateful smile tilted his lips. “How so, good sir?” Renoir shook his head. “Not here. Come with me to the chapel. You are a God-fearing man?” “I am, to be sure, Sir Renoir. I am to be sure.” He followed Renoir into the courtyard like a faithful dog. They entered the chapel through the large studded oak doors. The smell of candle wax and the light perfume of fresh flowers hung in the air. Balanced on the end of each pew, fat candles glowed yellow, dripping great streams of molten beeswax down the sides of their silver holders. Rush lights spilled grey smoke that danced across the pews like ghosts. Pale light illuminated the holy illustrations carved into the walls. Both men crossed themselves, bowing at the altar as Renoir led the way to the silver cross. “Touch the cross, David, and promise here before God that you will serve me willingly. Do my bidding and do not speak a word of our business to anyone for fear that God strike you down.” David’s hand trembled as he touched Christ’s feet. “I promise.” He glanced at Renoir, his eyes showing his fear.
Renoir pushed him gently into the anteroom and shut the door. The room was dark, with only the soft light of the full moon filtering through the window. “I will arrange for you to join my staff at Wilburn. You may wench as you please, but when I call upon you, I expect you to bathe and come to my room.” David moved around nervously. “Do you want to fuck me, milord?” Renoir tipped back his head and laughed. His hand rested on David’s shoulder. “No, my good fellow. I want you to fuck my wife.” Chapter Three Renoir went through all the motions of a besotted groom. He recited his words before God and danced with his wife. His plans for their wedding night were set. In the quiet moments spent with his blushing bride in the castle rose garden, he put his scheme into action. They walked between the fragrant blooms, their feet crushing the tiny pebbles underfoot, alone for the first time. “I am a man of God. I believe that overindulgence of the flesh is a sin. I understand the need to consummate our marriage, dear lady, and to give you a reasonable chance to conceive my heir. However, I understand the limits of your age. I will only come to your chamber if you first extinguish the candle. I expect you to receive me bent on all fours with your nether regions exposed, or likewise, on the edge of the bed. I will not engage in conversation, nor answer any questions during our time together. Do you understand my wishes?” Isabella paled. Her startled dark eyes rounded. “Dear husband, you will expect me to expose myself before a priest and Sir James?” Renoir stared into the distance. “It is the king’s wish, my lady. You have my word that I will cover you with my body before they intrude.” Isabella squeezed his arm affectionately. “Thank you. I am not adverse to such positions; indeed, my late husband was very inventive. However, I have never conceived.”
Renoir patted her hand. “Well then, after this eve, and when we return to Wilburn, I will only enter your bedchamber by your invitation. Indeed, your door will remain locked for your privacy.” “You are most considerate, dear husband. You are young, and soon your loins will ache for a younger woman. This I understand. I will not hold you to our vows. Indeed, I appreciate your consideration for my weak constitution. All I ask from our union is your kindness and protection.” Renoir turned to face her and inclined his head. “And you shall have both. My vows are sacred, dear wife. You may rest assured that I will never lay with another woman for the rest of my life.”
***** Sir James stood in Renoir’s bedchamber, watching David dress in a fine nightshirt. Renoir arranged David’s hair and sprayed him with cologne. “There, James, is he not as handsome as me?” James raised an eyebrow. “He will pass in the dark.” “I have sent for a maiden to help him prepare. I will retire to my study until this farce is concluded. Put out the candle when she arrives, and remember, David, do not speak or my lady will tumble our ruse.” James watched his lover slip into the other room. “What does he mean when he says he sent for a maiden to help me prepare?” asked David nervously, pulling at the nightshirt. James slapped him on the back. “He wants you hard for his wife. Hard and eager. He does not expect you to perform without some help. However, we shall wait until the priest is here and ready to enter the bedchamber. Lady Isabella will be kneeling ass up. She will be well prepared for your assault, so waste no time. Make it look like you are enjoying it. Fuck her hard and fast. You should bend over Lady Isabella, to allow your hair to conceal your features. Although I doubt the priest will be watching your face.” Sir James extinguished the candle, opened the door, and beckoned to a shapely woman waiting outside. She walked to David and curtsied, fell to her
knees and began to stroke his thighs beneath his nightshirt. David lifted the garment to cover his face as she licked a trail up the inside of his leg. James stuck his head out of the door, then turned and smiled. “The priest is here. I will wait with him as soon as you are ready. Lady Isabella is already within.” James watched with interest as the maiden took David’s cock in her mouth and sucked gently, coaxing it to grow considerably. David groaned, grasped two handfuls of her long, red hair, and began to fuck her mouth. “Enough, wench!” James commanded, impressed with the size and thickness of David’s glistening cock. “Go swiftly to your wife, my lord. I will enter with the priest.” James sighed with relief when he entered Lady Isabella’s bedchamber beside the beady eyed priest. A potent sexual odor hung heavy in the room, and Lady Isabella writhed in ecstasy on a massive bed not four paces away. Her long hair curtained her face as she braced her arms against the onslaught. David’s hands gripped Lady Isabella’s large, rounded ass as he pounded into her from behind with long, even strokes. She was lush and full bodied. Her enormous breasts swung against the thick linen sheets. James smiled. The boy is quite a stud. He turned to the priest. “Have you seen enough, Father?” The priest shook his head. “I will see this to completion, as the king wishes.” His gaze did not waver from Lady Isabella’s naked body. Flesh slapped on flesh, and Lady Isabella cried out as her climax spiraled out of control. David gave no quarter and took his own pleasure, pounding her relentlessly to his own conclusion. James smiled when David withdrew, covered Lady Isabella’s nakedness and turned to walk back into Renoir’s room. He did a remarkably convincing job; his hair covered his face the entire time. “Well, Father, let us sign and seal the document,” James coaxed, laying a hand on the priest’s shoulder and guiding him from the room. Outside the bedroom door, they stood before a desk. The king’s scribe held out the scroll. A pot of sealing wax heating above a candle had been set next to quills.
The priest signed the parchment and pressed his ring into a red blob of wax, then turned to James. “Will they only join the once?” he asked, his cheeks ruddy, his breathing coming in pants. “Should we not wait? Mayhap they will engage again soon.” James smothered a chuckle and frowned. “Sir Renoir is being most considerate. Lady Isabella is of advanced years and he does not want to cause her discomfort.” He signed the document with a flourish. The priest stood smiling, his hands clasped together in the sleeves of his robe. “I am well pleased. The king informed me that Sir Paul had doubts his son would perform this eve. He thought mayhap the devil had whispered in his ear. It will be my pleasure to inform him he was wrong. I must say, I am surprised at his obvious enjoyment. I would have thought his interests leaned toward a much younger woman.” James smiled broadly and clapped him on the shoulder. “I know this boy. You have my word he will never take another woman to his bed.” Renoir allowed David to bathe and dress. He then instructed him to tie his hair back and wear a hat at all times as a disguise, before covering the man in a long hooded cloak and sending him on his way. On the morrow, they would leave the castle and Renoir would take his place as the new Lord of Wilburn. He would be accompanied by his own guard, including Sir James, his manservant, David, and of course, his squire.
***** Late the following morning, Lady Isabella brought with her a missive from her late husband’s friend, El Cid Campeador. The document stated that he had sent his champion and a contingent of men to watch over her health. The letter’s implications were clear; El Cid expect Renoir intended to replace Isabella at his earliest convenience.
Lady Isabella fell to her knees before Renoir as he read the missive. Her eyes were filled with tears. “His only concern is my safety. I beg you, let me write to him at once and inform him of your true devotion.” Renoir offered his hand and lifted her to her feet. She clung to him, her fingers digging into the flesh of his arm. “You may write to him, wife. Inform him that I will accept his gifts, but that they will be under my rule. Any that falter from this path will meet the king’s axe for treason. You may enlighten him of my commitment to our holy vows and assure him that your place is by my side. I have no intention of replacing you; in fact, our current situation is most pleasing to me.” She dabbed at the tears trailing down her cheeks. “Thank you, husband. You are most considerate.” Renoir disengaged himself from her grip. “This public show of affection is most disconcerting. If you desire, I will comfort you this eve in your chamber, but for now I must ready my troops for our journey.” He made a mental note to inform David that his services may be required that eve.
Chapter Four Renoir and his party arrived at Wilburn late at night. A ruddy faced housekeeper served him supper in the kitchen and showed him to an opulent room in the keep. An adjoining door led to his wife’s room, but he noted the lock was on his side. He turned the key and disrobed, glad of a soft bed after a full day in the saddle. Sir James woke him early the following morning. He sat on the edge of the bed while Renoir enjoyed a wedge of hot bread and preserves washed down with mulled wine. “The Spaniard’s champion is going to cause a few problems. He has demanded rooms within the keep. He said he requires the use of the music room for private training purposes and wants the rooms on either side as well.”
Renoir was familiar with Wilburn; he had explored the entire castle with his brothers not five years ago. He knew the castle lay within a moat and boasted a keep, twenty-five rooms, and barracks for two hundred troops. “Give it to him as a peace offering. What can it hurt? It’s not as if we will have children to fill the castle.” Sir James slid off the bed and grinned. “The combined regiment is training. You should make an appearance even though most would believe you exhausted from your honeymoon.” Renoir yawned; being Lord of the Manor was a title with a heavy burden. “Yes. Inform the Spaniard’s champion . . . . What’s his name? Tell him that I will be along shortly to request that his commission kneel before me and pledge fealty.” “His name is D’lergo. He looks impressive. Methinks he requires extra rooms for his mistresses.” Sir James chuckled. Renoir waved him away. “Please, no more talk about wenching. My meal has not yet settled.” Renoir’s brow creased in thought as he dressed in a long black tunic and leggings. D’lergo? Dear God, could it be Sebastian, here at Wilburn? Could he possibly be El Cid Campeador’s champion? He had after all represented him at the Tournament five years ago. His heart pounded in anticipation, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Surely this was some other D’lergo. Perhaps a relative, but most certainly not Sebastian. He swiftly bound his legs, crossing the thin ribbons in the style of all Norman knights. His boots were of the softest leather, not sturdy enough for battle, it was true, but most comfortable. He ran both hands through his unruly long blond waves and grinned. At last he was in charge of his own manor, answerable only to the king. His wife appeared well pleased with their arrangement. Indeed, her cheeks glowed from David’s tupping. Renoir slipped the belt that held his silver handled sword around his waist and headed for the door. His squire met him at the foot of the stairs, carrying his gloves and helm. They walked together through the Great Hall. Wilburn was a delightful place, the walls covered in rich tapestries. A magnificent stag’s head hung above a
grand fireplace that surrounded a hearth large enough to roast an entire boar. The other end boasted long banquet tables polished with beeswax to a high shine. Each one carried a line of silver sparkling candlesticks. They marched from the keep into a sunny courtyard with a stable that ran the entire west side. A high wall topped with a walkway set between the granulations surrounded the entire castle and training grounds beyond. The wind blew a salty breeze from the ocean that stretched out in blue wonder, not one hundred paces behind the castle wall. Renoir entered the training field and faltered. Was his mind befuddled, or did he now live the dream that had dogged his sleep for the past five years? He turned to his squire. “That knight fighting Sir James. Describe him to me.” His squire smiled and tipped his head toward the training field. “It is your friend of some years past, milord. Sir Sebastian D’lergo, the Spanish ruler’s champion.” Sebastian. Renoir wanted to run, to laugh, to scream. Sebastian, here in Wilburn! How could this be so? He drew a deep breath to steady his nerves and walked slowly, step by step, toward the great love of his life. Why did he desert me? Will he still want me? How can I live if he rejects me? All these thoughts flashed through his mind as he walked. Sebastian stopped fighting as Renoir approached, and sheathed his sword. The Spanish knight genuflected in respect, his gaze lowered. Renoir’s heart raced and his stomach twisted as he stepped close. Sebastian’s glorious scent accosted his nose, and even now, after all this time, the aroma made his cock swell. Sebastian had changed; he appeared taller than Renoir remembered, his deep gold skin now scarred from battle. His glorious hair hung to the middle of his back, sleek and black as a raven’s wing. When Sebastian raised those deep, sultry, sienna eyes, Renoir was at a loss for words. His heart ached and he drowned in a fierce desire, an uncontrollable heat. “Sir Sebastian, welcome to Wilburn.” His trembling voice almost betrayed him.
“It’s very good to see you again, my lord. Congratulations on your marriage. I must say I was surprised to discover that you were wed to the countess. I have brought a gift from El Cid Campeador. A stallion to enrich your lines.” Sebastian’s voice was warm, but his eyes displayed hurt and confusion. “I would like to see this gift. Walk with me to the stables.” Renoir instructed his squire to return to the castle then he and Sebastian walked in silence until they cleared the training field. Sebastian grabbed his arm as they entered the deserted stables. “Married! You married the old hag? Dear God, Reni, do I mean nothing to you?” Renoir touched Sebastian’s face and let his hand linger. “Why did you leave me if you felt like this?” “I am El Cid Campeador’s champion; he’d not allow me to leave. I’m valuable to him. I could not write. I’ve not been taught, and who would I ask to do so for me, El Cid, himself? I had no choice but to suffer in silence. When he asked me to come to England to protect his friend’s widow I thought my luck had changed. To find you married, in a woman’s bed . . . .” “‘Tis a marriage of convenience. I’ve a proxy for her bed.” The words had scarcely left Renoir’s mouth when Sebastian backed him into an empty stall and crushed him against the wall. The man’s hot and hard body molded to him as his magnificent hard cock dug into his stomach. Renoir sighed as Sebastian took his mouth with open wet lips. He inhaled his lover’s spicy scent, sucked his probing tongue, and took great handfuls of his hair while he kissed him back. The kiss was so hungry, so deep, their breaths came in gasps. Sebastian’s rough hands cupped Renoir’s ass cheeks as his rock hard cock ground against his stomach. The man’s fevered lips sucked his chin, bit hard on his neck, before ravaging his swollen lips. “I need you, need you now,” Sebastian said, his forehead resting against Renoir’s. His sienna eyes pleaded. So beautiful. So sensual. Renoir fell to his knees and pulled down the front of Sebastian’s leggings, allowing his magnificent cock to break free. Sebastian pushed him away and
ripped off the leggings, tossing them aside. He grasped his swollen cock and lifted it, exposing tight, hairless balls. He stood over Renoir, legs spread apart, bracing himself against the wall with one hand. “Lick my balls. Show me how much you missed me.” Renoir lifted his head and groaned as Sebastian’s heady scent surged over him. He licked the tight golden skin and gently sucked the balls into his mouth. The salty, oh-so-delicious flavor flooded his senses. His tongue slid to the sensitive part behind his lover’s sac then he lifted his head and sucked hard. Sebastian groaned in ecstasy as Renoir trailed his tongue to his entrance, circled, and slipped inside. He probed and teased the puckered passage until he felt a hand sink into his hair. Then he lifted his head, sought and found Sebastian’s bobbing cock. The slit was wet; the head large and deep purple. Renoir opened his mouth to accept this wonderful gift. Sebastian’s hands held his head gently. Renoir circled his thumbs across his lover’s ass cheeks as Sebastian moved against him, fucking his mouth slowly. Renoir heard himself moan with the pleasure as Sebastian’s delicious length slid across his tongue. Then his lover called out his name and spilled in long, salty spurts. Renoir held him deep and sucked him dry, his own need for release lost in wonder. Sebastian’s hands still held his face. He stared at Renoir with such deep love. “I’ve never been fucked by a man. I like to be dominant. Yet I want you deep inside my ass, Reni. I want you to be my first,” he whispered. “Here?” Sebastian chuckled. “If we are found, mayhap they will tell the new lord? Oh yes, that would be you, my dear Reni.” He bent to kiss Renoir deeply, passionately. “We have no oil. It will hurt and I’ve not tried this before.” Sebastian reached out and took a small metal container from a shelf. “Fat from sheep’s wool may be good for cleaning saddles, but it is better than butter for our needs.” He chuckled, tossing the tin to Renoir. Then he dropped to his knees and laid his magnificent body over a bale of hay.
Renoir licked his lips as Sebastian opened his legs. His puckered entrance was dark, and his balls and cock hung down, making Renoir’s heart thunder with lust. He could not resist running both hands down his lover’s golden back. So smooth, so muscular. He kissed a long line down Sebastian’s spine then licked circles across his taut ass cheeks before biting down hard. Sebastian growled in approval as Renoir licked and nibbled until teeth marks peppered his glowing ass. Renoir’s trembling fingers dipped copious amounts of grease from the pot and pressed it hard against Sebastian’s quivering dark passage. Sebastian groaned encouragement and grasped his ass cheeks, spreading them wide. Renoir drew a deep breath, and gripping his cock firmly, aimed the head at the puckered entrance. Lust took him in frenzy, an uncontrolled, merciless greed. He rammed forward and nearly screamed at the tightness, at the never ending plunge into forbidden delight. He drove and plundered, deeper, harder, into the sublime constriction. He groaned when Sebastian pushed back to meet his thrusts; their bodies slammed together, hot and wet. Renoir ground, bucked, drove harder, faster, spiraling into remorseless oblivion. His climax rose higher as Sebastian’s virgin ass massaged and squeezed him in waves of delight. The fire raged out of control, and then he spilled his seed. His cock pulsated like a violent volcano, a destroyer, a spiller of liquid white heat. Sebastian collapsed beneath him breathing hard, arms limp at his sides. Renoir slipped from him and Sebastian turned his head and smiled. “I will take great pleasure punishing you for that debauchery.” “You will stay?” Sebastian grinned. “Would seem that I and my battalion are part of the gift that came with your stallion. I will want a room to house the equipment I have brought with me. It will be necessary, for I am sure you will require constant punishment. For this transgression, you will meet me this eve, when the moon is high. Come to the stables.”
***** Renoir shivered in expectation as he waited, bathed in moonlight. There was a clatter of hooves, and Sebastian walked from the stables leading a massive warhorse. He said nothing as he led the way across the drawbridge and down to the secluded sandy beach that stretched out for miles in each direction. “Remove your clothes,” Sebastian ordered. It was then that Renoir noticed Sebastian was naked beneath his long, hooded cloak. “Bend over this rock. Open your ass cheeks.” Renoir complied and sighed as Sebastian pushed thick grease into his ass. He remained prone, awaiting instructions. He flinched slightly when Sebastian trailed a thin willow switch along the crack of his ass and swiped it, once, twice, then again and again. The pain sent a thrill straight to that sweet spot deep in his ass and he cried out in joy. His cock began to buck as the cane brushed his balls. “Get up and climb onto the horse, facing the back,” Sebastian commanded. Once seated, Renoir waited as Sebastian climbed up to face him. Sebastian lifted him and draped Renoir’s legs across his hard thighs, very nearly crushing him in his arms. Sebastian’s kiss was deep, demanding, and possessive. He sucked hard on Renoir’s lips and cupped his head, as though refusing to allow him to breathe. “Now the sweetest punishment of all,” Sebastian growled. Sebastian’s strong hands clutched his hips and lifted him. He cried out as Sebastian’s massive cock slid deep in his ass, so hot, so filling. His lover’s huge shaft stretched him to the limit. He threw his arms around Sebastian’s neck, needing the comfort of his lips. Instead, he felt a sharp pain as Sebastian bit down hard on his neck. Sebastian held him tightly in place as the horse broke into a canter. Renoir gasped at the intense sensation as Sebastian’s punishing cock drove deeper and deeper with every rolling stride. His own cock rubbed hard against Sebastian’s
sweat-soaked belly, sending intense waves of delightful torture straight to his balls. “You’re too big. I can’t take any more.” He groaned as Sebastian sucked his neck. Sebastian cupped the back of his head and looked deep into his eyes. “You are as tight as a virgin, but I feel your cock tremble against me.” Sebastian’s mouth tipped up at the corners before it slanted across Renoir’s lips. The night sky began to spin. The horse pounded onward, driving him into oblivion. Sebastian’s thick, hot cock shuddered deep inside him, and Renoir’s balls tightened as they spilled together in long, hot spurts. Sebastian’s kiss continued, rough and demanding as he turned the horse and headed back toward the castle. Renoir sighed when Sebastian lifted him and slipped from his body. Sebastian dismounted, concealed within the velvet shadows beside the postern gate. Renoir’s body felt boneless as he climbed unsteadily from the horse and slumped against the castle wall. Sebastian spun around. “Did I instruct you to dismount?” Renoir grinned sheepishly. “Just how long is my punishment going to continue, master?” Sebastian paused and inclined his head, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight. Finally, he smiled. “Forever.” Renoir shivered with delight. Forever. It was the one answer he’d longed to hear. ~The End~ About the Author H. C. Brown lives in Queensland, Australia where she enjoys walking along the long, white sandy beaches. She loves to read and finds peace in painting waterfalls and fairies. Her passion is writing, which she does most days. She finds that variety is the spice of life and her stories run the gamut, from a murder mystery series to historical, paranormal and time travel – all with a healthy dose of spice.
She married her very own alpha male and he is her love and inspiration. Learn more about H. C. Brown by visiting her Web site. ~***~
Poisoned Heart by Anna O’Neill Osamu concentrated on sprinkling the fine green powder atop Raiden’s exposed chest, where his kimono had been parted. The people of Ezo-chi referred to ground-up green tea as ‘froth of liquid jade’ but Raiden didn’t think it deserved such a pretty moniker. Knowing what it could do when manipulated by a lore master, Raiden preferred to call it ‘the time meddler.’ “You have until dawn,” Osamu said. Raiden stared up at his Ainu mentor from the sacrificial mound, his stomach clenching. It had been five years since Raiden had left the Shinano province seeking the rumored power of the Ainu people. When Raiden first landed in Ezo-chi, the village chieftain was there to meet him, the only one of his people able to speak the Japanese tongue. Though now fully fluent in the Ainu language, Raiden still found it difficult to pronounce his mentor’s true name. Osamu was the name his mentor had offered upon meeting him, and Osamu was the name Raiden would continue to call him. He trailed his fingers along the blood-encrusted dirt beneath him. Less than one day to carry out his mission. The thought made him shiver. “You might find yourself running into more difficulty than you imagine,” Osamu said, rubbing the powder into Raiden’s skin. The back of his hands were covered with so much thick, bristly hair that Raiden often wondered if the man was bred from the union of a human and a bear. Truly, Osamu was the hairiest man Raiden had ever set eyes on. His beard and mustache almost entirely shadowed his pale skin, and the thick hair did not stop at his chest. In contrast, Raiden’s skin was as smooth as silk.
“Time is difficult to control,” Osamu continued. “Subverting it by traveling through the past could have consequences we cannot yet fathom. I want to give you as much time as the herbs will allow.” “If you believe it’s dangerous, then why are you letting me do this?” Osamu’s breath felt cool against his forehead, but burned like venom shortly after. The herbs must be taking effect. “There are many reasons.” “Because you don’t think I can do it in this world,” Raiden said, seething. “Even after five years of training, you don’t think I’m strong enough to kill my guest-brother as he exists now.” “Masashi will have spent these past five years perfecting the assassins’ arts, as you have. Why risk it? This will be so much easier.” Raiden closed his eyes. He had to believe that was the truth. Osamu needed Raiden to take up the mantle of village chieftain after his death. The village wise woman prophesized that only an outsider could follow Osamu, and since Ezo-chi had very few visitors, he would not send the flesh he intended to succeed him into the world’s past without believing he would return. Osamu was all about minimizing risks and maximizing gain. If not for the fact that Masashi would not approve, Raiden would never have agreed. Still, he couldn’t help the way his stomach churned with the thought of carrying out the assassination in such a cheap, dirty way. Was he strong enough to bend his scruples just to fulfill his vendetta? He had stooped lower before. Accepting the price of learning the Ainu secrets meant submitting to his mentor’s desires. All of them. It didn’t matter, he told himself during the liminal period after the passion had been fucked out of him and before the older man had released his seed. Everything he endured was worth it, if just to see the look on Masashi’s face when Raiden pierced his skin with a blood-cursed needle. Raiden grabbed the collar of Osamu’s attusi robe before the other could move away. “Wait. Change it.” Osamu clucked his tongue against his teeth, removed Raiden’s numb hand from his robe, and retreated to the far corner of the hut. “It’s a little too late for
that. The herbs are already in your bloodstream. Give it a little longer to reach your heart, and you’ll be gone, no matter what I try.” “Change the fucking spell or I’ll kill you.” “Having doubts already? I told you, I have faith that you can carry out your mission.” “No, it’s not that . . . . I don’t want to meet Masashi when he’s a mere child.” Before he became who he is today. Raiden wanted to kick himself for not thinking of this before. The new idea ran off his tongue, fierce in its urgency. “Change it so I can meet him just before the slaughter, or I won’t do it.” Osamu wagged his finger. “Don’t do this simply because you think you can alter the course of history. Such delusions challenge the gods. If fate wants your parents killed prematurely, they will die early no matter what you do.” The truth was a slab of cold granite pressing down on Raiden’s chest. He chose to take deeper breaths and ignore the pain. “So be it. But I want Masashi dead before he has the chance to betray them. They shouldn’t have to die so shamefully by his hand.” When Masashi had entered their lives, it was under the pretence of politics. A great family in Edo wished to temporarily exchange their son for a prominent child of the Sanada clan. When Raiden was fifteen, his older brother, whom he barely remembered, was sent off to the big city. In return, Raiden was introduced to Masashi. This exchange was supposedly done to foster good will between two powerful clans, but in truth the sons were merely collateral against a future attack. Raiden never learned what had happened to his true older brother after the slaughter. “Eliminating Masashi while he is younger will be much easier,” Osamu said. “I don’t care. I want to see him as I remember him. Alter the spell or I won’t complete the mission. I’ll kill myself when I’m over there.” Osamu waved his hands hastily as if to discourage the prospect. After digging through his storage of herbs and spices, he marched over with a leather pouch in hand. Raiden watched as his mentor leaned over him and dumped the contents across his body.
“What my successor wants, my successor gets.” Raiden eagerly rubbed the powder into his skin. “You still only have half a day,” Osamu warned. “You might have more need of it now.”
***** When Raiden said he wanted to meet his guest-brother before the slaughter, he meant right before the slaughter. Not half a year before. He bit his lip to keep it from trembling with frustration. When he returned to the world of the present day, he would be hard-pressed not to string Osamu up by his ankles and leave him there for a week. Of course, his mentor would probably serve Raiden’s ass back to him on a gilded platter, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying. He was well-versed in ancient blood lore now. A match between them might end up being a fair fight. Raiden crouched low on a thick cherry blossom branch. The pink petals had just recently bloomed, which meant it must be early spring. Masashi would kill Raiden’s mother and father after the blood drained from the trees and left the leaves dry husks. Raiden had to stop his fingers from diving for the poisoned needles strapped to his waist underneath his kimono. From the height of the great tree, just one of the many that lined the river’s edge outside the city walls, he could make out the figure of his guest-brother below. The only thing stopping him from launching a full assault on the bastard was the shorter figure at Masashi’s side. Raiden didn’t want to watch his younger self smiling as strong fingers held steady the shuriken in his hands and guided the throw, but he couldn’t look away. The adolescent’s large, dark eyes glittered with excitement, while more serious almond-shaped ones looked on, amused. Funny . . . Raiden didn’t remember his guest-brother smiling on that day. Maybe because his younger self was so fixated on the encouraging words, so excited by the prospect of being trained by the bewitching man five years his senior that he nearly ejaculated in his kimono. What a pathetic child.
He did remember the disappointment he felt when all of that changed. When his guest-brother, a perfect mystery, lifted his sure grip and sent him home for no apparent reason whatsoever. It took Raiden by surprise, so far up in the tree, when a dull ache twisted his heart as he looked on. A remnant, he told himself. Nothing more. The teenager stomped off . . . unable to voice his displeasure, he remembered. It would get harder to breathe in twenty or so more strides. His blood raged, and he would go home and stroke himself violently until he expelled his frustration in short, creamy bursts. Raiden gritted his teeth and looked away. “You can come down now,” a calm voice said. Raiden flinched. The bastard sensed him. “I won’t go easy on you if you stay where you are.” Raiden wrinkled his nose. The thought of following his guest-brother’s orders—come here, go away, close your eyes and count to ten—made his fists clench. “What makes you think I want you to go easy on me?” A moment later, Masashi was climbing the sakura tree. Then the man Raiden had seen in his dreams on countless occasions joined him on the thick branch. But in those dreams, Raiden had always been a foot shorter than Masashi, had always stared up at him as if worshipping a godlike figure of perfection. Now Raiden had to look down. At twenty-three, his guest-brother was shorter than him. The discovery almost made Raiden lose his footing. Quickly, he grabbed the tree trunk to steady himself. Masashi reached for the weapon that hung from his obi sash, hesitated, then stopped. He cocked his head and examined Raiden, black hair moving like feathers in the gentle breeze. Raiden found his gaze drawn to the familiar, aristocratic curve of Masashi’s lips, then back up to those eyes, tipped with eyelashes as thick as the bristles of a calligraphy brush. Under that scrutinizing gaze, heat rose to Raiden’s cheeks.
Stupid. Don’t be stupid. You’re not eighteen years old anymore. “You’re a Sanada,” Masashi said matter-of-factly. “I am.” Raiden turned slightly to show off the Sanada mon on the back of his kimono. It was the same garment he had been wearing the day he set off to find the Ainu. “Are you related to Aiko-san of the main branch? You look like her.” Yes, as a matter of fact, I do happen to be related to my mother. Who you killed. “Yes. You know she has cousins in Edo?” The cesspool that birthed the likes of you. “Ah. I am Masashi, her guest-son.” Raiden ought to kill him now. Unsheathe the poisoned needles and aim for the heart. After all, Masashi had done the same thing—or rather, this Masashi would do so soon enough. He’s the one who killed my family! The one who ruined everything! He’s . . . . My brother. A monster. A guest-brother, unrelated by blood, nothing more. The unaffected gaze that softened Masashi’s features and made him look so, so very innocent as he stared back at Raiden was a lie. This was the same person who cut down his parents like weeds, who turned uncaring eyes on him and said words that expressed not one iota of regret; a man who felt justified in his behavior. Raiden closed his eyes for a moment to gather himself. When he forced his eyes open again his guest-brother’s face had not changed, but his gaze had since dropped to the top half of Raiden’s kimono, loose and nearly falling off his shoulders. Raiden found himself embarrassed for no good reason. Hastily, he folded the cloth together and cursed Osamu for not tightening his obi before he sent him into the world’s past. Raiden had no problem dressing like an upscale whore in Ezo-chi, since that’s what Osamu wanted and what local custom dictated. But somehow, being seen like this by his guest-brother, so conservatively dressed himself in a simple hemp kimono, brought on a sickening wave of shame that made his stomach clench and his fingers start to shake.
Damn it, he was twenty-three years old. No one his own age ought to make him feel like this. Especially not his guest-brother. No haughty look of undeserved pride should make him feel ashamed. You killed your fucking host family! What right did Masashi have to look at him like he was dirt? It was almost worse than being dismissed. Masashi’s eyes dripped disdain even as they stared back at him with what the casual observer might deem curiosity. When Raiden had been younger, Masashi usually reserved friendly, respectful looks for his host-brother. “You know, words of greeting wouldn’t kill you,” Raiden said. Words alone wouldn’t. “Greetings,” Masashi shot back, deadpan. Raiden quelled the urge to break that stiff little neck. It would be easy, like snapping a piece of bark in two. The urge soon passed, replaced by one even stronger. There was no way he could see his family again, frozen in time, without the help of his guestbrother. “My mother made arrangements for me to stay with your host family for a short while,” Raiden lied. “Is that so?” Masashi made a motion of deference. “Then I shall escort you there. I didn’t catch your name.” “You can call me Tatsu.” Masashi narrowed his eyes. “The snake?” “I earned it.” “Whose son did you say you were again?” “Chihiro is my mother. Aiko-san’s cousin in Edo.” Masashi dropped elegantly to the ground below. “You remind me of my host-brother. You couldn’t have missed him; I sent him away a moment ago. You have the same features.” Raiden jumped from the tree, less elegantly, and started to follow him, though he remembered the route home quite well. “Clearly the boy worships you.”
Masashi stopped, turned around slowly, and looked him over from top to bottom before starting off for the village. It’s not a wonder you traumatized him for life. As they walked into town, Masashi as graceful as any dancer, Raiden trudging along in his footsteps, a lump started to form in the back of his throat. Maybe this was a bad idea. No, this was a terrible idea. He knew it as soon as they entered the city gates and approached the drawbridge that brooked the stream outside of his childhood home. The lump in his throat only grew thicker as he stepped into the garden and caught a whiff of rice in the pot. Soon he would glimpse his mother, and when that happened, he didn’t know how he would keep himself from breaking down and sobbing. That would be unacceptable. What would Masashi think of him then? Raiden had always been so good at hiding his feelings from his guest-brother. If Masashi thought him weak back then, not even worth notice half the time, what would he think of this stranger who looked so much like his host-brother? Why did he care anyway? He had come back to kill Masashi, not to gain his respect. He . . . he just wanted to see his family again, that was all. Before they were sliced up, burned, and scattered to the wind by this strange boy he still could not, for the life of him, figure out. Did the stiffness in Masashi’s back mean anything? Was it pride, arrogance, or something else? Did he realize that Raiden had been staring at him the entire walk home? Did he have to quell the instinct to turn and kill him, as any good assassin would do upon realizing he was being watched so closely by a stranger? If he decided to act on that urge, Raiden would be ready for him. He had, after all, been training with a legendary Ainu lore master for the past five years. The thought of overpowering his guest-brother made his nerves sing. He wanted to attack that perfect figure ahead of him right now. He would do so soon enough. But first . . . .
“Masashi-kun! Where have you been? Dinner had been waiting—oh, who is this?” Raiden forced his eyes past his mother’s bare feet on the step, past her cooking kimono—flawless, clean, just like he remembered—and up to her face, now curious and utterly beautiful for it. “Mother, this is Tatsu. You remember your cousin Chihiro-san from Edo, do you not?” “I am her son,” Raiden supplied, hoping the others wouldn’t notice that the vehemence in his voice was directed toward Masashi’s first statement. “Nice to finally meet you, Aiko-san.” He bowed, not to avoid her gaze, to be sure. “I’ve thought—I’ve heard so much about you.” “It’s so nice to meet you, Tatsu! Please, come in. You must have had a long journey.” “M-Mother . . . she made arrangements for me to stay here for a while. Did you not get the letter?” His mother was at a loss, he saw. Then she shook her head and waved them in. “The post is so unreliable these days. Someone has to figure out a better system than couriers who are barely compensated. Che, I suppose that is one of the downsides of living in a daimyo’s town and not a big city like Edo. Don’t just stand there, Masashi . . . show our guest to the table.” She giggled and rushed away. “Raiden?” Masashi called. He caught himself before blurting out something stupid. “Brother!” Raiden froze at the familiar voice. The man-boy tore down the hallway then skidded to a stop when he caught sight of the stranger. He approached Raiden as he might a dangerous snake. “Raiden, this is your cousin, Tatsu. You should welcome him as warmly as you’ve welcomed me.” His younger self lowered his eyes, suddenly shy, and offered a bow so discourteous it could have been a twitch rather than a sign of respect. “Hello.”
Raiden said nothing to the boy, a complete stranger, a remnant of someone he used to know but who had been broken. This boy was not real. He would not last. “Come,” said Masashi, ushering them both into the main room. The low table had been sectioned off with paper wall-dividers decorated with the images of butterflies. Circumstances had it that he was seated next to Masashi, so close in age and status. It made eating difficult, for every so often, he had to stop himself from driving his chopsticks into that pale neck. He itched to see how Masashi would react. Would he reach up and grab the sticks in midair, as cold as he had been the night he announced he’d killed Raiden’s parents? Or would he treat it as a game? Raiden wanted to find out. Younger Raiden seemed to sense this, even though Masashi went on eating his rice as if nothing was out of the ordinary, as if his guest-brother hadn’t aged five years and was sitting next to him taller, stronger, and deadly serious. The younger Raiden scowled at the stranger openly now, or at least when no one else was looking. But when Masashi asked the boy to pass the seasoning, his face lit up as though he had just been asked about his day. Table scraps. Masashi was throwing the kid crumbs, and the pathetic child wolfed it down as if starving. Maybe he was starving. Father—he couldn’t believe it—sat staring at the bamboo shades as he drank his tea. He had barely acknowledged Raiden—no, Tatsu—with anything more than a curt nod before falling into his own world. Mother would not eat until the men were finished. At the moment she sat in the other room scrubbing the pots she’d cooked with. He found himself wondering whether she ever grabbed a bite before everyone sat down to the table. As a child, he never remembered her putting more than a bird’s amount in her mouth. Always working to uphold the image of the perfect clan wife. Was Masashi working equally hard to maintain that respectable image of the perfect guest-son? Dinner was over all too soon, before Raiden could learn anything of value for himself, before he could find answers to any of the burning questions he had
brought with him. Even as his mother led Masashi and himself into the tatami reception room to converse over tea, he asked himself the same things he had wondered when he was younger, suddenly bereft of mother and father. Why did you do it? Look at the family we had, could have continued to have . . . there was nothing egregious going on; no rot underneath the surface that required the entire house come down. What was going through your head? Did you know what you were doing, or was it a spontaneous decision? Did you honestly have a reason? Or were you just insane? Did you ever love me? Young Raiden’s love was evident in everything he did. It was obvious in the way he peered around the corner at the stranger and his guest-brother walking away, obvious in the way he had tried and failed at dinner to hide his hurt over this new rival for Masashi’s attention. It was blind, stupid, pure and devoted love. Unselfish. Did Masashi ever do anything that was not in his own best interest? The way Masashi situated himself on the mat left no clues. He was every much the respectful guest—accepting the hot tea with a gracious nod, tucking his shins under him deferentially, speaking of the fine weather as if it were the most interesting topic under the sun. Raiden tried to imitate him, but he never was as good an actor as his guest-brother. He feared he took the tea too gruffly, answered the inquiries too abruptly, and he certainly did not bother to sit like a proper Sanada anymore. Kami-sama knew what he had done to strip clean the notion of himself as a man worthy of dignity and honor. Masashi might not yet have done things to shame himself, but Raiden had, so he folded one leg against the ground and lifted the other to lean against his bent knee. After his mother apologized for Father— he had a meeting to attend that evening and would not be available for conversation—she slid the door shut softly and left the two of them alone. “Your host-brother loves you.” Masashi could not quite hide the twitch of his hands. The disturbed tea fanned out in little waves. He quirked his eyebrow and stared at Raiden. “Or hadn’t you noticed?” Raiden asked.
“Do you have any brothers?” Masashi tried to evade the line of questioning as he might an enemy sword, but Raiden had him cornered. The bastard would surrender. “One. An elder brother. He reminds me a lot of you, though he must be in his late twenties now.” “Is that so?” “It is. Do you ignore your host-brother on purpose? I always wondered why my brother did that to me when we lived together. I could never understand it.” Masashi’s eyes grew slightly. “I don’t ignore my host-brother.” “Hah! What do you call that at the dinner table, then? He tried to get you to say more than two words to him, and you couldn’t even give him that.” Masashi sipped his tea calmly, though he could not hide the smirk that turned up one corner of his mouth. “I don’t mean to be rude, Tatsu-san, but as an outsider you don’t know how this family works.” “Tell me then. From an insider’s point of view. I’m dying to know.” Masashi made a quick gesture. “It’s hard to explain. I suppose you could say conversation outside the bounds of missions and clan business is unnecessary and wasteful here. Raiden knows that.” “How unfortunate.” “Why?” The way the question was asked, so innocently . . . his guest-brother was actually perplexed as to how perverse that was. “Because that’s not right,” Raiden said, and almost laughed. He was lecturing Masashi, of all people, on ethics. Had Masashi any understanding of right and wrong whatsoever? Raiden had to believe he did. Because if not, what then must he accept? That Masashi was an animal who had no control over his actions? No! The bastard killed them with intent. He must have known what he was doing. Masashi responded by drinking more tea. The rest of the conversation was hardly much of one. It didn’t bother Raiden in the slightest; he rather preferred to
sit and stare at the one he used to love. Masashi seemed content with the quietness as well, and strangely, even seemed to relax under his gaze. The boy did not even lift an eyebrow when Mother walked in to let them know that their new guest would stay in his room that night. Raiden should have known that he would not be asked to sleep in the guestroom during his stay—it was there mainly for show. His parents would never have stood for the embarrassment of having a family member take tales home about how drafty and uncomfortable the nights had been.
***** Long after the sun had set, the two of them entered Masashi’s bedroom. It was exactly as Raiden remembered it—sparsely decorated with only a futon, a stool, and a desk drawer to grace the lonely tatami mats, as if Masashi hadn’t planned on staying very long. Raiden suddenly felt awkward and out of place. This was Masashi’s room. And for the first time, Masashi seemed to welcome Raiden’s company. He even turned over one of his sleeping robes for Raiden to change into, which Raiden did when his guest-brother so thoughtfully left the room for a moment to wash up. This allowed Raiden the time to hide the poisoned needles in his day clothing. A yawn crept up on him, unwanted and worrisome. If he allowed himself to sleep tonight, his mission would be over before it truly began. He had only until the first light of day to complete his task. Masashi re-entered the room with an extra futon. He rolled out the mattress and its accompanying bedcover next to his own. Very little space would separate the two of them, Raiden noticed when he laid down. Masashi handed him a blanket and then went to blow out the candles in their sconces. A routine task, yet it made it seem as if the two of them were truly family, with all of the acceptance and goodwill that came with that. Masashi did not beleaguer his young host-brother to leave his room, to leave his sacred presence, and he did not move to extinguish the last candle that flickered inside the paper lantern sitting on his desk drawer. Raiden remembered that lantern
well. Masashi would use it as a paperweight when he practiced calligraphy. It had been a gift his mother had given his guest-brother when Masashi first arrived, young and unsure of his position in the house. Raiden used to admire the small shapes cut into the paper of the lantern—dragonflies, fireflies, whatever they were—for on windy nights like this one, the breeze from the unshuttered window would shake the firelight inside and create dancing shadows. Now Raiden just wanted to pull the blanket over his head. Those shadows took on a more menacing cast tonight. “I like to fall asleep watching them,” Masashi said, gesturing to the shadow-figures as he slid between blanket and futon. I remember. It was a wonder Masashi hadn’t burned the house down and the town with it. Such a convenient excuse that would have made. Rather than have to face his host-parents while shooting a barrage of poisoned needles their way, he could have let the fire do the work for him. Then Raiden wouldn’t have had to come home to find his parents dead on the bedroom floor, needles making pincushions of their eyeballs. He clamped a hand around his eyes, a visceral reaction that would do nothing to cloak the image in his mind. The gore was irrevocably burned into his brain. “Is the light bothering you?” Masashi asked. “I can blow it out.” “No,” Raiden said, uncovering his eyes. The faint light would make his job more difficult than if the room were pitch black, but he wanted to savor the expression on Masashi’s face when the needle pierced his skin. The poison was quick, a little too merciful for Raiden’s liking, so Masashi would grow weak in a matter of moments. It would take little effort to hold him down, so Raiden would slide another needle deep inside, all the way to the wooden hilt. He imagined the pain and betrayal that would twist Masashi’s beautiful face in his death throes. His mouth would part to speak wordlessly, managing to voice only a few quiet moans before he would spasm and stiffen beneath Raiden. His heart pumped wildly at the thought. Ridiculously, Raiden found himself growing hard. Maybe he could stifle the moaning by stuffing his cock in Masashi’s mouth. What was wrong with him? This was Masashi.
The same Masashi I pictured writhing against my body when Osasmu fucked me. Raiden was suddenly glad of the blanket’s bulk, though he was growing unbearably hot under its weight. Masashi’s voice tore through his desire and left it a bare, tattered thing. “I feel as though I’ve met you before.” Raiden bit his tongue rather than shout out the truth. “We may have met in another life.” When Masashi rolled over and met his eyes evenly, Raiden had to quell the urge to slam a fist in his face. “I fear I know you all too well.” “No one knows me,” Masashi said, and laughed bitterly. He laid back and closed his eyes. “I hardly know myself.” “I know you.” When Masashi said nothing, Raiden pressed on. “I know there is an evil in your heart that you try to cover with fine words and disarming smiles. Young Raiden might not see through to your rotten core, but I’ve lived through too much to be fooled. What I want to know is, why? Why do you allow yourself the privilege of living, knowing what decay eats away at your innards?” The silence went on for so long, Raiden wondered if the bastard had simply fallen asleep. Rain began to patter against the thatched rooftop, while a cool breeze introduced the earthy scent of lotus flowers from the garden outside. The candlelight bounced wildly in the lantern. Raiden could no longer stand it— he grabbed Masashi’s well-muscled arm and squeezed, immediately bewildered that his hand did not go to Masashi’s neck as intended. Masashi reached up, caught Raiden’s hand and didn’t let go when he spoke. His eyes were squeezed shut. “Has my father sent you?” Raiden pulled his hand away. It was beginning to feel too good, this strange sharing of thoughts and touches. His mind was wandering down a dangerous path. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t even begin to fathom why Masashi would ask such an odd question. “No. Why would you ask that?” Masashi opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “I just thought—you said you were from Edo and . . . .” Raiden imagined he saw a blush creeping into his guest-brother’s cheeks. “We’re not related, if that’s what you’re asking.” “No,” Masashi agreed absently.
Of course that wasn’t what Masashi had been asking! That statement was entirely irrelevant and self-evident. Raiden had no idea why he felt the need to say it. They did not share a look—Masashi was far prettier. He’d look even prettier with a cock stuffed inside him. Raiden drew back, appalled at himself. Masashi would look prettier with a sword stuffed inside him. The ache between his legs was becoming unbearable. For one terrifying moment, he imagined Masashi could see through the blanket to his erection underneath. His guest-brother was studying him too closely now. When Masashi grabbed Raiden’s hand and yanked it toward him, Raiden knew this was it. They would grapple and someone would die before he learned the fucking truth of the matter. Raiden’s hand was led to the hardness between Masashi’s legs. The area was molten hot. Something burst behind Raiden’s eyes. Without thinking, he used his free hand to whip aside his blanket and robe then squeezed the base of his penis before he spurted all over himself. Disaster averted. A small sound escaped Masashi’s throat. He spoke to Raiden’s exposed erection. “I saw you staring at me the whole day. If you want me, you can have me, but I must know. Who are you truly, Tatsu?” A tidal wave of emotion churned inside of him. How dare Masashi assume he wanted him? The conceit made the pulse in his neck throb with rage. Did Masashi believe him weak enough to blow his cover—among other things— simply for the chance to bed him? More table scraps. No longer. Raiden would not clamor at the prospect of having a small piece of Masashi. They would do this his way. “I’ll tell you who I am after you kiss me.” A perfect ploy. He needed time to think, needed Masashi to stop questioning him long enough to come up with a plausible explanation for how he knew what darkness lived inside the other.
He didn’t get much thinking done when Masashi bent over and tentatively began to lick at the liquid that seeped down Raiden’s manhood like honey. No, that wouldn’t last very long at all. He cupped Masashi’s face and brought it up to his own. His guest-brother wasted no time crushing his lips against Raiden’s. For a moment he was taken aback—Osamu never bothered to kiss him on the mouth before. He was surprised how good it felt, though the back of his mind screamed warnings that it was wrong to be so close to someone. It was almost as if he were inside of Masashi’s mind, where he didn’t belong. Or did he? He needed answers. He deserved them. When Masashi broke the embrace, Raiden was no closer to explaining how he’d been able to presage his darkest emotions. Raiden couldn’t just say he saw sedition in his eyes; his guest-brother would never accept something so trite. Before Masashi could speak again, Raiden pressed him against the futon, undid the loose obi that tied his robe together, and spread his legs wide. Masashi did his part by wriggling out of his robe, his cock engorged with blood, twitching with anticipation. Did Raiden imagine he saw a hint of terror in those slanted eyes? This was surely power, then, as much as holding a poisoned needle to the skin. He bent over and traced along the muscles of Masashi’s inner thighs with his tongue. Curious, he tasted the nest of hair around Masashi’s manhood. The musky scent was intoxicating and drove Raiden to take Masashi’s cock in his mouth, deep and slow. This must be a dream, he thought, when his guest-brother turned to stifle his response into the pillow. But then Masashi ruined it by speaking. “When I prayed for divine intervention,” he began throatily, “I never imagined it would come in such a beautiful package.” Raiden pulled his mouth off the silky heat of Masashi’s erection reluctantly. “What are you talking about?” He squeezed Masashi’s cock until his guest-brother groaned. “Tell me the name of the spirit I am to thank for your coming. Or are you yourself the spirit made flesh?” When Raiden did not answer—could not answer
such a wild assumption—Masashi began to thrust against Raiden’s grip. “Gods, oh gods, it’s as I’ve prayed. You have finally come to give me counsel. Who are you truly, Tatsu?” Raiden said nothing. “You don’t have to tell me your name,” Masashi said, pulling away. For one infuriating moment, Raiden felt the loss of contact as a throbbing ache in his cock. What was the other going on about, and why did Raiden suddenly feel like fucking the life out of his vilest enemy? Rain pelted the rooftop insistently. Masashi bowed low. “Do with me as you will, but please, I beg you. Help me.” “Get the oil.” Masashi looked confused for a moment then bowed rapidly before turning around and rooting through his desk drawer. Raiden would rather Masashi believe him a divine creature than admit how exactly he knew where Masashi kept his masturbatory tools. He’d used so much of the oil thinking about Masashi, it might as well be his own. But usually Raiden imagined himself compliant and bent over. This was a vast improvement. Before Masashi could turn around with the oil in hand, Raiden disrobed and slammed Masashi’s head against the desktop. He held it there and reached over with his other hand, snatched the oil, and squeezed the bottle all over his erection and Masashi’s passage. Raiden’s cock bobbed eagerly when he spread Masashi’s legs open and positioned himself at his guest-brother’s entrance. When Masashi moaned softly beneath him, he couldn’t stop himself. He slid inside without preamble and almost screamed with the tightness that gripped him. Raiden had never had the opportunity to fuck an asshole before, and Masashi being what he was, he couldn’t have asked for a better test subject. “You want to hurt your host family,” Raiden said, pounding Masashi harder. “No.” Unbidden, Masashi began to stroke himself. “No, no, no. I’m torn, Tatsu-sama. My father would have me do one thing, but my heart tells me there
is another path. For years I’ve been relaying inside information about Sanadasan’s dealings with the daimyo, but, ahhhhh, faster please.” Raiden wrenched Mashashi’s hand away from masturbating his cock and twisted it behind his back. He wanted to hurt and humiliate Masashi, not give him pleasure. Masashi didn’t miss a beat. He began to rock his hips in a rhythmic motion. “Now Father says Sanada-san is becoming too dangerous to live. He wants me to . . . . But how could I do that to them? They’ve taken me in and treated me as their own. Think of Raiden, how he will suffer.” “He will suffer beyond your imagining. But why should you care?” Masashi gasped underneath him. “With all due respect, T-Tatsu-sama, I . . . I’ve come to love Raiden, but I must hide my true feelings. I cannot face him knowing what I must do.” “Lies.” “No,” Masashi whispered. “It’s my father who wants this. I have no choice.” “There are other ways.” “I’ve thought about running, but where shall I go?” Raiden couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. A sense of euphoria quickened his blood when a new idea came to him. He leaned over and gently bit Masashi’s earlobe. “There is a man in Ezo-chi.” “Ezo-chi?” Masashi stopped rocking his hips. “Is that not Ainu territory?” “It is. The village chieftain will take you in gladly, for he seeks a new apprentice from the outside world. If you go to him, you will have everything you seek and more.” “How shall I find him?” Raiden was close, so close now. The way Masashi was clamping down on his manhood was almost too much to bear. “Land in Ezo-chi and you won’t have to worry. He will find you.” Masashi tensed and began to make small noises. “But what about Raiden?” “He will thank you.”
“My father might find other ways . . . .” “At least then you will keep your honor. And Raiden will survive. There is nothing worse than being betrayed by those closest to you. If the death of his parents comes at a stranger’s hands, it will be far easier to handle. He will forever love you. If you do this, both of your souls will be spared.” “Tatsu-sama, you’ve answered my prayers. Please tell me. Who are you truly?” “I think you already know.” Masashi twisted around to look at Raiden, and for one exquisite moment Raiden had the pleasure of seeing pure shock distort those beautiful features. The confusion was still writ large on his face when his body grew taut and then shuddered violently. Raiden watched Masashi’s untouched cock spurt semen, and then he couldn’t control himself any longer. He ejaculated into Masashi with a strangled moan. Before his eyes, Masashi seemed to change in front of him. No longer was he the cold-hearted monster who ignored his host-brother out of spite and plotted to murder his host-parents for selfish reasons. Masashi stared back at Raiden with innocent, awestruck eyes. This Masashi had not yet walked the path of evil. He was at a crossroads, and with a small nudge, he could be made to follow the way of righteousness. Masashi said nothing when Raiden rolled off the futon and picked up his day clothes. Only watched, astonished, as Raiden blew out the candle. With deft fingers, Raiden removed the package of poisoned needles, taking one by holding the wooden handle that blunted one end. It hurt only slightly when he pricked the skin at his neck. He dressed while he still had time and made sure to tuck the rest of the needles safely inside his kimono when he tied it shut. His body would be gone in the morning, returned to Ezo-chi, and he wanted to leave no traces behind that suggested he was anything less than a god. He was a god. After all, he would twist time to birth a whole new Raiden. His eyelids began to grow heavy. Without thinking, he leaned over and held Masashi’s warm body against his own. He would rest well tonight.
~The End~
About the Author Anna O'Neill has been writing fantasy and historical fiction with strong romantic elements for years. Although she is a devoted fan of Greek tragedy, she also appreciates a hopeful ending. Her favorite stories weave darkness and light together seamlessly. She values the unexpected, the unanticipated but fullyforeshadowed plot twist, the revelation that leaves the character and reader gasping. Sexy stories go beyond the sexual--they touch a raw chord inside of our humanity. The best stories leave an impression there. Feel free to contact Anna through her new LiveJournal account (http://annaoneill.livejournal.com/) or by email (
[email protected]) ~***~
Deliverance By Aleksandr Voinov For Julie The chapel doors flung open, interrupting the hushed tones of the evening prayer. The Templars fell silent while a breathless squire rushed to the Master to relay his news. William found himself straining to listen. The Master stood, face grave. “To arms, with God’s will,” he said, and the room erupted into fast, efficient movement. The knights who had just come in from arms training gathered in the yard; others rushed to squires waiting with armor, horses and weapons. While William’s squire closed the white cappa with the red cross around his shoulders, he caught word of Saracen incursion. Those were, sadly, a frequent occurrence ever since the dog Saladin found his courage and started to attack the Christian heartlands.
Mounted, William waited impatiently for his brethren. His destrier shifted its weight and tossed its head, and William reached down to pat the stallion’s grey neck. Finally, everybody was gathered, and William put his helmet on. He gripped his lance, his sword and mace girded at his side. In formation, the knights and squires left the castle, the Master leading them. Once out of the gates, the horses fell into a canter. William thought he heard screams, even through the helmet; shrill sounds of fear and agony carried far in this land. He couldn’t be sure over the noise of hooves and his armor, but then the Master signaled the charge. The knights moved closer together, thighs almost touching as the formation closed, horses reaching and straining, foam splattering the cloth coverings of white and black and red. White for their purity. Black for the terror in the hearts of the heathens. And the red, red cross of martyrdom. They came over the hill, and the sight below made William’s blood boil with rage. Pilgrims under attack. Those who harassed them might have been mere bandits, or an advance unit of Saladin’s army. Maybe foragers. Several Christians lay dead already; others cowered, screaming for help. Amidst them stood one man who had seized a Saracen sword and shield and fought against five or six heathens, an upturned cart to his back. The other Saracens plundered and prepared to carry the women and children off into slavery. William gritted his teeth. The knights couched the lances in their elbows and aligned the triangular shields, then drove into the Saracens like a thunderbolt. The force of the impact ground the Saracens into the dust. William’s lance broke in the chest of an enemy, and his heavy destrier toppled the Saracen’s horse. He let the ashwood shaft drop away, then pulled his sword from its scabbard and hacked at the enemies, who turned and ran, cowards that they were. Two brethren pursued one infidel who made a desperate bid for escape, but a squire had his crossbow cocked and shot the bastard square between the shoulders. The man lost his balance on his galloping horse, tilted first to the left, then the right, finally fell backwards, foot caught in his stirrup. His horse
dragged him for several hundred yards across stones and dried bush before he finally came loose and lay motionless. William left the dying foes to the squires, who enthusiastically finished the wounded off before they searched them. Saracens kept their valuables on their bodies, which provided some immediate satisfaction to those who killed them. It was a ghastly thing, plundering a still warm body, but the Saracens’ outlandish customs had caused the Christians to adopt many a ghastly behavior. William pulled his helmet off and turned his horse to face the fighting pilgrim, who only now lowered his sword and shield. His wide-brimmed hat half-obscured a fierce face, sharp features under the blond unkempt beard. Standing tall and proud, he was clearly no stranger to knightly skills, having felled three Saracens whose bodies lay at his feet. The Master rode in a circle, then took off his helmet and spoke to the survivors. “We will escort you to our preceptory, where, with God’s grace, you will be safe.” The pilgrims had no horses but the draft animals on the carts. It would be fastest to take them to the fortress on the Templars’ horses. William nodded toward the fighting pilgrim and motioned him to come closer, then bent down to offer the man a hand. “They may return with archers or more men. Saladin’s army is close.” The pilgrim gripped his wrist and mounted the horse. His arms closed around William’s waist and his solid body pressed closer than any man had been for a long time. William usually liked to keep his distance from others, but even the Master took a wounded man on his destrier. The old symbol of the order, two knights on one horse. Sometimes, that was simply a necessity. “Who are you?” demanded the blond pilgrim. William was vaguely annoyed at the gruff tone, but he thought that after standing alone against Saracens and being barely rescued alive from slavery or worse, the pilgrim might be forgiven his lack of manners. “Brother William Raven. And you?” There was a long pause. “William Raven? Of Kent?”
“Yes.” William followed the other brethren back to the castle. It unnerved him a little that the man knew him, but then, he had been famous in his time, even if that life now lay far behind him. “Who are you?” The pilgrim didn’t grace him with an answer, not even when they reached the fortress. There, servants helped all the pilgrims off the horses and led them away to the guest quarters, where they would receive care for their wounds, water and food. Relieved when the man dismounted, William expected him to leave with his travel companions, but the pilgrim turned and met his gaze in a clear challenge. Something about the defiant look, the flaring nostrils . . . . William racked his mind for a memory. The longer they held each other’s gaze, the more urgent the question became. If not for the hat, he might be able to recognize him. But this way, all he had was a vague sense that he knew the man, or at least had encountered him before. William had crossed blades all over Europe with friend and foe, ever hungry for the next challenge, unable to settle down for fear of being known for what he was. “You do not remember,” the pilgrim said, sneering. He pulled off the hat to bare blond, sweat-matted hair. “I shall help you, then. Remember Metz.” Guy de Metz. William suddenly felt cold in the scorching midday sun. This country’s shadeless, murderous heat allowed no escape, and he stood, transfixed to the spot. Guy. Of all people. Him, here. The scion of an eminent family in the city of Metz, with lands and riches far beyond anything William had ever achieved, even at the height of his fame and fortune. Guy. His shame, his sin, his guilt. Bearded, sunburned, in his simple pilgrims’ clothes, it was hard to recognize the fashionable young nobleman he had been, what, only six years ago? Guy turned on his heel and followed the other pilgrims, but his face betrayed anger. The man held the key to destroy him. The thought sobered William as if a loaded crossbow was pointed at his heart. He had to force himself to turn away, but it was hard to breathe the hot air. Terror had set into his soul, and fear and longing, because he remembered Guy now. Remembered his own flight from what had begun during that saint’s
festival in Metz, when the nobles jousted and celebrated. He’d run away, sought solace and redemption, until, finally, the Templars had welcomed him. They knew not his sin, but they told him that all his past misdeeds would be forgiven if he fought the heathens rather than his Christian brothers. That he would go to heaven if he fell in service of the Lord. This had been the most generous offer that he could have hoped for. Unable to escape his shame, he’d finally found peace in subservience to God. In his quarters, he cleaned the dust away and shed the armor, but hardly managed to grasp one clear thought for the memory of Guy. When he lay on his bed that night after prayers in the chapel, his soul had not received solace from the holy words. He was unworthy of those blessings. He still remembered a strong neck bent underneath his, and Guy’s breath hitching as William drove into him, again and again, taking his fill of the young noble’s strong body in unspeakable, sinful ways. The memory made him hard, made him ache for the other man. If he’d hoped to escape his sinful attraction, this now completed his shame. According to the order’s rule, he shared the chamber with another knight, a German by the name of Conrad, and he was guiltily thankful that night for Conrad’s deep sleep. Nothing short of an earthquake woke the German. Certainly not the small sounds William made as he touched himself, eyes tightly shut, willing his hand to be Guy’s hand, Guy’s lips, even. An enthusiastic student of sin, Guy knew no shame. He demanded William give up control of his body, and his soul with it; compared to that, this was a pale shadow of a memory. Still, he had no choice. William pressed his teeth together and forced himself to breathe levelly as his own calloused hand forced his desire. His body responded too readily to both memory and touch. Closer. Like that rushed, near painful encounter in the narrow, dark alley of Metz. Or the stolen, illicit pleasure in a bath house, where Guy had laughed at the prostitute servants and sent them away with a mocking, “Nothing I can’t handle.” Guy’s wet, glistening body, bruised where he’d been hit, the most beautiful thing in the world to William when they kissed, wrestled,
and fucked vigorously enough to nearly topple the tub and cover the floor in soapy water. Grunting, Conrad turned on his bed. William froze, heart beating painfully in his throat. Don’t wake. He peered at Conrad, who faced him now, face slack in sleep, lips open. Oh . . . the risk. All Conrad had to do was open his eyes and he’d know exactly what William was doing. But William was too close to stop. As silently as he could managed, William spit in his hand and slid it back under the light cover. His palm closed around the tip, squeezing the most sensitive part until his mind clouded and all he could think was Guy. A few more powerful movements with his tight fist brought him to completion with a choked, miserable sound. The madness, the passion that had possessed him with Guy sunk its hooks back into his skin. He lay there, despairing, as the sweat on his skin cooled in the night that was as unforgivingly cold as the day was hot. He hoped that Guy would be gone the next morning, but the Master dashed those hopes when he told the assembled knights that Guy de Metz, who had been on pilgrimage to Jerusalem with his entourage, would join their fight against the heathens. William was the only Templar who felt those words like a blow. Many knights on pilgrimage joined a fighting order for a short time. The Church encouraged it; the defenders of the Holy Land were always desperately short of men. The fighting orders were already stretched thin to protect what they held and they couldn’t dream of expanding that protection. But why now, why here, and why not the Hospitallers? Or, William thought with the blackest of emotions, the leprosy-riddled Lazarites? After the assembly, Guy came toward him. William turned away. Guy touched his shoulder, which made William face him again and grip the bastard by the front of his shirt. “You dare touch me,” he hissed into Guy’s face. Anger filled him, as if the ignominy of the night had been Guy’s doing. He raised his free hand and balled it into a fist.
The peace he’d found in the order seemed precarious all of the sudden and he hungered to retain it. Until now, it had been his only peace in this constant war with the Saracens. Guy’s hands closed around William’s fist, but his stare never wavered. Those light blue eyes showed no fear, only anger, but behind the hostility he saw an unspoken question. “William!” the Templar Master shouted. “Unhand him at once!” William bared his teeth in a feral sneer, still staring at Guy. Disobeying a direct order was unthinkable, and William knew well the punishment for fighting against fellow Christians. He had seen men stripped of their white cappa or flogged to the blood for infractions. “Don’t you touch me,” he repeated, and let the other man go.
***** During the next two days, William felt like a lion in a trap. Wherever he turned, whatever he did, he caught glimpses of Guy’s blond hair. He could hardly eat. He even stumbled over his words in prayer during the day. At night, the other man followed him into sleep. Guy’s very presence in the same fortress made William’s body betray him, reminding him of a lust he’d hoped he’d left behind. While Conrad remained oblivious, William was forced to satisfy the hollow ache in his body. The craving, forgotten for so many years, now returned like an enemy army—with reinforcements and even more devilish tricks. On the third day, it was William’s turn to train with Guy. The Marshal gave out the pairings, treating Guy just like any Templar. The pilgrim had to be ready to stand with them in battle when they rode out. William could not decide whether he was horrified at having to meet Guy, even if it was with a sword in his hand, or rejoiceful at the opportunity to take out his anger on the man. After a restless prayer, William strode onto to the field outside the fortress. Servants and squires stood ready with lances and horses, and William
took off his cappa to avoid soiling or tearing it. In the manner of monks, he kissed the red cross before he folded the garment and handed it over to his squire. His chain mail glinting in the sun, William mounted his destrier and rode to the far end of the field, where a servant handed him his jousting lance and shield. Opposite, Guy had just put on his helmet and climbed into the saddle, where he gripped the reins and shield. William drove his spurs into the stallion’s flanks. The beast flew into a gallop, the massive, powerful body stretching under him as he lowered the lance and couched it, aiming at Guy’s shield. He remembered the jousts, the ladies in their gaudy clothes, the roar of the crowd, from his days as a professional jouster. He’d been among the best in Europe. He’d sent all his opponents into the dust: Germans, English, Italians, and scores of French. Here, his deeds were for God alone and flushed no fair cheek. The other Templars watched critically; nobody cheered or laughed, eyes didn’t widen in shock at the clash. With a crack, William’s lance broke on Guy’s shield. At the exact same moment, Guy’s lance broke on his. The force of the impact numbed William’s shoulder and he bit down on a curse. Guy was good . . . much better than he had been six years ago. The younger Guy would have already been rolling in the dust. And now Guy even raised his hand in a salute. Mocking him. William’s pride flared, and he tore a fresh lance from a servant’s hand. Without pause, he charged again at the other, who had barely enough time to take a fresh lance himself and spur on his own horse. The second pair of lances broke, and again, they both remained seated. William’s eyes narrowed; he heard his own forced breathing echo in the helmet. Damn that bastard, damn him to hell. He, William Raven, who had fought as champion of earls and counts, very nearly undefeated on the jousting ground and certainly on the battlefield, was the best there was. If he’d had one political bone in his body, his military prowess alone would make him a Master of the order eventually. Their combat drew more watchers. Servants, squires and knights alike came closer, no doubt to watch William Raven be taught a lesson in humility.
Anger rose hot in his chest until he felt his heart would burst. They broke lance upon lance, always with the same result. Both remained on their horses, and the joust became a blur of dust and sweat and foaming horses, until the Master signaled for them to dismount and continue with swords. William didn’t want to fight like this; he wanted to crush Guy’s limbs with the mace, wrestle him to the ground and strangle him. But he obeyed the Master’s order. Guy matched him blow for blow, giving him no quarter, seemingly impervious to the heat and dust that made sweat run down William’s face. Their shields clashed and William could see the man’s eyes through the visor. When did I learn to hate you? The thought made him draw back in shock, giving Guy the opening he needed. Guy battered him to the ground with his shield, sword tip seeking the gap between helmet and chain mail coif. At that moment, William expected the blond man to kill him. He certainly had good reason. Their eyes met again, and William could do nothing but stare. He couldn’t even find the words for prayer. His sword tip steady, Guy dropped the shield and clumsily pulled the helmet from his head. He dropped it into the dust then undid the chainmail flap that covered the lower part of his face. His eyes flamed with an emotion William could only assume mirrored the rage he felt. “Have you truly reformed, William?” Guy asked. “Have you?” “I’m a soldier of Christ,” William answered, hoping that nobody understood what this challenge was really about. He couldn’t bear to be known for what he was. Not here, where he’d been welcomed with open arms and given one chance at redemption. “Are you, now?” Guy sheathed his sword and composed his features. He offered William a hand to pull him up. William hesitated. He had to hide his secret, and the Master was watching. Enduring hostility would not be tolerated. He stood, and Guy held his hand and pulled him close, their armored chests touching.
“Meet me in the barn after midnight,” Guy said, then shook his hand and let him go, seemingly unconcerned. The brethren gave William wide berth for the rest of the day. He knew that behind his back they jeered that William Raven, the undefeated, had eaten dust at the hands of a mere pilgrim. Speculation was rife about the stranger’s past. Guy did not talk about it, but instead professed humility. William fulfilled his duties and did not recall them afterward. He could not concentrate on the prayers, and was glad for the time simply passing. He did not want to meet the man, but knowing Guy, he would never leave if William did not follow the command. Guy would play this game until he received what he wished for. Seeing those memories so vividly in front of his eyes whenever William allowed his mind to drift was a slow, insistent torture. And it seemed like his mind could do nothing but drift. He could not escape. With a sense of defeat, William stole away in the moonlight to the barn right next to the stables. A dark mantle covered his white cappa, hiding it from the eyes of the guards. He had never felt so unworthy of the garment. Inside the barn, Guy was already waiting for him. He motioned William silently toward the back, where they were protected from anyone casting a searching glance inside. The smell of grain and hay reminded William of summer and autumn, of more peaceful times, of endeavors other than war. A few moonbeams made their way through the windows higher up, casting light and shadows over Guy’s handsome face and making his blue eyes glow. “William,” Guy said, tasting his name as if he were weighing his soul. “You, of all places, here.” “And you, as a pilgrim,” William retorted. “I have committed a grave sin. The bishop told me to seek penance in Jerusalem.” Guy stared at him, as if to fix him to the spot with an unspoken challenge. “My sin is like yours.” William’s skin crawled; he knew Guy’s sin too well. They had committed it together. “Which one? Spilling Christian blood? Plunder?”
Guy shook his head, dismissing the weak defense, and stepped closer. The monk’s habit did not protect William nearly as well as the armor had. His shoulders touched the wall before he realized he had stepped back. Guy’s palm came up to cup his face. The fingers of his other hand dug into William’s neck muscles. This touch was unbearable, and William pulled away. He’d much rather have ridden alone straight into the heart of the enemy, or endured the relentless heat of the desert or a flogging for a crime than be touched by Guy. But his body remembered Guy and his heart beat faster at the touch. “If you hate me so, why are you here?” Guy asked. “To tell you to leave.” Please, leave, before my resolve cracks again. “I have found peace here.” Guy’s face fell. “Then why are you shaking? William Raven is afraid of nothing.” William wanted to push him away and free himself. Guy reminded him of his own pride, of the free, restless, often lawless life he’d led, of his own recklessness. He’d always fought as though he would—could—never die. As though God could never punish him for the deed. “I’m not that man anymore,” William whispered. “Are you not? You bear his form, speak with his voice, you feel the same.” Guy pressed into him, bringing their bodies flush, with no space left for even a dagger blade between them. William remembered how they’d touched and kissed and fucked for days, never leaving the bed. Wild times . . . the saint’s festival, the city of Metz full of nobility and fighters and painted whores. During those times William had thought, had hoped, there could be rest for him. He’d rested in Guy’s arms and held the man at his shoulder, believing that maybe, maybe, there was a life without shame for them. “How can you have peace,” Guy demanded, “when I came here to pray for deliverance, having found it nowhere else? I came to the Holy Land, begging forgiveness for my sin of loving you. Feeling that if any place in the world could work that miracle, it must be Jerusalem.”
“And you found me,” William said. Guy dismissed that with an irritated shake of his head. “I am no longer looking for forgiveness. This was a fool’s errand. If loving you is a sin, I’ll gladly burn in hell.” Is, not was. William almost choked on his breath. Before Guy, he’d always slaked his lust with servants, never with an equal, and certainly never with another warrior. It was too dangerous, the sin too monstrous. Defiling another man’s body weighed heavier when the other man had honor and power. But, a small voice in his head taunted, another warrior had the strength to love him. A pain as intense as receiving a wound in combat pierced him. “Why don’t you just leave?” Guy’s lips were so close that William felt the man’s breath gentle on his face. “I’ve heard them say that love is like a falcon, but I’d never felt the falcon’s claws pierce my heart until you kissed me. Tell me you didn’t mean it. Tell me you don’t love me now.” “I’m a monk, Guy. I . . . .” How could he deny that damned desire? Guy was different; older and bearded and a much better fighter now. But he was still the same man, too, fearless and challenging. He was rebellious, defiant, and proud, but even if his pride was sinful, William could not think of Guy as evil. Not even now. Guy didn’t listen, or he didn’t care. He kissed William’s face, his throat, pressed into him with all the abandon of a love denied for too long. For six forlorn years, William thought he’d never see Guy again. He’d wanted to forget him, because what kind of madness brought two men—two knights—together in such a way? Now, in the land of promise, in the teeth of the enemy, he faced the madness again, and his lover’s feverish light blue eyes. “I have . . . given myself . . . to God . . . .” William groaned when Guy’s hands opened his belt, but Guy didn’t listen, didn’t stop even for a moment as he
pulled the cappa off him, stripping him to the light linen shirt, leggings and breeches. “You had no right to,” Guy whispered harshly, hands now on William’s red woolen belt. The symbol of chastity. “You had no right to give him what you gave me. I never released you.” William took Guy’s hands, stilling them in a last, desperate attempt to not succumb to this temptation. “I was free to go . . . .” “You weren’t,” Guy retorted and pressed William’s hands in his. “The things you swore . . . that you loved me, that you would stay with me. And then you stole away like a thief in the night? All I heard was that you’d given away everything you owned and joined an order, denying me.” “I did not.” “Oh, I know your Templar rites. Your Master told me about them. They ask whether any man has any claim over you. You cannot join the order if there is such a claim. You may not be married, you may not be sought for murder, or owe another debt . . . but what about my claim over you?” Guy bared his teeth. “Does this mean less than a debt unpaid?” He was right. During the rite of acceptance, William had denied any claim over him existed. He’d told himself that those were sins he was leaving behind, but while he had not broken the letter of the rule, he’d certainly broken its spirit. He’d joined under false pretenses, a crime severe enough to cast him out from the order. “I spoke the truth then . . . . You are dear to me.” “Finally,” Guy said and kissed him, one hand against his throat as if to hold him under control. Those fierce kisses dazed him and ignited the old fire he’d thought doused. Instead, the embers had been hidden safe in the ash, and now, rekindled, the heat returned. A dark red core like a pain in his chest flared, and he gave up, accepted this defeat just like the one on the testing ground. He couldn’t help the groan when Guy’s hand slipped down and touched his groin, finding proof that his body had never truly forgotten. That his blood was just as sinful as it had ever been.
And yet, he remembered the utter peace he’d felt in the other man’s arms. A peace he craved worse than the touch from that demanding hand. “Guy, we . . . .” “Be still, my falcon.” Guy took William’s neck in his strong grip and pulled him close, while his free hand stoked the maddening fire. William gasped with want and need. He despised himself for having left Guy then, and for breaking his vows now. He pushed his hands under Guy’s shirt, feeling the hot skin, the ripple of muscles as Guy shifted. He couldn’t turn back now. Six years. Why had he waited so long? His hands were unsteady when he opened Guy’s belt. The sound of the buckle hitting the ground seemed loud enough in his ears to alarm the guards. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but he didn’t want to stop. He pulled Guy’s shirt off and dropped it to the barn floor before kissing the broad shoulder, the line of the man’s collar bone. His teeth found the strong muscle between shoulder and neck, and on his chest William thought he felt a scar that hadn’t been there six years ago. Guy hissed at the bite, but laughed quietly. “What’s that? Revenge for besting you?” “I’ve bested you a hundred times . . . ,” William said, kissing Guy’s throat and freeing him from the breeches, touching him just to tease him, making the other man growl softly in his throat. “Not this time.” Guy pushed him back against some sacks of grain. William resisted, took hold of Guy’s neck and forced him into a wrestling hold. Fighting Guy was almost as good as fucking him, and William gave a short laugh. Guy placed an arm around his hips and tried to unbalance him. William leaned against him, then Guy abruptly changed the movement, pulling now instead of pushing, and they stumbled against the grain sacks. William managed to use the momentum to get on top, holding the other man down with his weight, grinding against his groin. Guy stared at him in a clear challenge, the expression on his moonlit features enough to make William’s blood surge. He bent his neck, kissing that
chest, the fine blond hair there, feeling Guy’s strong fingers pull his head closer, press his face against his skin. He knew what the other really wanted, could read him so well, and yet it was always a struggle. Now, though, Guy was better matched to his own strength. William pulled Guy’s breeches off, then pulled down his own, baring them both completely. He pressed his cock against Guy’s groin, felt the other’s heat and desire, his chest expanding with choked breaths, his muscles coiled as with the beginning of a fight. Guy wouldn’t give up, and that aroused William even more. Guy hadn’t come here to get fucked. Guy bucked underneath him, but William resisted, ground against Guy’s movements, and the man visibly struggled to just give in. William knew him well enough to see Guy’s impatience was beginning to get the better of him. He kissed the other man deeply, pushing his tongue between lips that resisted at first but then kissed him back with all the desperation that mirrored William’s own. The only warning William received was Guy pulling away, then Guy hooked his leg around his thigh, and forced him to roll over. The uneven surface of the sacks made them move farther than Guy had intended. William landed on his back with a harsh sound, but he laughed when Guy grinned at him. “Got you,” Guy whispered. “Turn around.” William disentangled himself just enough to turn, never fully breaking skin contact, brushing against Guy’s naked body. He laughed at the thought of doing it here, in a dusty barn, when they had lain on silken beds and forest clearings in bloom. He pulled his knees under him, felt Guy shift on top, trusting him with one thing: there would be no quarter given or received. Their love had rarely been tender. True to this, Guy spat, then groaned and pushed against him. William braced himself, head hanging low, weight on his elbows and knees. Guy’s arm slid around William as the man used his raw strength to push into him. William almost shouted out against the pain, but it came mixed with a pleasure that he had no name for. Being taken, being claimed, wiped out all
thoughts of guilt. The rough invasion made him bite down on curses and pleas, but for what, he wouldn’t have known. Not mercy, not redemption, not being spared this. He wanted Guy, even welcomed the pain. It made this stolen encounter more real, and maybe the pain was part of the punishment for the sin. William gave a choked sound when he felt Guy’s body flush against his. “So long . . . .” Guy whispered. “It’s been . . . the same for you.” William gritted his teeth. Guy pulled back and added more spit before pushing against him with even more force as though trying to break the resistance of his body. With the next thrust, he could feel himself yield. The pain turned into a low burn and the pleasure increased so that William had to suppress his moans. His dizzy mind concentrated on where they touched, on Guy’s sweaty hands running over his body and then taking his hips to steady him for more forceful thrusts. Guy had no need to pin him like this. William pushed back, face twisted in a grimace, teeth bared in an animal snarl as his lover fucked him; the one man who dared claim him. “Demanding . . . .” Guy laughed, meeting every movement with a thrust of the hips. Their strengths pitted against each other, demand and control mutual, wanting and craving shared. Guy’s thrusts became more erratic. He sped up until everything melted and the burn was blanked out and turned into need. William couldn’t find the balance to touch himself, but he was getting close. He was about to beg Guy to release him when he felt Guy come inside him with several more desperate thrusts. Before William could ask to be touched, Guy pulled away and pushed him down, turned him around roughly and immediately closed his lips around his cock, sucking with so much eagerness and hunger that it pushed William over the edge. William pulled Guy down onto his cock, making him choke. The small revenge for what Guy had done didn’t last long. Guy didn’t fight it. They’d always been rough.
William thrust up into Guy’s throat and release came almost immediately, tensing every muscle in his body and shaking him to the core. Guy struggled free, coughing, but then he grinned and sat back against the grain sacks, wiping his face with one hand. The familiar gesture brought back memories of their fights at tournaments; they’d worked together as a team and made a fortune taking other knights captive until they paid ransom. In ten months, they had taken well over one hundred and twenty knights, and spent a lot of the money on food, drink, horses, and gifts. They’d been fierce lovers, undefeatable together, the presence of the other bolstering both courage and strength. It had been the best time of their lives. William caught his breath, lying flat on the ground, wishing nothing more than to pull Guy close and rest with him. To find that solace in his touch after release, to feel his every breath, secure in his strength and devotion. Yet the sin had eventually caught up with him. The rumors, the whispers about their ‘unnatural’ bond, the sin of Sodom, had unnerved him, forced him away. He couldn’t face the sneers, the snide remarks. Not even Guy’s presence protected him. They were better off alone, he’d thought. Time heals everything, he’d thought. I was wrong. They rested wordlessly for a long time, not touching, their hearts beating on their own, their breath mingling not with each other’s, but with the cold night air. William studied Guy’s features, the color of his hair in the moonlight. Guy said he had a claim over him, and even if William would normally be loath to admit it, it was doubtlessly true. He had made promises, given oaths in the heat of passion and in the tender moments that followed. He had pledged himself to this man, and he didn’t want to lose him again. This courageous, impulsive warrior had found him from an ocean away. “Conrad will miss me.” “Conrad?” Guy looked up.
“I share a room with another knight. As is custom, to guard each other’s purity.” William grinned without humor. He got up and gathered his clothes, putting them back on. Guy, however, didn’t move. “Stay.” “I have to obey the rules.” William fastened his clothes again. “Don’t damn us both. You have to go back. The guards will wonder what you are doing outside the guest quarters.” “Is that it, then?” “You have to finish your pilgrimage, and I have given my vows.” William put on the dark mantle and walked toward the door. “God bless you, Guy.” “Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll leave you in peace,” Guy snapped. William’s palm, flat against the door, formed a fist. He couldn’t. He did love Guy. Even if the bastard made his blood boil so easily. ”I do.” You know I do. But it was impossible. He was a Templar. With his vows, William had given up the right to go where he pleased. Templars were sent where they were needed. A man like him belonged in the heart of battle. It was his life’s purpose; he was made to do battle against the heathen, to win his own worth through service that might count against his sins when he died. This was a matter of his soul, his faith, and he would not leave the one place in the world where he had found something like redemption. Above all, he couldn’t run away again. Yet, Guy’s claim was valid, too. He’d given promises and never kept them. It was a grave sin, perjury; any oath he had sworn during the initiation meant nothing. The promises to his lover made everything a lie. Six years with the Templars, countless times he’d offered up his life and body in battle. He had joined under false pretenses, and that sin condemned him as surely as breaking these oaths. Either way, he was damned. He bent his neck, unable to reach a decision. Guy stepped up close to him and placed both hands on his shoulders. “You love me and yet you have to go?” “Forgive me, Guy.”
“Do you remember the first tournament? When we crossed swords, much as we did today?” Guy said, voice thick with emotion. “Do you remember how you bested me, and how I came to ransom my weapons from you? You stood, and instead of silver, claimed a kiss from me.” Guy’s lips were so close that William felt his breath on his neck. William couldn’t answer. It might have been madness, but it had turned into love. A well-known mercenary and the scion of an important family. He shouldn’t have demanded that first kiss, but he couldn’t regret it now. Maybe it would be easier if he could have. There was really only one solution to the problem. “Release me from my oath, Guy. If I’m no longer bound by my word . . . .” I can remain here, and deny you. Maybe I’ll save us both that way. “I prayed so hard for deliverance.” Guy kissed his neck and embraced him for a long moment. “I cannot release you. And I won’t. Those weren’t just words, William. I believed in them. I cannot shake that faith.” Those ties held, the oath was still valid, and Guy, of course, gave him no quarter, didn’t allow him the coward’s way out. Their love had always been a battle, an endless string of competition—who was the better fighter, the better drinker, the better gambler, the better rider. He had to honor his oaths, and they seemed careless to him now, even though, no doubt, he’d meant them when he’d spoken them. But there were the other memories, too; he remembered them both drunk with victory, drunk on each other’s strength. He remembered how young and radiant Guy’s face had been, how he’d lain at his side, spilling spiced wine down his front. William had licked it off him only too gladly, combining the spices and the dark red wine with the salt from his skin. He wanted to taste Guy’s skin again, wanted to hear him laugh. He wanted to feel him struggle, and guard his side in battle. He loved him. Always would. And he didn’t want to be released. Somehow, some way, he would keep Guy by his side. ~ The End ~
About the Author Aleksandr Voinov is an emigrant German author living near London, UK where he makes his living as a financial journalist, freelance editor and creative writing teacher. At 34 years of age, Aleksandr has written about 13 novels and commercially published five in Germany. After many years writing horror, science fiction, cyberpunk and fantasy stories, and making a (different) name for himself in those markets, he has set his sights now on writing historicals and contemporaries. He is currently working on an m/m/f ménage and a gay financial thriller. His English blog can be found here: http://vashtan.livejournal.com/, more info here: http://bookworld.editme.com/Vashtan ***** If you enjoyed Forbidden Love, you might also like the following books from Noble Romance Publishing: Beautiful C*cksucker by Barbara Sheridan BC II - Such a Good Boy by Barbara Sheridan Best Unspoken by Bryl R. Tyne Call Me Sir by Stormy Glenn Damn Gorgeous by Jaye Valentine Dark Whispers by Barbara Sheridan and Anne Cain If I Were a Lady . . . by Bryl R. Tyne Ignited by Bryl R. Tyne Sex & Chocolate by Reese Johnson Soul Searchers by Reese Johnson Spank Me Once Anthology by Various Authors Spank Me Twice Anthology by Various Authors Their Lover by Barbara Sheridan Valentine's Vindication by Keta Diablo What Happens in Vegas by Jenna Byrnes
