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Silvan sat up and licked his lips, then wasted no time pressing his rock-hard cock inside her entrance. He moved back and forth on his knees, teasing her with the head.
“Oh fuck… gods, yes, Silvan. Please.”
“Let me hear it again, princess. Beg for it, love.” Hand on his member, he slid the tip inside and tilted upward. She felt the pressure all the way in her shoulders.
Both hands palmed his chin, and Romy leaned up to kiss him. He tasted like heaven. “Please, Silvan Rincewind, I want you to fuck me slow and hard. Can you handle that?” she dared.
“Fuck, Ro…” His head bent, resting on her breast. “I’ll do anything for you.”
“Then fuck me. Slow. And hard.”
“I want to come inside you. Do you want that?”
“Will you lick me afterward?” Romy didn’t recognize herself. These were not her words but the words of someone in control of herself, her sensuality. These were the words of a woman.
“Hell yes… are you on bir—”
“Yes!” she screamed, arching her back so his cock would plunge deeper. “Yes. I’m on birth control. Now, fuck me… please… gods, Sil… please…fuck me.”
Silvan didn’t respond with words. Instead, he did exactly as she asked and buried his cock deep within her core. Romy’s head rolled back, and she saw Bastian at the window. Watching. Touching himself. She didn’t have to see it to know his hand was on his cock. He’d climax with them as he saw Silvan filling her with his seed. She’d climax thinking of Bastian watching.
Silvan grunted. He was getting close.
She felt his cock twitch, and when he paused for her to contract, she leaned up to kiss him again. “I want you. All of you.”
“Oh, Romy… yes…” He pumped hard and let out a roar, now more animal than man, and exploded deep within her pussy. True to his word, Silvan kissed a trail from her neck all the way down and licked between her legs until she came all over his face.
At the window, Bastian nodded his approval.
Romy tilted her head back and sighed.
She’d never felt more alive.
epilogue: bastian
Bastian had never liked Mar Island. It was more the history of the place than the place itself, which appeared like every other island in the deep swamps of Louisiana.
When one had lived as long as Bastian Marchland, though, matters of necessity had little intersection with matters of desire.
Thus, it did not matter how the island left him cold and unsettled because he needed to be there, so he went.
If either Silvan or Andromeda had seen what he’d seen, they would have returned as well. In the throes of fear, they’d witnessed only the remnants of danger, an undead army sent to dispel by any means necessary. But they’d failed to see what that army was protecting. What was happening in the shadows at the very moment they were running from their lives.
Bastian hadn’t always been able to split his consciousness. It was one of the rare ways he could feel pain, for one, but it was also terribly rude. He offered respect to every moment that was his, and it was an affront to his intention to be perpetually present.
Yet, at times, necessary.
Once certain Andromeda was safe in her bed, lost to her dreams, Bastian pulled his own corporeal form from slumber. He preferred the astral realm, not least because it was where he could be withherbut also because it was safer. A witness did not bear the same risk as a participant. One protected his life, and the other exposed it.
Though how many millennia had he survived, despite the inherent risk to a semi-fragile bloodsucker?
Vampiric bravado, an old love had called it, and he was rather chuffed by the moniker, though that was mostly due to his love of the one who had said it. She never remembered it, though, when he found her later, and he always found her.
The shadowed figures he’d seen in the forest now stood over the altar, confirming his suspicion. The night he’d shepherded Andromeda to safety, Bastian had realized what Silvan and she had not. In their terror, they’d interrupted that morning’s sacrifice. They’d been watched, and now whoever was behind the killings would know their faces. Their names. Their secrets.
There was no use toiling over it, though. None of that could be helped. What had been, had been. What would be was still being defined.
The figures wore all black, head to toe. They were almost caricatures of villains, dressed as they must have thought terrible people should dress. Bastian could make out nothing of use about them, but he very much recognized the poor bloke huddled, naked, on the altar.
