A/n: Set sometime between "Condé & Narcisse, Attorneys At Law" (which is to say, episode 2.05, "Blood For Blood") and "Three Queens," and thanks entirely to Kenna and her love of smut. Bon appétit.
For Your Entertainment
"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Lola said as they came to yet another indecisive stop.
"Of course, I'm sure," Kenna mumbled, more to herself than her companion. "Only these corridors look altogether different in the dark. . . ."
She found the clue she was searching for, however, and grasped Lola's hand with renewed zeal. "This way. We're not far now."
In their softest slippers, the only sounds were the brush of the leather soles against the tiles, and of the folds of their skirts against one another, but even that seemed to Lola to echo as loudly in the empty corridor as the blood pounding in her ears. Thus far they had done nothing illicit, but just the thought that they would . . .
"I don't know how you managed to convince me to do this," she said as she followed Kenna around another corner. "At very least we should have gone to my apartments."
"But doing it in someone else's is half the fun!"
Lola wasn't sure how she could even begin to argue with that when Kenna's playful exuberance was so catchy. "All right, but suppose someone were to find us—"
Kenna squeezed her hand in reassurance before Lola could finish that thought. "No one will. Trust me on this. I've done it a dozen times and never been caught before."
And at Lola's cynical look: "Well, a handful of times—but always with the same outcome: completely undiscovered."
"With Henry?" As if anyone would dare to admit they had spotted the king and his mistress together in the open.
"With Bash," Kenna said a bit sheepishly, but Lola noticed she did not exactly correct her either. "Having grown up in the castle, he's quite familiar with all the most intimate nooks and crannies, and how to exploit them."
"Are we still talking about the castle?"
Lola thought she caught a blush on the other's cheeks as Kenna pulled her into a vacant guest apartment. The two of them may have grown up quite a bit in just the past year—one married, the other a widowed mother, and both with pasts with kings that they could not escape—but that blush was a reminder that it hadn't been so long ago that they were girls, with a girl's innocent curiosity about matters of sex. The discovery of the journal had brought that feeling back just when Lola thought it might be lost to her forever, though she would have called what was in its pages anything but innocent.
"Speaking of Bash," she said, as she shut the door softly behind them, "you don't think he'll be furious if he finds out what we've done?"
"I doubt it," said Kenna. "Knowing him, if he were furious about anything, it would be being left out.
"But I don't intend to tell him." Hands on hips, she looked about the room, sizing it up to make sure it was satisfactory for what she had intended for it. Moonlight through the leaded glass windows was all the illumination they had to see by. But it was enough to cast the brocades and velvets of the poster bed and settees in frosty silver, the perfect ambiance for a liaison. "As much as I'm sure he would love to hear the details."
She turned. And her dark eyes sparkled with such a suggestion of mischief that Lola found her pulse leaping with anticipation.
"Shall we get started," Kenna said with a waggle of her brow, trying not to laugh, "recreating page twenty-six?"
Lola couldn't help grinning along. "I cannot remember what's on page twenty-six. I don't have your perfect memory when it comes to debauched books."
"Well, then." Closing the space between them, Kenna's hands rested lightly on her waist. The suggestion of her loins pressing flush against Lola's through so many layers of fabric made Lola's breath catch in her throat, the flesh stir between her legs. "I suppose I'll just have to refresh your memory."
The press of Kenna's lips was like a guilty treat after Francis and Julien—some decadent confection that Lola knew she shouldn't have but it was oh so sweet, so delicate and smooth, yet hiding a subtle liqueur that lit a spreading fire in her belly.
And, like such a treat, nostalgic as well. Though Lola could not fool herself that this kiss was anything like those they had shared as girls, under the pretenses of practicing for future lovers. They had no use for such pretenses any longer, now that both were well acquainted with the varieties of pleasure, and of their own desires.
If Lola still had any doubt of that in her mind, the passion in Kenna's kiss erased it for her. She was all too willing and eager to comply to the teasing of Kenna's tongue, to the prying of her fingers at the clasps along the spine of Lola's gown. Lola threaded her fingers through Kenna's hair, and fit their mouths more perfectly together, feeling that warmth pooling in her belly spread to her loins when Kenna moaned and squirmed against her.
It seemed to take all of Kenna's effort, but she managed to pull herself away, and tugged Lola down with her onto the bed. Giving up on the bodice of Lola's gown, Kenna attacked the skirts instead, her fingers restlessly searching for a way beneath them. Hungry for the friction of her smooth, soft lips, Lola pulled her down for another kiss. It seemed Kenna had always possessed a natural talent for kissing, and on more than one occasion Lola had gladly lost herself to those sweet osculations. With the soft weight of Kenna's breasts pressed against her, her tongue sliding along Lola's as if trying to coax hers to join in its dance, Lola would not have minded getting so lost again.
But Kenna had other plans. And as her hand slid up the bare flesh between Lola's thighs, Lola had to break away to catch her breath. She wished Kenna had released her completely from her gown's tight bodice, though Lola supposed there was something exciting about the constriction. An element of control, of restraint, while Kenna's warm palm was so liberal.
Her breath, hot and moist against the shell of Lola's ear, seemed to whisper in its wordless rush all the unremembered things that page twenty-six had planned for her. Kenna's teeth pulled gently at the lobe, clicking against the pearl earring that Lola now realized she probably should have thought to remove, if she could even bring herself to care about such trivial things anymore. She felt Kenna's knee slide against the inside of hers, recognized the jut of Kenna's pubis against her thigh through her skirts, and a moan rose in Lola's throat—
Kenna's hand over her mouth put an end to it.
Lola looked up into her eyes, surprised to see sudden fear there. She began to ask what it was for.
The quiet but unmistakable rattle of the door latch was all the answer she needed.
Lola didn't think either one of them had ever moved so quickly in their lives. In an instant they were on their feet, both hurrying to the other side of a changing screen that Kenna had spotted at the back of the room. Lola wanted to protest that what they really had to do was flee; but there was no time, nor any other exit short of the windows.
Aside from the door they had entered through, of course, which opened just as the two women rounded the edge of the screen. They huddled down behind it together, holding their breath within them and trying to remain still.
The latch closed again. But the clear sound of boots on tile told them whoever had opened the door was in the room with them.
Moments later: a crackle; and soon a warm, golden glow lit the world around the edges of the screen.
Kenna slowly lowered her hand from her own mouth, and edged a fold of drapery away from the lattice just enough for them to peer through.
There was a small but growing fire in the fireplace. Not good. As sure a sign as any the newcomer intended to stay. But it was who that newcomer was that made Lola unsure whether to feel more relieved or intrigued.
Removing his gloves to warm his hands by the fire, his features illuminated by the flames, was Louis of Condé.
And if Lola trusted Kenna at her word—which she did—these were not his chambers.
She exchanged a glance with Kenna. Who mouthed, Tryst?
Lola could only shrug, and return to staring through the lattice. Given the prince's reputation, it would not have surprised her if he were expecting some nobleman's wife to join him. She only hoped he did not feel the urge to search every corner of the room first.
They did not have long to wait before the door was opened again. This time, with none of the same caution. Starting at the intrusion, Condé straightened. Was that a look of fear in his eyes? In the flickering light, it was impossible to tell, but Lola would not have blamed him if it was.
"Did anyone follow you here?" Lord Narcisse said shortly.
Condé answered in the negative. "Are you certain you were not followed?"
Kenna's hands grasping for hers nearly startled a scream out of Lola, and she could have cursed her friend for scaring her. Except that when Kenna whispered in her ear: "My God, it's not a tryst, it's a conspiracy!", Lola was frightened to admit the same thought had occurred to her as well.
Conflicting feelings roiled within her. She had thought of Condé as one of Francis's strongest allies. And even Lord Narcisse—despite some unforgettable previous actions—had just begun to win Lola's sympathy and respect, albeit grudgingly and not without a healthy measure of skepticism. At very least, she and Narcisse were two individuals with poor luck in spouses. Though learning he was the "lover who towers above the rest" mentioned in the erotic journal had certainly cast him in a different, and not too unfavorable, light.
But all that changed if he and Prince Condé were in league together. They had made for such convincing foes in public, yet to meet in a place like this—and at such an hour—
Narcisse cracked the door; and, satisfied there was no one to hear in the hall, took up the poker from beside the hearth, and threaded it through the door handles.
Lola's heart sank at the finality of that sound. Now she and Kenna were truly trapped.
"You're worrying over nothing." With his own unease assuaged, Narcisse had no trouble raising the volume of his voice to a comfortable speaking level. "My reputation is secure, and the way you've been gallivanting about for all and sundry to see, no one would dare suspect you."
Condé, it seemed, did not share his confidence. "That may lessen the risk, but it doesn't erase it entirely. If we are discovered—under the king's own roof, no less—it will mean prison for us, if not torture—"
"Yet it was you, if I'm not mistaken, who was so insistent upon this little meeting taking place, Louis. Despite all these protestations to the contrary. . . ."
It had to be conspiracy. The fact that Narcisse would address Condé so intimately only decided it. And we're witnesses, Lola thought, her heart hammering in her throat. But to what? Were the two plotting against Francis? Against Mary?
No, it wasn't possible that Condé and Narcisse might actually be colluding with one another. They hated each other.
Didn't they?
"Can you blame me if I'm not exactly in the best of humors?" Condé spat, as if to add weight to Lola's doubts. "You defended my nephew's murderers!"
"They asked for an advocate, and I rose to the task. There have been enough souls sentenced without due process these past months. Surely I don't need to remind you you're not the only one who has lost family to a miscarriage of justice. Besides, when I agreed to represent them, I did not yet know the truth—"
"Oh, let's not pretend you even cared enough to ask for it!" Condé forced a bitter laugh. "We both know how careful you are to make sure your hands, at least, stay lily-white."
The two women jumped when Narcisse closed the distance between them and seized Condé's jaw in his grasp, holding it firm. Though what perhaps surprised Lola more, Condé did not lift a finger in protest.
"And if you still had any doubt about my reasons," said Narcisse, mere inches separating his face from Condé's, "you would not have come."
"I need assurances," Condé muttered, "that you did not breathe a word of where you were going—"
"I did not. No one knows we're here. No one will know we were here. Now, do you plan to argue with me all night, or will you let that be the end of it?"
Was that more weight in the direction of conspiracy? Lola was finding it difficult to keep up, like trying to piece together a conversation from hearing only one voice in it. All she knew for certain was that the warm note of amity in Narcisse's could not bode well, for she knew from experience how tempting it was to want to trust it, just as she understood the dangers of doing so.
"Do you want to know what I think?" Narcisse purred, just loud enough for her to make out the words. "I think the idea of being clapped in irons secretly appeals to your martyrish tendencies. I think," and he savored the accusation, even before it left his lips, "you find it stimulating."
Condé's going to kill him for that. At very least, Lola expected it to come to blows, of words if not fists.
But the prince remained still and absorbed the insult. He stared Narcisse and his lecherous grin down, until Narcisse released him with a triumphant shove. Even across the room, Lola could hear the hardness of Condé's breathing as he recoiled, watching Narcisse from the corner of his eye like a young lion watches his older rival.
She was not expecting it when Narcisse ordered him to undress.
She expected even less that Condé would actually comply.
"Oh my God . . ." Kenna groaned beside her.
And if she had dared speak, Lola would have seconded that. She was torn between her disbelief that this was the conspiracy the two men had gathered here for, and wishing the view through the screen was a little clearer. How quickly the mood in the room had shifted, with the clarity of context. The absurdity of the situation would have been almost laughable, if not for the peril. And her own growing excitement.
Condé's gaze never left Narcisse's as he kicked off his boots, and impatiently undid the clasps of his doublet. What was conveyed between the two in that silent stare, Lola could only guess; but when Condé let the doublet fall to the floor, and started on the fly of his breeches, she could see Narcisse's composure just start to crack. His grin twitched a bit wider, his breast rose a bit higher with each inhale. His eyes flickered down to the progress of Condé's fingers and back to that defiant face.
Not that Lola wasn't drawn to the pillars of Condé's bared legs herself, and the suggestion of buttocks beneath the hem of his shirt. Condé's stance seemed to ask Narcisse if he was satisfied; but Lola found herself quite agreeing with Narcisse when he said, as though it should have been a given, "Shirt, too."
Condé hesitated, and it seemed he might refuse.
But only for a moment. He pulled the linen up over his head.
Lola gasped. Kenna mouthed an appreciative Oh my as both leaned closer to the lattice of the screen. Even Narcisse could not help a triumphant grin to see the prince already erect and eager. And well proportioned, Lola noted. As if daring the other to comment, Condé held his steady stare, even while Narcisse's drifted openly.
But it was the bandages that encircled the prince's breast and covered a patch of skin above his heart that Narcisse saw fit to mention. "You're injured." Almost a question. As if it might be reason to call their meeting off.
"A scratch," Condé said dismissively. "But after the plague, I didn't wish to risk infection. You won't ask me to remove the dressing as well?"
"Actually, I rather like it on. Makes you seem more . . . permeable. I trust it doesn't affect your range of movement?"
"Not at all."
"It had better not. Sit," Narcisse said. And Condé did as told, on the nearest divan, facing him.
He reached out for Narcisse as he drew near, catching him by the sword belt, and began tugging its end from its knot. Kenna shook Lola's arm with some barely contained excitement, though Lola wasn't sure what she expected to see.
Whatever his intentions, Condé's efforts did not materialize. As much as he seemed to find some amusement in them: "The other way round," Narcisse said, and Condé lifted his legs over the divan, gingerly, clearly discomfited to have his back to the man he hated so publicly.
Or maybe Lola had misread him. Narcisse had seen fit to wear a sword belt, but there was no weapon in it; nor, if the two had come here for this purpose alone, would there be a need to carry one.
Though that hardly meant that there was no threat of harm to either one. Narcisse produced a scarf, which he proceeded to apply as a blindfold, and none too gently. Condé's head jerked back as Narcisse pulled the knot tight, and he gasped at the violence of it; yet his cock twitched between his spread knees in anticipation of more, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the divan that faced the screen and the women behind it.
Condé could see nothing but a suggestion of light from the fire behind the silken fabric, and somehow that only made Narcisse's slow footsteps moving from behind him to his right that much more ominous, that much more debauched. He licked dry lips, awaiting his next orders.
Narcisse's instructions to lie back were uttered with a tenderness he would never have dared if he knew Condé could see him. And a note of restraint. No doubt he was as eager to be rid of his breeches as Condé was relieved to be of his. The prince shivered as he heard the distinct sound of Narcisse's sword belt sliding free, the warm creak of leather as Narcisse stretched it taut between his fists.
"Hands," Narcisse said once he had his victim on his back, and Condé did not hesitate to supply them. Narcisse took his time buckling the straps that would normally have secured a scabbard around each of the prince's wrists, then lashed the belt to the leg of the divan—making sure the bonds were inescapable, yet would not cut off blood flow and deaden any part of Condé to what he intended to do.
Indeed, waiting was all part of the excitement—not knowing what would come next or from what direction—and neither one of them had much patience for a job only half done. Narcisse allowed Condé to test his bonds and make sure they were satisfactory, before he was satisfied enough to proceed himself.
The light rustling of fabric at her side startled Lola's attention back to Kenna. She reached out to her in the dark, trying to shush her without making too much noise. "What are you doing?" Lola hissed. They were going to call attention to themselves if they weren't careful.
But Kenna seemed to take her question another way. "This is clearly going to take a while," she whispered back. "Might as well make the most of it."
Only then, when Lola pulled her gaze away from the men, did she notice that Kenna had her skirts hitched up, and had been stroking herself beneath them.
"We could be caught!"
"I know! Isn't it exciting?"
When Lola rolled her eyes, Kenna scooted herself closer. "I'm serious," she murmured against Lola's ear. "Don't tell me this," a nod toward the screen, toward what lay beyond, "is doing nothing for you."
If Lola were honest, she was terribly aroused by the scene Condé and Lord Narcisse comprised. As unnatural as her upbringing told her it was to see two men engaged in such an act, there was a beauty to the taboo symmetry of it as well. After all, she supposed, she may have been high-born, but she was also a red-blooded Scottish woman; and if she could appreciate the physique and sexual prowess of one attractive man, what great stretch was it to appreciate two together?
And the Prince of Condé was—Lola would be lying if she did not admit it—an even more enticing specimen once free of all his rich trappings.
Kenna cupped Lola over her skirts, her fingers pressing tight against Lola's arousal, and Lola was certain her friend could feel just how hard and hot she was. She bit down on a gasp, leaning against Kenna as she felt the other resettle behind her, lest she lean too far in the other direction and give away their hiding spot.
Lola didn't want to admit it, but the danger of what they were doing when they could easily be discovered was making her blood run hot, her flesh all the more aching for another's touch. In a way, their situation was not so unlike Condé's; though instead of physical bonds, they were bound by the necessity of silence. Their continued invisibility was paramount, and the punishment should they lose it Lola did not want to imagine.
Yet, she had to concede Kenna was right. It didn't make any logical sense, but the thought that they were only an unstifled moan away from discovery was incredibly stimulating in its own right.
"Maybe we won't get to re-enact page twenty-six like we planned," Kenna whispered against the back of Lola's neck, her breath stirring Lola's hair drawing shivers up her spine, "but we can still join in the fun in our own way."
Walking her fingers across the satin of Lola's skirt, Kenna rolled it up and out of her way inches at a time. Her languid kisses along Lola's shoulder kept time with the small gyrations of Kenna's hips against her backside.
But Lola had little doubt it was Condé Kenna was watching over her shoulder, and every twist of his body against his restraints, just as surely as Lola herself was watching Narcisse slowly work his way down it.
He had donned Condé's gloves, and each caress of the napped leather against Condé's naked skin elicited a fresh shiver. With his nails, Narcisse traced the tendon down the side of the prince's neck; and Condé sucked in a breath as they skimmed the tenderer undersides of his raised arms. Under those gloves' soft pads, his nipples stiffened to studs. The muscles in his hips and thighs leaped like the flanks of some powerful animal itching to run; but in Condé it only spurred the need to spread his legs, to feel something more substantial between them. Some touch that Narcisse was still reluctant to give, if only to drag Condé's torment out longer.
Lola had seen that look of concentration on Narcisse's face before. He had a habit of measuring each individual he came across as a potential opponent, searching for exploitable weaknesses, keeping his own expression one of unreadable, unflappable amusement. Nor did he seem to care who was watching when he did it.
Only now that he believed himself without an audience did he let that guard start to slip. The expression of hunger on his features was unmistakable through the lattice, as was the erection straining the front of his breeches.
Still, with deliberation, Narcisse maintained his composure and his pace. His gloved palm glided up the inside of Condé's thigh, his thumb brushing over the length of Condé's phallus as that hand continued toward his belly. A gesture that somehow managed to be both tender and cruel at the same time, casual and yet brimming with nuanced intention.
A moan escaped Condé's lips. He bent his head as if to watch Narcisse touch him, but of course he could see none of it. "Fuck . . ." he breathed.
"Pardon?" Though Narcisse could not possibly have missed it.
"Nothing, my lord." A grunt, as Narcisse's hand returned to Condé's hip to hold it steady, that thumb drawing lazy circles just inches away from the source of his desire but still much too far for Condé's liking. Through gritted teeth: "Don't stop—"
"Don't stop what? What is it you want from me, Louis?" The turn-around of formalities was apparently part of their game.
Though not nearly as effective as when Narcisse palmed Condé's sac, tracing the tender strip of flesh below it with his gloved middle finger.
And as Kenna's bare fingertip swirled over Lola's clit, stroking down through her moistened folds and back again, long and slow, Lola thought she knew how Condé felt—the delirious pressure, the wonderful ache that just isn't enough. The almost incestuous thrill of being touched by someone of one's own sex, someone who knows just how that touch feels.
Lola's hips bucked against Kenna's hand of their own accord, eager for more. And with her other, Kenna tugged the fabric down off Lola's shoulder. Her breath, hot across the newly exposed expanse of skin; her fingers, hurrying to undo the laces of the chemise beneath Lola's gown.
The gloved fingertip slid lower, lightly circling the prince's anus. Condé trembled beneath Narcisse, biting down lest he give his tormentor the satisfaction of a whimper.
Not that his trouble escaped Narcisse's notice in the slightest. "Am I getting warmer?"
Condé tried to laugh, but in his state it came out just as much a sob. "Do I really have to beg for it?"
"Better you beg than presume to command." Narcisse leaned over him then, bringing his mouth close to Condé's ear. "I could stretch this out all night," he muttered, "if you test me."
And Condé, tensing, knew he could easily keep that promise.
Something in the vulnerability of Condé's position, however, must have convinced Narcisse to take pity on him. That or, at very least, the realization of his own weakness.
With a hiss of breath through his teeth, Narcisse sat back on his heels on the divan, tugging the glove from his right hand with his teeth. "However," he said between fingers, "it's not my desire to take all night . . . and seeing as you've been nothing but obedient . . ."
All at once, Lola remembered the butterfly-shaped birthmark on the inside of Narcisse's wrist. The glove was coming off, and at any second that mark would be plain to see!
She raised herself to her knees with a start and turned around. Fortunately, her head being in the way was enough to distract Kenna's attention from the men.
Lola wasn't sure why it mattered to her so much, but for some reason she didn't want Kenna to glimpse the birthmark. She wasn't even sure why she had failed to mention it before, when Kenna had been so obviously curious to learn the identity of the journal's mysterious paramour for herself. Only something inside had urged Lola to keep that a secret between herself and Narcisse. Even he, for that matter, did not know Lola had seen it, or that she was aware of it having any deeper significance.
Such an insignificant thing, yet it felt to Lola as though she had something, even if just one small something, to hold over Narcisse. Knowledge that might come in handy at some later date. And as much as she loved Kenna, Lola didn't exactly trust her friend to keep that knowledge to herself.
"No reason we can't help each other along," Lola said to the question on the tip of Kenna's tongue.
She shrugged out of her sleeves and chemise, now that Kenna had loosened things enough, and pushed the layers of fabric down to her waist. In what faint light penetrated their screen, Lola could see that Kenna's gaze was drawn to the fullness of her breasts, saw the shadows move over her throat as Kenna swallowed hard. Lola reached for her shoulders, and leaned in to recapture those parted lips.
But Kenna stopped her. "I want to be able to see," she began to protest, with a nod toward the men.
Lola stifled a laugh. "Well, so do I!"
Kenna had a plan, however, and reached for a few of the cushions that had been piled up behind the screen. The two of them ought to have been applauded for managing to rearrange their skirts and themselves into a position that was comfortable for them both, all without being detected. Not that Condé's low moans didn't cover whatever small sounds their shuffling might have produced.
Which only made Kenna that much more eager to return her attention to the main event. Her lips fell open in a silent gasp, her loins bucking against Lola.
Legs intertwined with Kenna's, her skirts up around her hips and Kenna's hand burning between her thighs, Lola turned her head to see for herself. And felt her sex contract in sympathy with Condé.
He pressed his face into his shoulder, muffling his groans against his own skin. Narcisse had spread him wide, bending one of Condé's legs toward his chest so that nothing might interfere with the sight of his bare fingers buried in the prince's ass to the second knuckle. With each measured oscillation of them, a small shudder ran through Condé. Though not with disgust, nor discomfort, nor even of shame. Above his head, his hands fidgeted within their bonds, restless, but theirs was an acceptable action. Condé dared not roll his hips back against Narcisse's touch, though that was precisely what he longed to do most, lest Narcisse move satisfaction even further out of his reach.
Nor was Condé the only one finding it difficult to act unaffected. Narcisse tore open the top several clasps of his doublet, desperate for air; but even that did not alleviate the shallowness of his breathing. It was clear to any observer how quickly even his vast reserves of patience were eroding away.
"Unbelievable," Kenna breathed. She wasn't speaking of Lola's hand snaking between their bodies, her friend's questing fingers slicking themselves in the warmth of her slit, but that came as a close second. She rocked against Lola's touch, her eyes only leaving the two men when those fingers slid inside her, and her lids fluttered of their own accord, her breath catching on a whimper she refused to give voice to.
Condé had less reason to be reserved. And hearing an uncharacteristic mewl bubble up from the prince's throat was more than Narcisse could stand. "You can start begging any time now, Louis." It almost seemed a plea in itself.
Condé didn't even wait for him to finish. "Fuck me," he growled, intention clear enough even if the wanting skewed his enunciation. "Please. God, I want you in me." The "my lord" came as a hasty afterthought.
"On your belly."
Lola felt Condé's anticipation as if it were her own, as he hurried to turn over onto his stomach, every muscle straining with his desire, and against the belt that still lashed his wrists to the leg of the divan. The wonderful, dizzying buzzing behind the navel that Condé surely felt in spades, robbed of his sight and all control. At least, with her fingers stroking Kenna's inner walls, searching for that particular spot to make her legs melt out from under her, control was something Lola still had.
And sight: the sight of Lord Narcisse, the very epitome of cool, calm command, practically salivating with the power he wielded over this young prince, if only within the confines of this room. He tugged his breeches off his hips as eagerly as an adolescent boy with his first whore, with shaking hands he would never let Condé see, if he could help it.
But eagerness, for Narcisse, was an energy that could always be channeled more effectively. He pushed Condé's legs farther apart as he situated himself between them with a roughness that earned him a gritted obscenity, and what would have been a backwards glare if not for the blindfold. Though it was not out of spite or anger that Condé only stretched himself wider at the other's show of belligerence, canting his hips back toward Narcisse though doing so pulled his arms tight against his restraints.
It was clear Condé relished that discomfort, and more, when Narcisse seated himself deep inside him in one long, slow push.
"Jesus Christ—" Condé's appeal was little more than a hiss of breath, and less to any higher power than it was to Narcisse, the author of his every sensation.
And he would not believe Narcisse wasn't already well aware of that, even as he chided, "If you're going to pray, Louis, best it were to me." He trailed his gloved fingertips down over Condé's spine, as if counting each individual knob of bone, relishing the gooseflesh that rose in their wake, the spasm of muscle with each ragged breath. "Tell me what you want, and if I'm feeling benevolent . . ."
Hand pressing down against the small of his back, Narcisse shoved into Condé again, to the hilt, and swore he could feel the vibration of Condé's low growl of agony and satisfaction up through his cock. It was enough to make Narcisse have to catch his breath, before he could finish his threat, belatedly: "I may just give it."
As he rolled his hips, so did Kenna, rubbing herself against the heel of Lola's hand as though she might eliminate even the slightest gap that still separated them. The tops of her breasts heaved in time with Narcisse's thrusts, her hips moving in synchronicity, and Lola wondered in which of their places she was imagining herself.
As for Lola, watching Condé writhe in mindless, helpless passion beneath Narcisse's measured control, she wondered how it must feel, receiving another man as a man. The pleasure must have been intense to affect a man of Condé's poise so profoundly. Imagination racing, Lola redoubled her own efforts with Kenna, craning her neck to keep that point of contact in view through the lattice. Feeling like a lecher for hoping she might catch even a brief glimpse of Narcisse's cock before it disappeared inside Condé, but too curious to be ashamed.
However it must feel, what she was witnessing seemed only further proof corroborating the entries about Narcisse in the journal. He had to be everything the author of it had claimed, if not more, if he could keep a man who hated him in public, and seemed to genuinely—a man whose proclivities for women were well known and not contested—coming back for more. Begging him for more.
Begging for faster, for harder. Yet Narcisse only responded by slowing his pace, reining in his thrusts, altering their angle by the slightest degree. Doubtless if Condé had asked him to slow down instead, Narcisse would have only set a more punishing pace.
And even if it wasn't what Condé had been asking for, he writhed against the divan with the utmost gratitude—gasping against the upholstery as if it were all that kept him from drowning in the abject pleasure, the intoxicating heat coursing through his body. Narcisse had him all but on his knees, and Condé's cock bobbed stiffly below his belly with every measured thrust, like a tulip heavy with dew.
"Oh, God," Kenna breathed, no longer paying attention to that sight, "here it comes—"
Lola clamped her free hand over Kenna's mouth, desperate her friend not scream. She lengthened the thrusts of her fingers, however, even as Kenna rolled her hips in shorter waves against her in single-minded determination. Lola could feel her getting closer, tighter, until, with a little jump, Kenna's cunt clamped around her in hard, rhythmic spasms.
Yet Lola was eager to turn back to the screen, and make sure that Kenna's gasping had not brought them any attention.
Not that Condé would have noticed through the fog of his own pleasure, or that Narcisse would have an ear for anything but the nuances of Condé's muffled groans. With deliberation, kneading the soft flesh of a buttock with his gloved hand, he held Condé back from the brink he so clearly craved.
And Lola had to admire the prince's trust, finding her breathing falling into time with his as Kenna squirmed down between her legs. Trust had, after all, brought all four of them here—a belief that they could explore the darker impulses in their own souls without the threat of discovery. Kenna's fists bunched in Lola's skirts as she pushed them up to her waist. Her tongue was hot and deliciously wet on Lola's clit, almost distracting her from the vision of Condé and Narcisse.
But she had to see. She wanted to, was risking too much not to take her reward and see this to its end.
To watch Condé's mouth fall open in a silent, rapturous scream when Narcisse finally deemed he had earned his release. His entire body shaking with the strength of his climax, spurting milky strands of seed across the divan cushion. And when Condé did manage to take another breath, it was with a sob so pathetic it hardly seemed to match the man who had made it. It was the sound of a man brought so low, so denigrated and used up, he had no care left in him for pride or composure.
And still Narcisse was relentless. Far from satisfied himself. Though far from unaffected by Condé's spasms, which left him fighting for control over his own impulses. His hips bucked in a jittering rhythm. He gripped Condé's waist so tightly his gloved fingers left white dimples in the prince's flushed skin. The fingers of his other hand grasped for purchase in Condé's hair, pressing the side of his face into the upholstery and wrenching a cry from Condé's throat. Of pain or surprise or both, how could Lola know for sure?
But she was fairly certain it was not pain that caused Condé to tremble so every time Narcisse rolled into him. Somehow he was not yet finished. Somehow with each thrust, Condé shivered as though feeling that first intense wave of heat and pleasure come over him afresh.
How Lola wished just for a moment she could be in Condé's skin, just to experience a rapture so strong and lasting that she lost all sense of her self in it.
Kenna's right hand reached up to knead her bare breast, her left sliding back between Lola's legs, teasing Lola in tandem with her lips and tongue.
And could she have blamed Lola for imagining that those hands and lips on her belonged to Narcisse, that it was his tongue exploring her most intimate crevices? It was, after all, a harmless fantasy, one there was no chance of Lola ever, in a million years, pursuing in reality. So there was really no reason not to indulge in it, in the delightful sin of it that existed only in the safety of her own mind. She found her gaze drawn to Narcisse's mouth, memorizing the flicker of a triumphant grin across it—
Before Kenna's ministrations tipped her over the edge and Lola was swept away by the totality of her pleasure. She bit down on a cry, letting herself go limp and just enjoy the wonderful pulsations coursing through her flesh.
And almost forgot what she had been waiting to catch.
Lola turned back toward the screen even before Kenna's lips could leave her flesh, before the contractions in her womb could fade to a heavy, humming warmth; and for a moment, was disappointed to see that Lord Narcisse was already coming down from his own peak. Fighting for every breath and trembling when he released Condé's hair, but entirely sated, and unabashedly pleased with himself.
Until the full implication of what Lola was seeing struck her, that she and Narcisse had reached their climaxes at the same time. It may have been with different partners, different stimuli, but the same condition had seized them in its heady grasp together. As if they had looked up from the finish line of a footrace, and found themselves tied for the same place.
Lola felt her cheeks warm and a smile tug at the corners of her lips with the realization that this too was something she and Narcisse shared, even if she was the only one who knew of it. She only hoped that she was too flushed and breathless already for Kenna to notice the difference.
—
Condé lay bonelessly beneath him in the aftermath. Silent and unmoving, even as he struggled to slow his racing heart.
But his was a deceptive stillness, Narcisse knew. He might have taxed Condé, putting him through his paces, but there was strength left in him yet. Always a reserve, held back no matter how hard Narcisse rode him.
Resigned to the denouement, Narcisse leaned over him and released the knot from the divan's leg.
Immediately Condé tugged the scarf-turned-blindfold from his eyes and pushed himself back to a sitting position, allowing only the slightest grimace to make it through to the surface to indicate how sorely he had been used. He tossed the scarf in Narcisse's direction as he settled down beside him, and offered his hands to be untied.
As always, it passed through Narcisse's mind that he might refuse Condé this once, if only to see how the prince might react if he found his playmate to be serious for once. If Narcisse hurt him, out of a genuine desire to hurt him, and not as Condé wanted to be hurt. Not as a part of some game.
He should have untied Condé's wrists. But something compelled Narcisse—perhaps the intensity of the session, or the proximity to the power of court—to grip Condé roughly by the hair instead, and jerk his head to the side.
The vein was prominent in Condé's neck as he swallowed, his nostrils flaring. The blush of his orgasm had yet to fade from his skin. Narcisse was all too aware of the bandages encircling the prince's chest, another reminder of Louis Condé's willing vulnerability here. And not for the first time did Narcisse wonder how it would feel to claim those petulant lips for himself, to see whether their taste was different from a woman's. To plunder that mouth as he had its owner's ass.
But that would have been a step too far. It would have represented a break in the wall between reality and the fiction that they had carefully erected over a dozen such encounters, forcing Condé to respond. And Narcisse was not eager to find the prince greeting it with unexpected affection; or, conversely, to risk losing Condé's tenuous respect and these sessions entirely. They were, after all, an exciting change of pace. Narcisse would have hated for them to come to an end simply because he chose to give in and satisfy some selfish curiosity.
With that in mind, he released his grip without any further ceremony, and started on the buckles of the straps in earnest.
Aware all the while that Condé's defiant stare had not left his face. "You really are a twisted son of a whore," he said. As if that should have come as news to either of them.
"And what does that make you, if you're here with me, letting yourself be ridden like one, when you ought to be in mourning?"
On that, Condé had wisdom enough to stay silent. He needed this as much as Narcisse desired it. Narcisse was well versed with the type, some of his other lovers being of similar persuasion. Noble ladies who begged to be debased. Servants whose thighs dripped at being worshipped like goddesses. There were very few in Narcisse's experience who were like himself: entirely content with the power of their station, and happy to exert its influence when the necessity arose.
Condé never had a problem exerting his position—when it suited him. "Go to Hell," he said down his nose as his wrists slid free.
And Narcisse treated him with his most charming smile. "You're welcome."
There was really nothing left to do but put themselves back together and sneak back to their proper chambers, and Condé wasted no time doing just that.
Narcisse preferred to take his time, wiping himself off with the scarf. "I trust you won't speak a word of this," he said over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought.
"Of course not. I know just how much I have to lose."
Narcisse really couldn't care less, however, if a rumor that he also slept with the occasional man was added to the already long list of his exploits that he knew were passed around among the shadows. He doubted anyone would be reckless enough to press charges against him over such a trivial matter. For very long, anyway.
But he played along to better feel Condé out. "I should hope so. It seems lately someone has been talking more than they should. Letting slip privileged information that it is not their right to slip, information intended to besmirch one's character. And considering both our arrivals at court were aptly timed . . ."
Condé paused in the middle of shrugging on his doublet as Narcisse's inquisitive gaze turned to him, the wheels turning behind the prince's eyes and their impossibly long lashes. "Well, it wasn't I," he told Narcisse.
And Narcisse found he believed him.
He threw the soiled scarf into the fire. Condé turned away in disgust.
"You're probably right," Narcisse said. "After all, I can't believe you would do anything to jeopardize our meetings. You enjoy them so thoroughly."
That earned him a laugh, albeit a bitter one. "Oh, this is the last one, Narcisse. I guarantee it."
Narcisse grinned to himself at that, facing away so Condé would not see it. "Now, that I seriously doubt."
Condé refused to dignify that with a response. Or, more like, feared whatever he might say would only give Narcisse a window deeper into his soul. And that was about as smart as handing the man a vial of poison, and telling him when you took your wine.
Condé left without another word, leaving Narcisse to recompose himself in peace, and to smother the fire.
Narcisse watched the smoke rise and dissipate in the fireplace, while his eyes adjusted to the dimmer moonlight. Its cold, harsh lines stole what warmth was left from the encounter, but that was just the way he preferred it. The enmity that had been exhausted between him and Condé tonight would need to be replenished, and the moonlight provided a foundation of clarity on which to begin again.
However, it also revealed things he had not seen before when he turned back to face the room. Ripples in the brocade indicating the duvet on the bed had recently been disturbed. And something sparkling in the center of it as it had not under the warm glow of the fire.
He went over to it, picked it up. An obscenely large pearl earring that Narcisse knew he remembered seeing dangling from a young lady's ear not so long ago.
In a flash, the face came to him.
And he realized for the first time that night that he and Condé may not have been alone after all. It had been careless of Narcisse not to check the room thoroughly, taking it on faith and his own eagerness to set to task that Condé had made sure it was empty before he arrived. Now it appeared as though they may have had a watcher—a watcher who even now was with him in this very room, hiding in the shadows. Holding their breath so well that Narcisse could hear nothing no matter how he strained.
For the first time, Narcisse saw the rest of the room, noticed it went back further than he had thought. There were places back in the darkness where one might conceal herself—if it was indeed accurate to say "her," and Narcisse suspected it was. His eyes scanned the arrangement of furniture, alighting on—
Yes. It had to be the changing screen. That was the most rational option, the only place where a person could hope to be completely concealed. And if the owner of that pearl earring were still in this room, she would be trapped behind it.
Oh, it would be so easy to cover the handful of paces between where he stood now and that screen, wrest whoever was hiding behind it from the shadows and demand to know just what they were doing here.
But something kept Narcisse rooted to the spot, though his heart was hammering in his chest wilder than at any moment he had spent with Condé. It was terrifying to think the whole affair might have been seen.
It was exhilarating.
It filled him with such a thrill that electrified his limbs and tingled warm behind his navel, like little, it seemed, still had the capacity to.
And if he threw aside that screen, he would destroy all of that in an instant, and end any possibility of discovering where this knowledge might lead, what interesting developments might come of it. Or he could discover that he and Condé had been alone all along, and Narcisse surprised himself to find he wasn't sure which outcome was the less desirable.
Thus, having decided that what he wanted most was not to know, Narcisse turned on his heels and hastened from the room.
Only when he passed the turn in the hallway did he allow himself the smirk that had been so difficult to suppress in the room. He squeezed the pearl in his palm. A clever smile and eyes like Pallas Athena's appeared in his mind's eye.
Lady Lola.
Even the syllables had a tantalizing feel on his tongue. Like the decadent lapping of waves against naked skin, the warm caress of steam stirring the flesh even as it lulled one's senses. If she was anything like what he expected from their run-ins thus far, she would not make this easy for him.
Nor did he want her to.