Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Barabbas, Give Me Back My Barabbas by Jen Bluekissed
The Untold Riches of the Holy Lands by Jay Hughes
Inamorata by Kristabel Reed
Lord Barclay’s Seduction by Em Brown
The Gentleman’s Loving Spy by K.T. Grant
The Encore by J. Schrade
The Loving Homecoming by Janet Post
Three on Twelfth by Jo Atkinson
Casting Couch by Courtney Sheets
French Kiss by Cathleen Ross
Tea Time by Rebecca Leigh
Purple Haze by Melanie Thompson
Woodstock by Garland
Snap Decision by Elizabeth Coldwell
Center Part by Hobart Glasse
Just Friends by Cynthia Gentry
When in Rome by Mercy Loomis
House of Treasures by Laura Neilsen
Vince and Vi’s Caribbean Adventure by Reno Lark
And Damien Makes Four by Em Brown
Two Men and a Lady Prequel by Brit M.
Later Days, Saints by Kilt Kilpatrick
Web Swingers by Tony Wards
Bon Appetit by J. Troy Seate
The Fragile by Elizabeth Miette
Searching for the Perfect Mate by Trinity Blacio
Also available from Black Lace
Copyright
About the Book
A super-hot short story collection about threesomes.
In this delightfully wicked anthology, you’ll find threesomes of all types ranging from historical to contemporary, with even a touch of the paranormal. Whether it’s two men and a woman, two women and a man, or same-sex threesomes, these groups find interesting and inspiring ways to get it on. From sexed-up cowboys to an all male medieval threesome, hot vintage Hollywood to a triple lesbian story right out of Mad Men, Hot Ménage has a story for everyone.
Contributors include: Jen Bluekissed, Jay Hughes, Kristabel Reed, Em Brown, K.T. Grant, Janet Post, Jo Atkinson, Courtney Sheets, Cathleen Ross, Rebecca Leigh, Melanie Thompson, Elizabeth Coldwell, Cynthia Gentry, Mercy Loomis, Laura Neilsen, Reno Lark and Brit M.
Barabbas, Give Me Back My Barabbas
by Jen Bluekissed
“RIVKA BAT ERAN,” my neighbor called out to me with a warm smile. “Chag Pesach Sameach.”
“Chag Pesach Sameach,” I replied, genuinely wishing her a meaningful Passover, for what was left of it.
“Your pain will lessen, Rivka. Barabbas ben Pesech fought for a just cause, and our people will never forget the sacrifices he made in the attempt to free us from Roman rule.”
For her there would always be prayers and family, unleavened bread and wine, a remembrance of our people’s past, and a steadfast longing for our freedom from the Romans. She still lived with the hope of many generations’ struggle and fortitude to one day not only be the chosen people, a nation with men and women as numerous as the stars of the sky, but also with the freedom to rule itself.
For me, the Passover held nothing but bitterness. My husband, Barabbas, rotted in a prison after being captured during the insurrection he’d spent his entire life planning. He had been completely sure our men could overpower the Romans. He was sure enough of his cause that he risked everything important to me. Not only was he captured, but my two sons had died the same day when the soldiers crushed the poorly armed men under the weight of their horses’ hooves. Their metal scaled armor, the lorica squamata, protected them from the force of our men’s blows.
All the insurrection accomplished was to leave me childless and with a husband who was scheduled to be crucified among thieves. I still slept with a roof over my head, but I had no idea how long even that would last. How would I eat after Barabbas’s execution? He had rounded up even my brothers and uncles for the insurrection. Those who survived the Romans’ wrath were left maimed or half dead. My neighbor could wish me well, but her well wishes wouldn’t put food in my stomach. Those who presently took pity on me would soon tire of it. Then what will I do?
I returned to my house, a sack of wheat under my arm. After the Sabbath and Passover were finished, and after Barabbas was executed, I would grind the grain into flour. No doubt my tears would mix with it. At least I would have something to keep my hands busy while mourning. No doubt the Romans would deny me Barabbas’s body or delay his release for burial. Pontius Pilate and the other officials would surely want to report their savagery back to Caesar.
With nothing to do but weep, I entered the house I used to share with Barabbas and our sons. After storing the sack of wheat, I lay on my bed, longing for Barabbas’s heat. If my situation were different, he would have known how to comfort me. He would hold me, and everything would seem better. But, as I remembered for the thirtieth night since the failed attempt to overthrow our tormentors, I was bound to sleep alone.
Or so I thought. Overcome with my own thoughts, I had completely missed her presence. Shoshana bat Hadar, wife of Judah ben Adon, stood in the shadows approximately fifteen cubits away. Judah had already been executed, the first of many organizers the Romans arrested the same day as my Barabbas. They were saving my husband for last in order to make a statement regarding the timing of his crucifixion. Shoshanah was without family like me, and she was the one person I was glad to see inside my house without being invited.
Shoshana looked at me with a desire I’d never noticed in her before. With deep brown eyes the color of dried figs, she settled her gaze on my face while licking her upper lip. Her hair was covered, as was mine, but I knew it was an even deeper brown than my own. I wanted to stroke it, to take Shoshana in my arms and share both my grief and my carnal longings. Since Barabbas had been in prison for over a month, my body longed for intimate contact. She stepped forward, but as she walked into the light, a look of hesitancy crossed her face.
“I know what you want, and I don’t care that it’s forbidden,” I said, hoping to ease her from her doubt. I need this as much as you do.
To reassure her, I brushed my veil to the side so she could glimpse my hair. Not daring to remove my head covering completely, I pulled out a large wisp of hair. It was the color of sandalwood and fell about my shoulder in wavy lock, curling at the end near my breasts. Shoshana’s eyes moved down to the tip, drinking in the curve beneath it.
She crossed the remaining space between us while freeing her arm of the outer mantle draped across her body. Standing before me in nothing but her inner tunic, the silk belt wrapped around her waist holding it closed, and a pair of dusty sandals, she waited for me to shed my outer garments.
“I’m sorry about Barabbas.”
“Don’t. Just comfort me,” I said, slipping my arms out of my own mantle. “Neither of us can change the past. What I need now is to know I’m not alone.”
Shoshana removed her sandals while whispering, “Neither of us will ever be alone as long as we remember what we’ve both been through.”
She sat at my side while bending down to remove my sandals. When my feet were bare, she glided her fingertips up my calves, my thighs, and then between them. I lay back onto my bed, unable to contain the gasp upon feeling a woman’s touch there. Her fingers were unlike Barabbas’s calloused ones. They were slim and smooth, gentle and patient, but deliberate in their caress.
I wanted to watch her eyes as she lifted my inner tunic with her free hand, kissing the insides of my legs, but the will to keep my eyes open faltered. Barabbas had only ever felt for my wetness. Shoshana felt for my pleasure, for the place I didn’t dare ask Barabbas to touch. My hand balled up the hem of my inner tunic that was now bunched around my waist, unable to stay still while she exercised carnal wonders where my flesh parted.
After I was too sensitive for any more of her caress, I sat up, hoping to show Shoshana my gratitude. I reached for her breast, wishing to lift her inner tunic higher than she had lifted mine so that I might take her nipple into my mouth. About to do so, we were both startled by a loud knock on my house’s wooden door. Too shocked to ignore it, we both scrambled to properly cover ourselves. We were barely presentable when my neighbor burst into the house.
“Rivka, take to the street! Quickly! The Roman governor is speaking to the people about Barabbas. He’s giving the crowd the choice between releasing the Nazarean or your husband.”
I strapped the sandals about my feet and ran hand in hand with Shoshana to avoid being separated in the sea of people. The governor has no reason to release my Barabbas. He is known to have killed many Romans during the Insurrection. There has to be something else behind all of this. I didn’t dare hope for Barabbas’s release, yet I found myself shouting in chant with the people surrounding me, my neighbors and friends. I spoke to the governor from a place deep within my heart, unlike the people around me who were caught up in the politics of the unfolding events.
“Give me Barabbas! Give me back my Barabbas!” I went hoarse quickly from the pleas; my throat felt aflame but I continued shouting nonetheless.
Shoshana gripped my hand as if she was afraid to ever let me go, but she shouted the request just as loudly as I. “Give us Barabbas!”
When the governor washed his hands in front of the crowd and ordered the soldiers to release my husband, I nearly fainted from exhaustion and relief but I forced my limbs into submission as I greeted Barabbas. Shoshana refused to release my hand, so Barabbas embraced us both.
“Be careful, Woman,” he said as my free hand wrapped around his back.
It was then that my mind registered that my hand was resting in an open wound. The skin of his back was hanging in shreds from the prison guard’s brutal whip. I inspected his back more closely, tearing my hand out of Shoshana’s grasp. What they had done to him was worse than I had imagined. The implement they used couldn’t have been an ordinary whip. There had to have been metal or glass affixed to the end as they had lashed at him.
Shoshana and I carefully helped Barabbas back out our house. He was not only bloodied, but his legs gave out several times. Finally, one of the men of the crowd took my place and then another took Shoshana’s place—it was improper for her to be so close to him in public—supporting his weight while we returned to the house. Once we were there, I gathered a basin, water, and clean rags before bidding the men to leave.
“I must care for him now.”
No one except Barabbas and I noticed Shoshana’s continued presence. She helped me clean his wounds, then used all the spare cloth available in the house to stop his bleeding. He covered his lap by folding his inner tunic over his legs after removing it and his outer tunic so that we could attend to his back. For as badly as he had been scourged, I was amazed he was lucid and without fever. He sat upright, the damaged skin too scattered around his body to find any relief in reclining.
“Rest, Husband,” I said as I stroked his beard.
He leaned toward me, kissing my mouth before saying, “I am in too much pain to rest comfortably.”
“Then Shoshana and I will sit with you.”
Shoshana cast her eyes downward after briefly holding my gaze. Her cheeks flushed as she sat on Barabbas’s right side. I sat on his left. Her proximity to my husband was overtly improper, but Barabbas smiled as he witnessed the seductive way she set her eyes upon me before looking at the floor. Nothing about my husband had ever been strictly proper. He drew pride from his flaunting of our people’s customs. Even those who knew him but had never met him were aware he was a radical.
“I am glad to see you’ve chosen to comfort Rivka,” he said to Shoshana, “and to comfort me.”
Barabbas lifted the outer tunic from where it rested over his legs so that he wore nothing but a loincloth. His legs were almost as badly damaged as his back. Shoshana and I washed the wounds on his legs with the rest of the remaining clean water. He grimaced every time we rubbed the dirt and sweat out of his battered flesh, but as we worked up his legs, his lips curled upward.
“There is only one part of me the Roman soldiers left untouched.”
I reached across Barabbas’s lap to untie the loincloth, but he shook his head. Motioning for Shoshana to kneel between his legs, he said, “I would like it very much if the two of you distract my body from the pain it suffers. Let Shoshana remove all of her clothing, then you, Rivka. My eyes have seen nothing but the sting of sweat and blood for this past month. Let me watch you pleasure each other.”
Shoshana slowly removed her outer mantle, her inner tunic, her sandals, and her head covering so she stood, then knelt before Barabbas, completely naked. Then she reached for his loincloth, revealing that he had spoken the truth. The Romans had not been brutal there, the sight of Shoshana’s nakedness displaying that every bit of the flesh once hidden under the loincloth was intact.
I also removed everything, even my head covering. Barabbas had been so savagely tortured that I felt he deserved to see both Shoshana and me without a strip of cloth to cover our bodies. By the time I knelt behind her, Barabbas was already touching Shoshana’s large breasts. I pressed mine into her back before reaching around her hips in search of the place she had so expertly caressed on my body hours earlier. A sigh escaped her lips when I found it, and Barabbas smiled at me.
Both of us could see my husband’s body was too covered in torn skin for him to want to plunge himself into either of us. He stroked Shoshana’s hair while guiding her head closer to where the Romans had the decency not to flog. She licked the length of him while moaning from my touch where her flesh parted and slickened.
“He likes sucking even more than licking,” I said from behind as I kissed Shoshana’s neck, then shoulder.
Barabbas grunted his approval as she circled her mouth over him, down his length and then up it, over and over again. Shoshana also moaned as my fingers dipped inside, then returned to the little place I’d been caressing gently, then more quickly. She finished moaning before Barabbas, her body free from the distraction of recent torture, but she continued encircling him with her mouth patiently until she was assured by his body’s release that he was finished.
“I’m glad to be home,” Barabbas said, his frame slumping against the bed. Exhaustion from the day’s events overtook him, and I was relieved we were able to give him rest.
I had my Barabbas back in my life, and I vowed to Shoshana as he slept that I’d never let either of them go again. She returned the vow to me. Her peaceful expression coupled with Barabbas’s deep sleep assured me he would never let either of us go again either, Roman rule or no Roman rule. He was once again mine.
The Untold Riches of the Holy Lands
by Jay Hughes
GEOFFREY THE BLADEMAKER sat in the middle of camp, stropping his broadsword blade across a whetstone. His blade had reached maximum sharpness quite some time ago, but the feeling of Toledo steel against stone was soothing somehow.
Sir Walter the Penniless’s Crusade army had been marching through the mud, sleet, and rain of the Holy Roman Empire for days. Lacking proper maps, they’d been going in circles through the Black Forest for at least a week, and they were no closer to the Holy Land than they’d been a fortnight ago. Rations were running low, shoe leather and patience were running thin. Geoffrey had begun to have second thoughts about taking the cross and following Sir Walter in his fight to lead a peasant crusade to free Jerusalem from the Saracens, even if the promise of Oriental riches and worldly fame was quite tempting, and the only real way a landless peasant rogue like him could make his fortune.
He finally set the whetstone aside and tested the blade against the fine blond hairs that stood out on his forearm. The broadsword edge sliced them off as cleanly as the best of Spanish razors, and then some. A small patch of clean new skin now gleamed from the layers of Black Forest dirt that now coated Geoffrey from head to toe.
Like any good Christian peasant, Geoffrey rarely bathed—since it brought the soul devilishly close to carnal lust, it was an activity reserved only for high feast days or appearances before His Lordship at court. Or so the priests and monks who followed Sir Walter’s army preached, anyway. In reality, it was more a combination of a lack of clean water and the high price of soap. But today even his usually filthy and flea-bitten hide was itching for a good scrub.
Geoffrey sheathed his sword and walked towards the end of camp, where the army merchants and camp-followers gathered. If memory served, there were several bathhouse wagons among them, along with the usual shepherd’s pie vendors, puppetmasters, and the rank, reeking brothels-on-wheels. It had been many months since Geoffrey had partaken of the services of a lady of the night, but the notion of bedding a pox-ridden, toothless camp-follower didn’t appeal to him at all. Even though he definitely had itches to scratch in that department, he thought it best to wait until they reached Venice before partaking of such pleasures. After all, he’d heard from none other than Sir Walter himself that the Venetian courtesans were well worth the wait—and the price.
He fingered the worn leather pouch that hung from his belt. It was heavy with gold and silver that the army had gathered on its travels eastward, having collected everything from alms from devout noblemen to commissary requisitions of merchant stores to out-and-out pillaging of villages and monasteries loyal to the King of France and his Templars. Nothing was sacred in war, not even Christ. And when it came to claiming hold of the riches in the Holy Land, the old rivalries between England and France, not to mention nobility and peasantry, died hard.
He skipped past the first two ragtag rolling bathhouse wagons for the final and most expensive one: Assad’s, a glossy, black-enamel paneled coach painted with exotic lettering and images of the Far East. Owned by a mustachioed, perfumed Turk, Assad’s provided the balms, unguents, and steaming hot baths of the godless Saracens to the very armies that planned to conquer them. Assad was nothing if not a shrewd mercenary—he cared little for who paid him their palmfuls of pillaged gold and silver, so long as he got paid.
As a blacksmith and swordmaker by trade, Geoffrey was only a few steps above a mud-grubbing serf. Hardly the type to seek out exotic steam baths, not to mention balms and unguents literally worth their weight in gold. But after abandoning his blacksmith shop in Essex to take up the cross, forging sword and dagger blades for half of Sir Walter’s armies and trudging hundreds of miles across the Continent, Geoffrey felt he deserved this luxury. And he carried a prince’s ransom on his belt, so why not play the role of the prince as well?
He knocked on the shiny black Dutch door to the wagon, and shook his purse of gold to announce he meant business. After a proper pause, Assad the Turk opened the top door, his long black mustache gleaming with fine oil.
“Ahhh, greetings, fair Christian soldier,” Assad oozed in his heavy Saracen accent. “Have you business with me?”
“A bath,” Geoffrey grunted. He emptied a few gold coins into his palm. “The finest you can offer. I can pay. Name your price.”
The Turk salivated at the sight of so much gold. “I am happy to serve you, Christian,” he said. “The standard price is five gold pieces. But alas, there are already two customers ahead of you in the bath. You will have to wait.” He paused, raised both his bushy dark eyebrows. “Unless … you don’t mind sharing with others?”
Geoffrey shrugged. He’d grown up the son of a blacksmith with six siblings. He’d shared plenty of baths in his life, had shared plenty of other things too. “As long as the water is hot and the unguents are fine, I shan’t mind,” he said. A bath, even a shared one, would be refreshing. God only knew when he’d have another chance. Sir Walter had ordered the armies to be on the move again on the morrow, and now that the hapless general’s mapmakers had finally figured out where they were, the upcoming route was through rough country—over the German and Italian Alps, moving southward towards the port of Venice. From there, it would be passage on crowded, dirty ships for the Holy Land, and possibly months before his hide saw hot water and soft fragrant oils again.
He handed over the gold, and Assad the Turk pocketed it into the folds of his greasy linen robe. “Follow me, Christian soldier,” he said, and opened the bottom panel of the Dutch door that led inside the wagon.
The mobile bathhouse’s dark interior was filled with fragrant steam, and surprisingly spacious. Geoffrey inhaled deeply of the hot, aromatic mist, savoring scents he’d never experienced before: saffron, myrrh, sandalwood, even near-priceless frankincense. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting, he could just make out two dark figures seated on wooden benches on the far end of the wagon. Assad handed him a bundle of expensive Egyptian cotton toweling and motioned for Geoffrey to join the other two guests. “Come, please, enjoy,” said the Turk. “Disrobe and leave your clothes here on this ledge. You will find a selection of balms and oils and fine washing linens waiting for you on the benches inside. For an extra three gold pieces, I will launder them for you while you bathe, and polish your boots in the bargain. At that price, the bathhouse is yours to enjoy for the next three hours.”
Without a word, Geoffrey dropped the required three gold pieces into Assad’s palm, then stripped off his dirty tunic, jerkin, and tights and thrust them into the Turk’s waiting hands. He left his boots and braces in a pile for his host to polish and oil. With that, he strolled nude through a beaded curtain down the wagon’s tiny dark hallway, which opened up into a larger room lined with cedarwood benches. The two dark shadow figures were there, but he could still barely make them out through the thick clouds of pungent steam. The only sound was the misty whistle of the large copper kettles in which perfumed water boiled, and the occasional crackle of the hot cinders burning beneath them.
Well, if he couldn’t see his bathing partners through the mist, he might as well be bathing alone. Maybe this was a bargain after all, he thought. Geoffrey smiled softly to himself, settled back against the smooth cedarwood bench, and inhaled deeply of the fragrant steam. He reached beside him, searching for the promised balms and unguents, but located only a pile of damp linen toweling. He reached out further, exploring up and down each end of the bench, and eventually his hands stumbled upon something smooth and damp.
But what he’d found wasn’t a jar of myrrh, olive oil, or even priceless frankincense. It was the smooth, bare thigh of one of his fellow bathers.
“If it’s the olive oil you’re searching for, I have it right here,” came a clear voice through the mist. It was a male voice, deep and rough around the edges with the hint of a Welsh accent. “But if you want the frankincense or the sandalwood comb, you’ll need to ask me mate. Cedric, could you pass it over? Slide on down here, mate.”
The shadow of a huge man suddenly filled the empty space just to Geoffrey’s left. A smaller, leaner shadow slunk in to his right. As his eyes adjusted further to the misty darkness, he could just make out the features of his two fellow bathers. They were typical Welshmen, both of them—tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed, with rough beards and firm, muscular bodies. Cedric the leaner and younger of the two men, rubbed his firm chest with a thick hunk of a fragrant, waxy substance that Geoffrey supposed must be frankincense. He rubbed and scratched it into his chest with the sandalwood comb, which left deep red scratches in the man’s skin.
“Hand over the ’cense to our friend here, Cedric,” the deep voice boomed. “I get the feelin’ he ain’t never had the pleasure o’ such stuff before. It’s silver ’cense, the very best grade, mixed in with ambergris. That’s the fat of the sperm whale, and ’tis just as priceless. Rub it into your skin, then scratch with the comb. Makes a nice pleasant burning tingle, it does. ’Twill get ye most clean, too.”
The older man, thick of both chest and bicep, had the powerful body of a mace-and-battering-ram soldier, one of the many varieties of Welsh mercenaries who hired their services out to the highest bidder. Right now, the highest bidder happened to be Sir Walter the Penniless. Next month, it could be the Knights Templar.
Geoffrey took the chunk of frankincense-laced amber-gris and passed it over his body, watching as his fellow bathers washed themselves with a combination of olive oil, myrrh, balsam, and tincture of chamomile. Chains, armbands, and rings of heavily wrought gold and silver hung about both men’s naked bodies, and the bigger man also sported several tattoos of a strange flowery script Geoffrey couldn’t read.
They were prosperous mercenaries, these men, and likely already veterans of multiple expeditions to the Holy Land. They had a clear appreciation for the finer things in life, along with the expectation that there would always be plenty more of it to be had in the future.
The large man reached out a meaty hand for Geoffrey to shake. “Name’s Tym ap William,” he said. “I come from Cardiff, and me mate Cedric’s from near the Cornwall coast. Sir Walter took us on just a few weeks ago, when ye’uz passin’ through Augsberg. We was returnin’ from the service of Hugh of Antioch, aimin’ to return to Wales, but Sir Walter made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. So here we are, off fer ’nother jaunt. Cedric an’ me, we have a real taste for gold and spices, we just couldn’t turn it down. Could we, Cedric?”
“Nay,” was all the younger man said.
During this little exchange, Geoffrey had been so distracted by the beefy man’s story that he hadn’t realized both men had stopped rubbing the valuable Turkish unguents into their skin, and had started rubbing them into his own—Tym taking Geoffrey’s chest, Cedric his back. They rubbed and kneaded the oils and balms into his skin with their strong, muscled hands, massaging him, washing him clean, working at the knots in his neck and shoulders. Geoffrey instantly relaxed, so engrossed was he in the pleasure of their ministrations that he scarcely had a chance to think about it. He’d never in his life been plied naked by two strange men. Indeed, he’d always been taught by the parish priests, not to mention the lads round the village, that such a thing was completely unnatural. But here in this moist, hot, fragrant place, it hardly seemed unnatural at all. Before he knew what was happening, the two men were rubbing him all over, kissing him, nuzzling his neck, even kneading his cock and balls.
“You look like a man who could use a good healthy thumping,” Tym whispered in his ear. “An’ I don’t mean with a club, neither. Will ye let me show ye some o’ the great pleasures o’ the East, lad? The untold riches of the Holy Land?”
By now Geoffrey was so relaxed, so lost in the heretofore unknown pleasures of touch, scent, and heat, that all he could do was give a slight nod. Tym took that as his cue to unleash a river of sensual pleasure the likes of which a simple blacksmith from Essex had never known.
In one smooth, swift motion, Tym placed both his meaty hands on Geoffrey’s sides and turned him round so his back faced the larger man. Then the huge Welshman slid his hands round to Geoffrey’s buttocks, and parted them like the Red Sea. He fingered Geoffrey’s tight red rosette, which was already slick with a mixture of steam, olive oil, and perspiration. Geoffrey opened like a spring rose in bloom, and Tym thrust his huge member forward, filling the younger, smaller man in one swift, hard jerk. Geoffrey cried out in a delectable mixture of pleasure and pain as Tym thrust hard and deep into the dark recesses of his body.
The quiet, introspective Cedric positioned himself in front of Geoffrey, then bent over, leaning against the bench on the opposite wall. The motion spread the lean young man’s buttocks wide in a gesture of invitation. Without even thinking, Geoffrey thrust forward in perfect counterpoint to Tym’s rhythm, and filled Cedric with his long, hard, throbbing essence.
The three of them moved and bucked in a perfect ululation of pleasure, bumping and grinding out the tension, fatigue, and frustration of the preceding weeks’ long muddy march through the Black Forest. The muck, the sleet, the aching feet, even the clear and present danger of war in the mythic Holy Land all dissolved. All that existed was the hard and fast pleasure of this dark, misty moment.
The three of them exploded all at once, their sweating, streaming bodies collapsing into one another. The scent of sweat, sex, and the exotic East filled the air like perfect, pungent incense. The only sound was boiling water and heavy breathing.
Once the afterglow had dissipated, the three men stood, returned to their spots on the benches, and resumed their bathing rituals as if nothing had happened. A silent understanding formed between them, a wordless agreement that promised no one would ever speak of this incredible moment in time ever again.
They sat in silence for another hour or so, until all the balms and unguents were used up and the perfumed water in the copper kettles boiled away. Assad the Turk appeared just on the other side of the beaded curtain, shaking a few of the beads to announce his presence. “Alas, gentlemen, your time is up,” he said. “Did you three Christian soldiers enjoy your baths? I hope you will partake of my services again.”
“We’ll be back,” Geoffrey said. “Tomorrow morning, first light, before the army leaves for the road. And any other time the garrison stops, and the three of us are free. Won’t we, lads?”
The three men nodded and smiled. ’Twas a gentlemen’s agreement among soldiers, the only kind that ever went unbroken.
Inamorata
by Kristabel Reed
ANTONIO TULON, CONTE di Brindisi, followed her through the crowded streets, deftly avoiding merrymakers celebrating spring. The afternoon sun still floated high in the sky, and a cool breeze drifted over the canals. The spring festival, with its brightly dressed people parading by, held little interest for him.
All he cared for was the woman who teased him.
Her bright green eyes laughed at him and she offered a suggestive wink before turning her head away. She slipped to the left and over the bridge. Picking up his pace, Antonio weaved through the revelers, crossed the bridge, and chased her down the streets. She played a game with him, one they’d engaged in before.
A favorite of theirs, this chase brought both anticipation and ultimate pleasure. Antonio enjoyed stalking this wisp of a woman; everything about her caused his blood to boil. The heady gasps once he caught her, the feigned terror in her sparkling eyes. He felt drunk on merely her scent.
He’d never wanted a woman more than he did her. Now that he had her, despite these games through the streets of Venice, he refused to let her go.
She vanished behind a group of revelers. Speeding up, he crossed the street, cutting her off before she could disappear once more into the crowd.
Tugging her into an alley, he pressed her against the wall.
“No, no, no,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her smiling mouth. “I detest losing sight of you, my love.”
“Antonio.” She laughed, a bright sound tinged with breathlessness. “We’ll be seen!”
Fingers drifting lightly over skin exposed by the low-cut gown, he kissed her. Immediately, she opened for him, sighing her acceptance, winding her arms about his neck. His fingers dipped below the stiff bodice, lifting her breast from its corseted binding.
Her skin tasted magnificent, warm from their chase through the crowd and fragrant. Running his tongue along her collarbone, across her shoulder, he dipped lower.
“Antonio,” she breathed again, “someone may see.”
“I’ll not allow you to deny me, Elisabeta.” Pulling back, he looked into her eyes, pinched her already hard nipple. Her heart pounded, her chest heaving, and despite her words, she ran her hands down his doublet, over his aching cock. “Not after you toyed with me all afternoon.”
He easily picked her up despite her voluminous skirts, and carried her several steps further into the shadows of the alleyway.
Before she could utter another word, he kissed her again, lips hard as they branded her. She whimpered in need, acquiescence, hunger, surrender. The heated sound she always made when they were alone together. Or not, as the sounds from the festivities drifted around them.
“As you wish, Senator,” she said coyly, fingering his chain of office. With deft movements, Elisabeta untied the string of his breeches and pushed them around his hips.
Once more lifting her to the wall, Antonio pushed her skirts out of the way, running his hands along her silk-clad legs. She rolled her hips against his hand, slick with need. Her legs tightened about his thighs as she hovered over him.
Antonio held her still, though his body strained to be buried in her heat. Shaking his head once in a vain attempt to clear his mind, he looked at her. Elisabeta stared down at him with passion-drugged eyes, lips swollen from his, face flushed. Several strands of blond hair had come loose from its curled confines, clinging to her cheek.
“Antonio,” she whispered, eyes going soft with love.
He kissed her slowly, hands digging into her bare derrière as he tried to control his unquenchable lust for Elisabeta. It didn’t work. It never did.
Bringing her down hard on his cock, he entered her. She shuddered around him but didn’t break the kiss. Deepened it, clung to him. Much slower than he wanted, Antonio lifted her, held her above him with only the top of his cock inside her warmth. Straining against him, she broke the kiss and arched back.
Teeth closing over her nipple, he bit the luscious point even as he slammed into her welcoming body.
“Please.” Her voice was a harsh sob, her hands gripping his head as her lips found his again. “Harder!”
Every ounce of frustration he felt at not having her every night in his bed, over his impending marriage to another, over his ever-deepening feelings for Elisabeta, manifested themselves in their lovemaking.
He pounded into her, uncaring of her dress against the wall, of her appearance, of aught but the feel of her surrounding him. Her emotions played across her face, helpless in the passion between them. Love, ecstasy, wholly abandoned in this moment between them. Inner muscles tightened around him, and his fingers found her nub.
Elisabeta’s breath hitched, and she cried out once before biting the fabric of his doublet to silence her pleasure, shaking as her orgasm washed over her. He spilled his seed within her, knowing he should withdraw, but unwilling to deprive himself of this. Of her.
It took him moments to regain his senses, to pull them away from the wall. Elisabeta still shook in his arms, he could feel her inner walls fluttering about his cock. Tenderly kissing the side of her neck, Antonio evened his breathing. With a saucy smile, she pushed his shoulders, trying to release him.
“No more of these games,” he growled. “It is as I say.”
Her smile told him of her compliance and she nodded before resting her forehead against his shoulder. Thrusting into her, though only semi-hard, Antonio moved a hand to her hair, pulling her back so he could see her. Watched her eyes close, her breath catch. She moaned, rocking her hips against his.
“Do not ever push me away.”
“I would not,” Elisabeta said, her hand cupping his cheek. “But your passions overwhelmed me.”
“Accustom yourself,” he said, as if they hadn’t been lovers for months now.
“Why should I need to?” she demanded with an impudent smile. Straightening, she pulled back but made no move to stand on her own. “You’re to marry another within the year.”
His hand tightened on the nape of her neck and he brought her head down so she could not mistake his words. “The state of my marriage is undetermined and I may yet find a way to break the contract.” Lowering his voice further, lips a breath from hers, he said, “My want of you is never undetermined. There will be an arrangement between us, in one fashion or another.”
She was silent for a long moment before nodding. They’d had this discussion before. His family was in need of money and hers was even poorer than his. A marriage between them would never work out, no matter how little he cared for this existing contract or the status of their respective estates.
“Tonight,” he said, slipping out of her and setting her gently on her feet. “Come to me tonight.”
“You know I shall,” she said, straightening her bodice and tidying her hair as best she could.
With a final kiss, he let her go, watching her mingle with the crowd drifting past. Disappearing from sight.
*
He hated being summoned. Once Antonio returned to his own house, a house along the Rio della Madonnetta, near the Rio di San Polo, his valet ambushed him with a note from his father demanding his presence. At once.
It arrived hours earlier, and Antonio, in no rush to see his manipulating bastard of a father, had waited still another hour before venturing across the Grand Canal near Rio di San Luca and the Grimani palazzo. Though not as grand, nor as recently built, Palazzo di Brindisi mimicked its owner.
Austere, elegant, yet untouchable. Distant. His father sat in his library, seeming calm as he went over ledgers. The instant Antonio entered the room, however, he knew otherwise.
“Good, good,” Christofo Tulon, Conte di Brindisi, said. It surprised Antonio, so free from reproach was his greeting. “I didn’t need the servants to scour the streets and canals for you. I almost regret,” his father continued in, what was for him, a rush, “the day I allowed you to purchase your own house.”
Suspicious, Antonio demanded, “What is the urgency, Father? Why have you summoned me? I’ve matters to attend to this eve.”
“You forget,” Christofo said, waving a hand in dismissal, “about that little Viadro girl. At least for now. It’s time to attend to your duties as my son.”
Narrowing his eyes, wary of this change in the old man, Antonio asked, “What is it?”
“Giacomo d’Artusio is here with his daughter,” Christofo said. Antonio’s plans for the night with Elisabeta crumbled before his eyes.
Angry at this change of plan, he hissed, “They weren’t to arrive for months yet. What are they doing here now?” Then he added, “I don’t want this contract.”
There was a change in Christofo’s stance. It softened for the first time in Antonio’s memory. “I’ve spoken to them about releasing the contract,” he admitted, shocking Antonio to his very soul. “However, the d’Artusio family wants this—wants our title in their family line. They refuse to accept otherwise. They want this, and I agree. You must do this for the family.”
Holding his temper in check, hands fisted behind his back, Antonio clenched his jaw so as not to rehash old arguments. His father knew how he felt about this, but still willfully proceeded with his plan to align their families and to buttress the di Brindisi fortunes.
In the end, much as he hated it, it was the only choice.
“Your fiancée is in the upstairs parlor,” he said, gesturing for Antonio to precede him. “Come.”
Feeling like a prisoner sentenced to death, he followed his father. He wanted to leave, should have left. But the demands of his position forced him to ascend the stairs. Only a few moments, it seemed like the longest of his life, then he stood before her, Bianca d’Artusio.
Dark hair and eyes, lily-white skin, she held herself straight and proud. Her figure and stature seemed close to that of his Elisabeta. Medium height, rounded hips, Bianca’s breasts were smaller than Elisabeta’s, and frankly, despite these superficial similarities, Antonio preferred Elisabeta’s attributes. Though her gown was of undoubtedly finer quality, a deep burgundy he only noticed for the way the color reflected the jewels about her neck.
Christofo and Giacomo greeted each other, talked for several moments, then excused themselves. Resigned, Antonio turned to Bianca.
“I’m certain,” he said with a slight bow, “this is all very unnerving, Signorina d’Artusio. Would I be a bit presumptuous in assuming you wish to return to your native city?” He couldn’t be bothered to remember where she came from, certainly not Venice though Antonio knew his father worked to grant her citizenship here. “Perhaps,” he continued, “to a gentleman there?”
Casting him a demure look, hands folded before her, she said, “It’s lovely here in Venice.”
“Yes,” he agreed, still pushing. “Venice has its charms, but it cannot be anything like home to you. These marriage contracts were made for us, but there is no reason why they can’t be altered.”
Another demure look, a sweet tone. “You are not pleased with my appearance?” she asked, dark head bowed in submission. “Is your intent not to honor the contract?”
Suspicious now, wary of her reserved manner, he watched her for a heartbeat. If he broke the contract, the di Brindisis lost more than they could afford. If Bianca broke the contract, the d’Artusio family would settle a considerable sum on him. Under no illusions as to the consequences of breaking the contract, Antonio nonetheless hoped for just such an occurrence.
He was selfish and knew it—he wanted only Elisabeta, not this prim slip of a wife. However, with too many bad years in trading, and the wars with the Ottoman Empire, this marriage was the only saving grace of his family.
“You are a beautiful woman,” Antonio allowed, “but we are in a unique position. Unlike many others, with simply a word we could dispense with the agreement between our families.”
“Do you not mean with a word from me?” she asked, her reserved manner slipping. “Since it is my family who holds the advantage over yours.”
Where had this come from? Taking a moment, he wondered at the sudden change in her behavior. Before he could comment, Bianca continued.
“Why would I care to dispense with our marriage contract?” Bianca stepped closer, unclasping her hands and squaring her shoulders. “There are certain freedoms afforded a married woman.”
“You will have no freedom as my wife,” he snapped, making sure she understood. He gripped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. Her dark eyes acknowledged that, but continued to hold a hint of delight. “I’ll keep you cloistered in a room where your only task will be to produce an heir for me. Should,” he added with a sneer, “I choose to visit you. You’ll not find this marriage between us a pleasant one.”
Bianca’s fingers skimmed down his chest, cupping his cock. He remained flaccid in her hand. “Pleasure,” she purred, “is exactly what I desire.” She stroked him, dark eyes gazing up with interest. “I don’t want to join our families in war. I’d rather we create something different. Your threats are hollow, Conte di Brindisi. My family will not allow you to imprison me like a nun in a cloister. A single word from me will ruin all you have and all you know.”
Antonio admired her manipulation of the situation, but that was all. Once married, interference from her family would be negligible. And, too, she could always die in childbirth.
“I do not react well,” he said, removing her hand and flinging it from him, “to such threats.”
“There is no threat, simply fact” she said, amusement in her voice. I don’t want contention between us. But I don’t want to be tortured by a neglectful husband.”
Gripping her shoulders, he picked her up and pushed her several steps until her back hit the wall. Holding her there, Antonio once more forced her head up, ensuring her complete attention.
“I’ll be whatever kind of husband I choose. As my wife,” he continued, unsurprised to see the stirrings of desire in her eyes, “you will obey and keep silent.”
The back of her fingers grazed his cheek, slid down to rest over his heart. “There’s only one reason for such ardor in a man, for I am comely and willing.” Her hand slipped lower, but didn’t take his cock again. “There is another desire in your life. Either another man … or another woman.”
Antonio released her chin, stepping back. He didn’t care that she knew he had a mistress, only what she would do to Elisabeta should she ever learn her name. The d’Artusios were powerful, and if Bianca made true with her threat on him, that anger easily could transfer to Elisabeta, should she desire.
“Ah.” There was satisfaction in her one word, but she didn’t move. “As I’d hoped.”
Jerking his head back to look at her, he saw lust mixing with triumph in her dark eyes. Shock stiffened him, but only for a moment. Arousal and intrigue came hard on its heels, hardening his cock with interest.
“And why,” he asked, lazily crossing the space between them, “is that a hope of yours? Most wives detest the mistresses their husbands keep.”
“I shall not be most wives,” Bianca whispered, standing still as he circled her. “I would be happy if you would share her.”
He could admit to being stunned, but not repulsed by the idea. “She is mine.”
“I will also be yours,” she reminded him. “Think of it, Antonio. The three of us enjoying each other’s flesh. But, if that thought—the thought of seeing your wife enjoying the most intimate parts of your mistress—does not tantalize, then I would hope you allow me my own mistress.”
The thought tantalized. Antonio was tempted. Loath as he was to share Elisabeta with anyone—man or woman—this suggestion captivated him. Elisabeta’s beautiful long limbs wrapped around Bianca’s—
“My wife and my lover?” He’d never before given this thought, but hardened at her proposal.
“We would all be lovers,” Bianca said, and he saw she’d given this considerable thought. “We would be there to please you … and you can watch as we please each other.”
“What do you want with her?” he demanded, eyes narrowed.
“I want to kiss and suck her supple breasts.” This bold statement further aroused him. “I want to lay my soft body atop hers. I want to feel her rapture moisten my face.”
Stepping off her private barge, one of the few luxuries still afforded her, Elisabeta went up the steps and entered the familiar set up of the house. When it came to Antonio, she had no shame, no concern for her reputation or her future. She knew Antonio needed to go through with this marriage, and while she might wish to stop him, knew she wouldn’t. If given the chance to marry to improve her family’s fortunes, Elisabeta knew she would accept.
Antonio met her in the front parlor, where heavy blue draperies were open to the sunlight of the spring day. Taking a moment to brace herself, for all Venice knew his betrothed had arrived two days prior, Elisabeta took in the room she’d seen dozens of times. What she didn’t know was whether this was to be their last meeting.
Though he’d sent several letters round to her describing Bianca d’Artusio’s arrival, several further negations as to that impending marriage, and, in arousing detail, all he desired to do to her next they met, he hadn’t visited.
Blinking those thoughts and several useless tears away, Elisabeta looked at the tapestry that hung against one wall. The hunting scene meant nothing to her; she remembered it solely as the backdrop to the first time Antonio had taken her.
Several oil paintings from one of Venice’s many artists adorned the room and a pair of sculptures added to the feel of wealth. Everywhere she looked, color greeted her. Where once she hadn’t cared, now she realized how vast the gulf separating them was.
Her family’s decline began several generations ago and would end with her death, the last of the Viadros. Antonio’s would end with his marriage.
“Are you to abandon me now that your future wife has arrived?” she asked, striving to keep the bitterness from her voice. Elisabeta was pleased to hear she was successful—just the right balance of inquisitiveness and amusement.
Antonio moved stealthy across the room, the graceful predator. His hand smoothed wisps of hair from her face, held the back of her neck. “No,” he whispered, passion darkening his brown eyes to black. “I won’t do that. I don’t ever want that.”
Quirking an eyebrow, arousal pooling low in her belly at his look, his touch, the heat in his words, she forced herself to ask the question. “How?”
“You’ll be my mistress,” he interrupted, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers. “As we discussed.”
“Your wife will be a very powerful woman,” she whispered, as if any could overhear them. “As a new bride, she will not take kindly to me.”
Though she didn’t not like it, certainly didn’t wish to, Elisabeta wondered if she needed to find a new lover. A new protector. She loved Antonio and he’d never paid for her, but he did give her money so she could care for her delirious mother. She wasn’t a courtesan, but—