But in the little rose garden, the roses still bloomed as though a summer sun shone overhead.

  Cecille’s gown was as deep a red as those blooms, her hair caught up with ribbons and rubies just the same.

  “A loving husband,” the Beast said. “And lands of sand and spice.”

  He had held her in his lap while he kissed her, on the stone bench at the garden’s centre, had stoked the fire in her as only he could. And Cecille would have lay there with him all day, would have lain with him all day. But the Beast seemed intent on playing yet another of his games.

  For he stood behind her now, as that first time, her fine skirts gathered about her hips, his hand a fingerspan from where the heat of her throbbed.

  But he would not touch her. No matter how sweetly she begged. No matter how coyly she canted her hips.

  So very close, but not close enough.

  Cecille pressed back against him, then forwards against his cruel, teasing hand, unable to help herself, an utter wanton. “Please,” she whispered. “Oh, please.”

  But the Beast was in a contrary mood as well as a mischievous one. He would give her no release. “I have a present for you,” he said instead.

  “I have enough presents. I am more spoiled than any girl ought be. I have jewels and furs and fine gowns. I want your hands upon me, Beast. Nothing more.”

  “But you will like this present,” the Beast said, his voice sly, his hands still — so still, too still.

  Cecille could not help the frustrated growl that burst from her. “I want no presents, Beast. Give me only as I ask.”

  “Impertinent lass.” Those words were delivered with an indulgent huff of a laugh and a soft slap to her bottom.

  No heat in his touch, no anger behind it, but even muted by the cloth, the slap still sent a sparking thrill to her innermost heat, one that startled her into silence, then startled her anew when—

  “Look,” the Beast said.

  —a figure stepped from the empty air in front of her. It took shape out of shadow: a man of age with her, young yet, though tall and grown into his bearing. He wore riding leathers and a jerkin, his shirt of fine linen, though simply worn. And with his dark hair and sunwarmed skin, with his sunwarm eyes, he called to mind some semblance of the Beast. But he was narrower, lither, more contained in his person.

  “A stableboy for you to admire,” the Beast whispered in her ear.

  And how Cecille admired him. The heat in her grew hotter than she ever thought it could do — wetter, fiercer.

  And the Beast knew that too, for his hand shifted a mite closer to where she wished him to be.

  “Is he real?” she asked on a breathless whisper.

  “He is as real as you or I, lass,” the Beast told her. “In this moment, at least.”

  Finally, then, he drifted a finger across her. Cecille could not stop the ragged moan that tore from her lips, one that seemed especially loud in the birdsong quiet. She shut her eyes, revelling in the feel of the Beast’s sure, possessive touch.

  A clever circle of his fingers made her gasp, and she looked down to see those fingers glistening with her wetness. That sight made her groan anew.

  When she looked up again, it was to find the stableboy watching them, his own eyes growing all the darker. And Cecille found that she liked his eyes upon her almost has much as she liked the Beast’s hands.

  She pushed back against the Beast, pressed the soft plumpness of her bottom against his thick hardness. Earned a rumbling growl for that and a fresh thrill of hot anticipation.

  “He is so very handsome,” Cecille whispered, shy and sinful as one, as she watched the stableboy watch her.

  “That he is,” the Beast said. His breath was warm against her hair, her ear. She shivered then, and not from fright. “Would you wish for him to touch you, lass? Touch you as I have touched you?”

  Cecille had no words to describe the feeling that overtook her then. “Oh, yes,” she breathed. “Oh, please.”

  “Then you shall have your wish,” the Beast whispered. He raised his head as he raised his voice. “Boy,” he said, his tone rich with command, “attend your lady.”

  The stableboy came eagerly. He stood before her, so tall and broad, a mirror to the Beast behind her, who still held her tight in his arms, his wicked fingers busy.

  “My lady,” the stableboy said. “I am yours to command.”

  Cecille moaned at those words. She felt utterly wanton. Greedy. For pleasure in all things.

  “I want to see him,” Cecille whispered. “All of him.”

  “Then you shall,” the Beast told her. “Strip, lad.”

  The stableboy’s jerkin fell to the ground, and his shirt soon followed. Cecille’s eyes devoured him. His skin was smooth, all sculpted muscle dusted with dark hair.

  He watched her in turn, with his dark, enticing eyes, watched her all the while as he toed out of his long boots, as he loosened the laces of his leathers, pushed them down, and stepped from them. His legs were long, the muscle corded and strong. And when he put a hand to himself, to stroke himself, Cecille saw that his delicious length was already awakened, fully hardened, glistening at the tip. Not nearly so imposing as the Beast’s, but Cecille wanted it all the same — wanted him all the same, wanted him in her hand, in her mouth, wanted him inside of her.

  “You think loud enough to hear, lass,” the Beast told her, a smile warm in his voice.

  “Oh, I care not.”

  A huff of laughter in her ear. “Then shall we turn thought to action?” To the stableboy, he said, “Kneel, lad.”

  The stableboy went to his knees on the grass, no thought to disobey the thrumming note of command that lay thick in the Beast’s voice, the same note of command that made Cecille shiver with anticipation.

  “Look, lad.” The Beast held her open for the stableboy to see. “How very pretty, hmm? Now, taste her,” the Beast said. “Taste your lady and see how sweet she is.”

  And then the stableboy’s mouth was on her, his tongue at play over the Beast’s teasing fingers and her wanton wetness. The touch of his tongue upon her was not as sure as the Beast’s had been that night in the warmth of his lair, but it sent a thrill through her all the same.

  He lapped across her, little building waves of want, lapped until those waves crashed over, until Cecille quivered and moaned, incapable with her pleasure, her release inescapable.

  She pushed him away, just a little, made too sensitive by his touch — for his touch. And as she looked down at him, she saw his chin was wet, his lips shining, his eyes hot.

  Cecille traced her fingertips across the sharp cut of his cheekbones. He followed that touch, as a flower to the sun, pressed his cheek into her palm, then his lips as he kissed her there just the same.

  A pleased rumble sounded from behind her.

  “Here, lass.” The Beast took her in his arms then and laid her out on the bench. He slid her legs apart with teasing hands as he slid her skirts high. “Shall we let him take his reward?” he asked her, voice barely more than a breath as he bent to kiss her, gentle at first, then a nip of teeth. “Shall we let him feel your warmth?”

  “Oh, yes,” Cecille breathed in turn. She moaned a little at the thought, though quietly, raggedly. “Oh, please.”

  That earned her another pleased curl of a growl. “Then come to her, lad,” the Beast said. “Give your lady her pleasure.”

  The stableboy did as commanded. Gently, he lay atop her, his weight held up on strong forearms. Then he gazed at her, eyes dark, as he shifted his hips and pushed past the tightness of her innermost muscles, slid slow into her soft, waiting wetness.

  Cecille moaned anew, but softly this time. His tender attentions were a gentle ecstasy. She turned her head, the stone smooth and cool against her fevered cheek. Now she faced where the Beast stood, though she could see only his fine, strong hand. He reached out to stroke her cheek, to draw her hair from her glistening brow, drew back his hand, and Cecille saw the glint of one sharp claw.

  Then—

  The fine velvets and silks of her gown split apart, from her décolletage to her waist, and her breasts spilled from their confinement.

  Cecille gasped, shocked, at the touch of the cool autumn air against her hot skin. It urged her nipples to yearning hardness. She could not help but reach up to take herself in hand, to squeeze and knead and pinch pleasure through her nerves.

  The stableboy flushed darkly at the sight she knew she made. He leaned down to lap at her with his tongue, warm and wet and wonderful, first at one tight, aching nipple, and then the other.

  And finally — finally — he tilted his chin and kissed her, eager, a clumsy, enticing caress, no nip of teeth.

  Cecille whimpered sweetly at the pleasure of his touch, of everywhere that he touched her, of everywhere that he moved upon her and within her.

  It was a spiralling, familiar pleasure that overtook her. She broke apart from him with a gasp as her release fluttered through her, not so frantic as the last, and longer, tendrils of bliss twining light and loving across her skin and along her nerves.

  When she came back to herself, Cecille realised that the Beast’s warming presence was gone from her side — but he had not gone far. She always knew when he was near, and he was near yet.

  She glanced around, her movements unsteady, almost frantic with her building pleasure — for the stableboy still took her, slow and long — and there the Beast was.

  He stood behind her stableboy, watching her still, his dark eyes glowing gold, as if he found pleasure merely in the sight of her pleasure.

  She reached out for him, but he did not come to her. He did not move.

  Cecille’s lips parted in an unspoken question. The Beast did not answer. Only shook his head but a little.

  The Beast, it seemed, had some other hot intent, though she knew it not. Knew only that it was mischievous, clear in the way he smiled at her, one cheek dimpling.

  A question once more.

  The Beast stepped closer, smoothed a hand down the stableboy’s bare side, across the taut cut of his hewn muscle and warm skin. And at once, Cecille understood — saw the intent anew in his eyes, burning, predatory.

  “You would take him?” she gasped, hardly able to believe her own words. “You would take him as he takes me?”

  “Would that please you, lass?”

  The Beast’s words sent a frisson of dangerous want through her. It was not a thought that she had ever thought to think, but suddenly it was all she could think. Fiery warmth rushed right to her very core. “Oh, it would please me so very much,” she whispered. “So very much, Beast.”

  “Then it would please me too.”

  He worked himself from his laces, and Cecille’s mouth wetted at the sight of him, so long and hot and thick.

  The clink of glass and then the sight of his fingers shining, as though oiled, until they disappeared from her view. But from the play of the muscles along his arm, Cecille could tell that the Beast’s hand was at work.

  The stableboy’s mouth slackened on a groaning sigh, wanton to look at, gone lax with such pleasure.

  And how Cecille wished she could glimpse the manner of the Beast’s attentions, for there was no place in her mind that imagination seemed fit to conjure such an image.

  But then—

  The Beast entered him, claimed the stableboy in one slow, oiled, unrelenting push, a hand tight to his hip, another gripping his shoulder. The stableboy stuttered to a halt inside of Cecille as the Beast sheathed himself fully. And Cecille knew he must be overcome with the sensation of the Beast’s mighty girth — it was an experience, after all, that she could well understand. And well recollect.

  She moaned then, that phantom feeling of the Beast’s touch striking phantom pleasure across her nerves, an echo to the real pleasure fluttering within her, where she held tight around the stableboy. Tight enough to make him moan too.

  Though still he did not move — and she could hardly scold him, when he made such an enthralling sight, caught up in his ecstasy.

  So she reached down through her curls to touch herself instead, to draw such bliss at the thought of something so forbidden. And not simply at the thought of it — the sight of it, the feel of it too.

  For with a ragged breath and a keening moan, the stableboy began to move again. And as the Beast thrust, so the stableboy did too, the pleasure of three made one, pleasure made faster and fiercer with each fevered moment that passed.

  The stableboy’s eyelids fluttered as the Beast touched some point of pleasure deep within. Cecille could not bear to tear her eyes away from them, from the sight they made, both so powerful, both so lost in their pleasure and the wildness of their rutting. It was a sight as irresistible as it was inviting.

  The Beast’s hips snapped forwards, again and again, thrust into the stableboy until his back arched like a bow and he stuttered to a halt again with a broken little moan. The Beast made a grunt of faint annoyance. He reached out to strike a sharp slap across the stableboy’s firm buttocks, and the stableboy’s racked, pleasured groan called forth an answering one from Cecille.

  But her moan was an unsteady sound as she teetered there, at the precipice of her hot release. Then tumbled over it with a whimper as the Beast’s next powerful thrust pushed the stableboy deep, setting each and every nerve ablaze.

  Cecille clenched around him, her pleasure shaking through her, every muscle aquiver. He groaned at the feel of her gripping him hard, a roughened sound, and pulled back from her with a gasp. The shivering, grasping sensation of his withdrawal made Cecille moan anew.

  He stumbled backwards a step then, pulled backwards by the Beast, who held the stableboy to his chest as he thrust up into him, all the while watching Cecille with his glimmering golden eyes. He pressed a hand flat to the stableboy’s stomach, as if to feel himself thrusting from without, a primal thing. A primordial urge.

  “Touch yourself, lass,” the Beast said. “Touch yourself and let the lad see.”

  Cecille closed her eyes upon those words, upon the thrill they sent through her. She could hear her own gasping breath, the stableboy’s too.

  “Look at her, lad. Look at your lady.”

  His eyes flickered open as hers did. They were so warm and glazed with such rich pleasure. Cecille’s lips parted as she panted out another unsteady breath. She reached down to do as the Beast bid her, to touch herself so that they both might see, but she was still too sensitive to do more than brush a fingertip though her folds, to the point where all feeling coalesced. It made her whimper just the same.

  With a groan, the stableboy leaned over, so that he was once more braced atop her. The Beast let him, though the rhythm he thrust was unrelenting, unchanging.

  Cecille traced her hand across the stableboy’s hot cheek. “You look so well,” she told him. “You take him so well.”

  A shuddering gasp, his eyes intent on hers as he striped hot and long and warm across her soft stomach.

  Instantly, he was hauled upright again, one thrust, another, and the Beast stilled. Then he announced his release with a harsh roar, a sound more of beast than of man.

  It stirred something deep within Cecille, as she was sure it did the stableboy. He collapsed back against the Beast’s broad chest, strength gone, and the Beast held him there, a steadying arm around his middle, the other hand rubbing gentling strokes down his side.

  “You look pleased, lass,” the Beast said.

  “I am pleased,” Cecille said. “Terribly pleased.”

  That familiar smile, small and sly. “As always you should be.” The Beast held the stableboy until he came back to himself, until his breathing had calmed and his legs seemed strong under him again. Then he urged him forwards with a gentle slap to the rear. “Attend your lady.”

  “My lord, it would be my honour,” the stableboy said. And he said those words so hushed, so reverently, that it set Cecille to wonder whatever she had done to deserve such courtesy.

  Though soon she had no capacity to wonder at all, for he leaned down and kissed her, deep and full, a distraction of the most wonderful kind.

  Blindly, Cecille reached past him, reached for the Beast, and pulled him to her, pulled his mouth to hers, to the stableboy’s, set their three mouths all tangled with lust and lush pleasure.

  They kissed, and kissed, and kissed — kissed as if their mouths had never known any other occupation, three as one.

  Until, with a pleased rumble, the Beast broke apart from them. Cecille watched as he took the stableboy’s chin between thumb and finger, tilted his head to the side, and guided him so that their two mouths touched more fully. She saw the flash of their tongues meeting, heard the sound of the stableboy’s bitten-off groan as the Beast pulled away once more.

  “You did well, my lad,” the Beast told him. “But now, it is time for you to take your leave.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The stableboy straightened, his legs still not quite steady. But he bowed, low and courtly, and took Cecille’s hand, kissed it, the barest of touches. “Goodbye, my lady,” he said.

  Then shadow shimmered in the brisk autumn air, and he was gone.

  A Hunting Party

  Autumn came to a shivering end, and the castle prepared for a visitor.

  “Visitors,” the Beast said, when Cecille asked. “A hunting party.”

  “A party of men?”

  “Indeed,” the Beast said, raising an eyebrow at her obvious interest.

  “It is only, perhaps, that it should be pleasant to have company for an evening or two.”

  No answer to that save yet another raised brow.

  “Why do they come?” Cecille asked, for she knew the Beast and she knew the cunning turn to his mouth. “It is not only to hunt, surely.”

  The Beast showed no surprise at her suspicion. “I have made it my business of late to find a husband worthy of you, and I have uncovered a suitor or two whom I believe you may find intriguing. So I am to bring them here, to see if any meet with your approval.”

 

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