Dark Moons Rising

Nia Farrell

Dark Moons Rising

Copyright © 2016 Nia Farrell

Published by Dark Hollows Press

About the Book You Have Purchased

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Dark Moons Rising

Copyright © 2016 Nia Farrell

ISBN 10: 1-944054-48-0

ISBN 13: 978-1-944054-48-9

Author: Nia Farrell

Editor: Sydney Maples

Publication Date: March 2016

All cover art and logo copyright © 2016 by Dark Hollows Press

Cover design by E. Connors

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Chapter One

Deidra pushed through the tangle of forest undergrowth, the fallen leaves crunching beneath her small, slippered feet.  Occasionally she paused to catch her breath and listen for the sounds of pursuit or the rush of the river, now swollen from rains that had delayed the harvest in lands to the north. 

She needed water.  And food.  She’d had nothing beyond a few husknuts, to eat or to drink, since breaking her fast this morn.   When the chance to escape came, she’d taken it, although sorely unprepared, preferring the risk of discovery and death to what surely awaited her, had she but stayed.

Her lungs burned from the exertion of her desperate flight, but the waning light gave rise to a new foreboding.  Although she’d escaped certain peril, other dangers threatened if she failed to find shelter before darkness fell.  She’d heard the stories of these woods – nursery tales spun to frighten children into obedience.  Other, more titillating versions, whispered behind delicate fingers and painted silk fans, described a race of giant men capable of changing form, dark shaggy beasts who’d love nothing more than to capture and mate with a daughter of light.

Not that they’d recognize her as such.  The fragile fabric of her garments was shredded by the brambles that had scored her legs with dozens of thin, bloodied lines.  Her waist-length white-gold hair, scraped back and pinned in a knot, was hidden beneath a makeshift scarf – a torn width of creamy white cloth that had graced her dressing table.  Her nails were broken, her hands caked with dirt.  She’d clawed her way out of the partially collapsed tunnel that led to freedom – a secret escape route known only to a privileged few.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

She kept moving, finding and then following a narrow trail blazed by cloven hooves, trusting that it continued to lead away from the castle and the fate that awaited her, should she be captured and returned.  Mordred would want her back.  Above all, she was to have been his prize.

Mordred’s attack had been months in planning.  A surprise assault, the walls breached, brutal combat followed by wholesale slaughter of all save herself and a handful of servants deemed of use.  More than lands, more than the castle that had been held by her family for generations, Mordred had wanted her and what strength he could steal from a daughter of light. 

He had thought that her kind was a myth, until a wandering minstrel came to his court with a story that his spies had confirmed.  On the first market day of the season, the minstrel had come to the village and had seen her lay hands on a child who’d been trampled.  Under her touch, the small broken body had quickened, mended, and was ultimately restored.  She had saved a life that day, but at what cost?  Her family had been murdered, her people massacred.  She had been reduced to the status of slave, forced to train as a comforter, destined for the bed of a man who had no mercy, who thirsted for power and teemed with lust.

Mordred wanted her.  He would come for her.  It was only a matter of time.

She tread lightly, smelling the earthy, fecund scent of ancient growth and rotting, fallen timbers.  Instinct made her pause, rattled by the distinct, disturbing feeling that she was being observed.  She listened, freezing when she thought she heard the unnatural shift of crisp autumn leaves.  When she could breathe again, she threw one more glance behind her and launched herself into full flight, tearing through the deepening forest, dodging low-hanging limbs of the massive oaks as she raced along the deer trail, any thought of stealth abandoned. 

Hunter and hunted, predator and prey, the distance between them closed.  “Halt!” a voice ordered, low, gruff, decidedly masculine.  Fueled by a sudden burst of energy born of desperation, she sped up, flying along the ground…until a massive arm snaked around her waist, plucked her up, and spun her around.  Momentum carried them full circle.

“Fool,” he growled in her ear, pointing at the trap that would have claimed her.  Sharpened spikes lined the floor of the pit, dug into the forest floor along the path.  “Poachers,” he spat.  “I removed the cover to reveal it, but we’ve not yet had time to fill it in.”

Deidra shook in the confines of his hold, overcome by emotion.  She thought she’d lost everything but she’d still had life, and breath.  Her dream of regained freedom lived, too, if only she could talk him into letting her go.

She feared there would be no escaping him.  The man was huge, with strength enough in his hair-dusted, muscle-roped arms that he held her as easily as he would a pet fenica weighing six stones.  And he was fast – much quicker than the runners that her father had sent to summon aid…only to have their heads returned in a wicker basket with the demand to surrender or die.

“Please,” she whispered.  Choking back the tears she’d refused to shed when the walls were breached, she softened the death grip she realized that she had on his arm.  “And thank you,” she added, bracing to throw herself on the mercy of a man who might well have none.  She turned her head, moving her gaze up her captor’s arm, over muscles that tested the seams of his hunting jerkin, past the whorls of black hair that peaked from the v of his shirt.  Above the thick column of neck, his beard-shadowed jaw was strong and square, his chin firm and cleft in the middle.  His full, sensuous lips were as perfect as those carved by a master sculptor’s hand.  She risked a quick look higher and glimpsed thick black lashes framing eyes as blue as the waters of Saint Illian’s spring.  She resisted the urge to see if they were just as deep and mysterious. 

The man was huge, at least six and a half feet tall, his long black hair tied with a leather lace that had come loose in their chase.  His long bow and a quiver of arrows remained slung firmly across his back.  His clothes were clean enough to have been put on fresh this morning.  He smelled of the forest – woods and sweat, linen and leather.  His skin was either naturally dark or he was well-kissed by the sun goddess, Sola.  Laugh lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes bespoke a nature much kinder than Mordred’s. 

It could be worse.

“My name is Deidra,” she whispered, forcing herself to keep her gaze lowered, giving the appearance of meekness, at least.  “I seek sanctuary.  Can you give it?”

He lifted her chin and crooked a smile.  “Perhaps.  If I can trust you to follow and obey.  If not…” The lines of his mouth flattened, underscoring the weight of his words.  “We’ll have to spend the night here, at our peril.  Which is it to be?”

With dark moons rising, she had no choice.  The things that hunted on the night of the full moons were nothing compared to what fed in the blackest hours – especially this time of year, when the veils between the planes were thinnest.  “I will do my best to match your stride, if you will lead, my lord.”

“Thorne,” he said, relaxing his hold so that she stood before him, dwarfed by his size.  “Keep your eyes on me.  Step where I step.  If you start to fall behind, let me know at once.  Understood?”

“Aye,” she said, refusing to think of anything else but surviving, one step at a time.

Chapter Two

She was too slow. 

Tears stung her eyes when Deidra realized the danger she was putting them both in.  The sun was lowering.  Darkness was coming, and with it, all manner of vile, evil things.

“Thorne,” she rasped, her throat parched from lack of water.  “I can’t keep up.  Go on without me.  Please.  Do not put yourself in peril on my account.”

Thorne spun on his heel and returned to her side.  “I’m not leaving you,” he said, hardly winded.

“You cannot stay.  It’s too dangerous.”

“You’re right.  It is dangerous.  But if you’ll trust me, I can get us to safety.  Just…turn around,” he said, reaching for the laces on his breeches.

“What?”

“Turn!” he barked.

Behind her, she heard the rustle of clothing, the shift of leaves, a hiss of breath, and finally Thorne’s voice.  “All right.  You can look now.”

She braced herself, not knowing what to expect.  Whatever her fertile mind imagined, it was not this…him…still dressed in his shirt, his bow and quiver still banding his chest, but below his waist, he was no longer a man but an animal.

Half man, half horse.

A centaur.  Thorne was a centaur.

The horse part of him was huge and black, with a shiny coat, a long flowing tail of slightly wavy hair, and luxurious feathering below his knees that nearly covered his hooves. 

If he was handsome as a man, he was stunning as a manbeast.

Thorne eyed her closely, watching her reaction just as surely as she was watching his.  Clearly a centaur and clearly a stallion.  His extended phallus was as thick as her forearm.

“Can you ride?” he asked, breaking the spell of seeing him thus.

Deidra blinked.  “Um.  Yes.  Yes, I can.”

He bent his front legs until he was kneeling on the ground.  “Come on, then.  Unless you want to stay...?”

He did not have to ask twice.

Half an hour later, as the last bit of sunlight drowned in a sea of autumn leaves that yet clung to the ancient trees, they reached what appeared to be a stone and timber-framed hunting lodge.  Thorne swung her off his back and warned her that he would be shifting, giving her the option to turn away, if she chose. 

But curiosity was in her nature, and a show of trust might aid her cause, if she hoped to find safe haven here.  Still, she could not help blushing.

Thorne smiled and pulled on his breeks.  Not bothering to fasten them, he snatched up his boots with his stockings still tucked inside them.  “Follow me.”

Deidra saw movement in a window, just before the heavy oaken door was flung wide on its hinges and another dark-haired giant hurled himself outside, flying over the steps to tackle Thorne.

“About time,” he growled, pausing in his grappling when he saw that Thorne’s pants were not laced. 

He followed Thorne’s line of sight, until he saw her.  “What’s this, brother?” the dark giant asked.  Releasing Thorne, he approached her, keeping his eyes on her face, for the most part.  “Definitely not the venison you claimed to be craving.” 

Thorne gave his brother’s back a friendly slap and winked at her, putting her mind at ease.  “Ragan, this is Deidra.  I found her running on the far edge of the western forest.  In her haste, she almost went into a poacher’s pit.  We’ll need to go back tomorrow and fill it.  Meanwhile, she petitions for sanctuary.” 

Ragan looked at her with the assessing gaze of a man used to making swift, sure judgments.  His examination was brief yet thorough; his gaze was most definitely unsettling.  She held her breath, even after he nodded his approval. 

Thorne thumped the meaty joint of his shoulder.  “She can tell us her story once she’s settled.  Any more should wait until we’re inside.”

Already the night sounds were shifting.  When unearthly cries sounded in the nearby trees, Thorne grasped her wrist and pulled her into the lodge.  Ragan slammed the door shut behind them, bolted it, then braced its width, dropping a thick oaken spar in the forged wall brackets that flanked the timber frame.  She was locked in a house with two virtual strangers, but for the first time in weeks, Deidra felt strangely safe. 

Thorne ordered her to sit at a sturdy trestle table that would easily accommodate eight.  Eschewing a seat, he balanced on one foot at a time to pull on his stockings and slip into his boots.  Fully dressed once more, he was about to pull out the chair next to hers when Ragan motioned for him to come.  Excusing themselves, the brothers withdrew to an adjacent room, locked in quiet conversation.

Deidra used the time alone to study her surroundings.  The main room was a goodly size, well appointed but not ostentatious.  The quality of its furnishings spoke to the elevated station of its owner.  This was no humble lodge, and these were no ordinary men, whatever their race, of that she was certain.  Their looks were too refined.  Ragan was every bit as handsome as Thorne, though perhaps an inch shorter, with eyes of a shade darker blue.  Their garments, fashioned from cloth of the first quality, had been tailored to fit their massive frames.  Their boots were finely turned, cobbled to fit feet that must be size fourteen or fifteen, at least.

At five feet five inches, she was considered tall for her race, but these men towered above her.  She remembered the stories of dark giants that had once frightened, then intrigued her, and knew she could only hide her nature for so long.  If they wanted her, they would take her.  If they took her, they would know.

It did not make her decision any easier, but revealing herself sooner rather than later might work to her advantage.  Oddly, she could thank Mordred for the training he’d ordered her to undertake these past weeks while his custom mark was being made.  The lessons were meant to prepare her for his possession.  She never dreamed that she would use them to try to tempt a man, yet she now found herself preparing to seduce two.  And not just men.  They were another race altogether.  Dark lords.  Manbeasts.  Centaurs who would split her asunder, if they chose to take her in that form.

The thought made her tremble, but she had to risk it.  She’d made her choice when she’d climbed on Thorne’s back and wrapped her arms around his waist, breathing in his heady male scent as he galloped through the forest at breakneck speed, carrying her to safety.

Casting a glance about the room, Deidra spied a ewer of water on a sideboard.  Untying the length of linen from her hair, she unpinned her knot and loosened her locks, finger-combing them into some semblance of order.  Thirstier than she’d been in her life, she could not resist stealing a few sips of water before wetting the cloth and scrubbing her face, neck, and hands.  She moistened it again, as needed, cleaning her fingernails, one by one, as best she could.  Helpless to do more without the proper tools, she turned her attention to her poor legs and was tending the worst of her scratches when the brothers came back.

Immediately she dropped to her knees, with head bowed and her hands locked behind her, presenting herself as she had been trained, except that she was still dressed.  One of them – Thorne, she thought – whistled softly. 

“Well, well,” he murmured.  “What have we here?  Speak, femina.”

“Sires, this girl was born Deidra of Ravenhill.  Her father Fallyn is – was – lord there, until Mordred, bastard of Owain ap Coel, captured it.  He plans to take what no man has had and mark this girl as his.  Please, my lords, this girl would rather die than suffer his touch.  No amount of training will change that.”

Expletives blistered the air as Ragan cursed her father’s murderer.  “We have heard of this Mordred.  I take it, you were being made ready for him?”

“Aye, milord.  For him, and, he threatened, for his friends.  Becoming a comforter requires much preparation.  Advanced training allows one girl to satisfy multiple partners,” she added meaningfully.  She’d only just begun that phase when she managed to escape, thanks to the floral bouquet she’d been allowed to pick for her room.  The natural sedative from one plant had rendered her guard unconscious, long enough for her to access the hidden passage.

She had never seen such motion in stillness, yet both men remained exactly where they were. 

“He will come,” Thorne grated, clenching his fists, his chest heaving with each hot breath.  “He will want her.”

“Perhaps not,” she whispered.  “Mordred wants what no man has had.  If that changes…”

The words remained unspoken, hovering in the air between them, the silence thickening with each passing second.  Now or never, she told herself.  Inhaling, she drew her thoughts inward, tapped into her core, and focused on her heart center, drawing the energy there first, then feeling the luminescence spread throughout her body, until her skin glowed softly and her fingertips were limned in light.  “Please.”  Breaking protocol, rejecting the objectification of this girl and reclaiming the birthright of her true self, she boldly met their gazes and pleaded, “Help me, Thorne, Ragan!  I beg you!”

When they did not punish or correct her, she exhaled softly.  As the tension drained from her body, she glowed even brighter.

Thorne hooked a bent finger under her chin and lifted her radiant face, his gaze locking with hers, truly seeing her for the first time, from her amethyst eyes to the thick, shining waves of white-gold hair.  With her head tilted back, it pooled in her clasped hands and spilled over to brush her hips.

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

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

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

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

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

Deidra nodded.  Better their slave than Mordred’s.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sanctuary.  

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

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thorne had the ointment jar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Breathe, dove.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Theirs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somehow, the thought was not displeasing.

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

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

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

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

Blessed be, blessed be, blessed be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She spent the rest of the night proving it.

Something Else

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

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

Something Different

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

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

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

Something More

Loving a biker and his adult film star brother came at a terrible price. Taken by a rival gang, beaten beyond recognition, and sexually assaulted, Rachel Givens saw a chance to survive by claiming the identity of the other girl who was taken and killed. She spent months recovering from her physical injuries but still struggles with PTSD. Add her three-year-old autistic daughter to the equation, and Rachel (now Rae Simmons) has her hands more than full as she makes a new life for them in a quiet little town.

When her former loves walk into the restaurant where she works, it’s clear that the Colson brothers have come for more than the plate lunch special. Once Rachel gladly submitted to their domination, but she hasn’t been with a man since her ordeal. She has triggers and issues and a daughter whose needs come first. Cord and Cam don’t care whether or not Hannah is theirs. As far as they’re concerned, Hannah is Rachel’s and Rachel is theirs – and they’ll do whatever it takes to convince Rachel that they belong together.

About the Author

Nia Farrell has been writing for pleasure since junior high.  Now that she writes about pleasure, she can share the fantasy worlds she visits and introduce readers to characters who remain with her long after their tales are told.

When crafting a story, Nia draws upon a rich diversity of life experiences, which include singer/songwriter, prize winning needle artist, private pilot, Reiki Master/Teacher, crystal healer, psychic fair reader, jewelry maker, physician’s assistant, factory worker, waitress, genealogist, period reenactor, and children’s author.  If this life isn’t enough, there are plenty of others to choose from.  Otherwise, she devotes hours of research to subjects outside her realm, determined that her stories ring true.

Nia lives on a farm in Southern Illinois (far, far from Chicago, in the heart of “Little Egypt”).  A seventh generation Illinoisan, she is descended from Mayflower Pilgrims, American soldiers from the Revolutionary War to World War II, and Scottish nobility.  She enjoys playing in the past and visits Ren fairs and historical re-enactments in period attire, sharing her love of history and her passion for music.  While her husband and two grown daughters may only read her nonfiction work, she appreciates their support in pursuing her dreams, one of which is being published in erotic romance.  

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