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The celebrations will last all night, but you’ve been dancing so long you barely feel your toes. Thankfully, the borrowed slippers are as comfortable as nothing at all. The borrowed dress—a filmy thing of golden layers under a smooth and fitted corselet—is comfortable and cool.
The great hall is bright with music and laughter and color; the king sits on his throne on the far side of the room, and there are at least a hundred people between him and where you enjoy yourself, far from prying eyes that might recognize you.
After all, you’re not meant to be in the hall with the nobles and knights, celebrating the midsummer with the newly arrived visitors from the land across the sea. You were told quite plainly that your presence was neither necessary nor welcome.
Which is why you’re in a borrowed dress, with dancing slippers and a wary eye for anyone who might recognize your face. Luckily, it’s harder to see you, when you’re one of eight dancing a round, twirling and laughing as you pass from partner to partner, the golden skirts swinging around your legs, your toes keeping the steps in time.
“He’s looking at you!” says Celia, when the round pauses the grapevine, and you and Celia spin together, arm in arm. She ducks her head to the man on the other side of the group, a dark-haired knight with a slate-blue doublet that matches his eyes. One of the visitors, though you haven’t been introduced.
And sure enough, he is looking at you, and you turn back to Celia, both of you bursting into giggles.
“He can look,” you tell her, shy and pleased. “If he doesn’t mind me looking, too.”
“Away with you,” says Celia, delighted, as she goes into a spin.
“He could even steal a kiss, if he wanted,” you say, tossing your head, turning back to Celia—
But it’s not Celia, anymore; the dance has turned, Celia is behind you now. And standing in her place is your next partner in the line, a handsome man with blond hair and bright blue eyes full of mirth and cheeks pink from exertion. He’s bright as sunlight, cream-colored shirt and doublet and olive green breeches, handsome enough to make your breath catch in your throat.
Or perhaps your stomach drops as much from your slip as it does from how large he looks standing before you.
“Who could steal a kiss?” he says. There’s a slight accent to his words, a drawl that sounds sweet and tender, and maybe a little bit hopeful.
“I’m sorry, I—” you say immediately—but your eyes glance back at the dark-haired man, still gazing at you.
“Oh,” says Blond, a smile on his lips. “I see. I know him. I could pass along the message.”
Your eyes go wider, and you stumble through the next steps. “Oh, no, don’t—”
“Though I’m a little disappointed,” continues Blond. “I was hoping to steal a kiss myself.”
But before you gasp or protest (or, perhaps, go up on your toes and kiss him anyway), the dance shifts again, and you’re back face to face with Celia.
“What did he say?” gasps Celia, because she’s known you all your life—which is to say, well enough to read the blush on your cheeks and the gape of your mouth.
“That he wants to kiss me!”
“What cheek!” says Celia, delighted. “Did you say yes?”
“Celia!”
But the dance turns again.
It’s not Celia before you.
Nor is it Blond.
It’s him, his dark hair curled and damp at his temples and behind his ears. There’s stubble along his jaw and neck and cheeks, and you hadn’t realized at a distance how sad he appears, how intensely he gazes at you.
He won’t have heard your admission from his friend’s mouth yet. He cannot possibly know. And yet—he looks at your mouth, his lips slightly parted. His hand skims along the outside of your corselet, pressing enough that you feel every finger through the fabric and bone.
The heat from him, scalding you, until you hold your breath so long that you’re faint with it, your lungs aching for air.
He doesn’t say a word. Neither do you.
Two more turns, and you’re back with the blond man again.
“Tell me you said nothing to him,” you hiss at him.
“Tell me your name,” challenges the man.
“I can’t.”
“Don’t you know it?”
“Yes. But you shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Back to Celia.
“He wants to know my name,” you hiss at her.
“Give him mine,” she says immediately.
“Then you’d be in trouble, too!”
“Then make it worth it,” she says. “And kiss him.”
“Which one?” you hiss.
“Why choose?” she teases.
Back to Brunet, who continues to gaze, silently, every breath making his chest rise and fall against you.
He knows. You don’t know why, but there’s something deep in his gaze, something hotter than before. His hands press more firmly to your waist, to your wrist, to your elbow. You feel the heat of him, something that makes your heart pound in your chest.
His fingers leave marks on your skin, though you know it’s only your imagination that put them there. You still feel them when he reels you away from him, into Blond’s arms.
His hands land in just the same place. You lose your breath again, staring up into blue eyes that are bright. Not with laughter, but with promise.
He presses his lips together, and when the reappear, they’re red and damp, shining in the candlelight, as if he’s licked them, thinking of kissing you.
Your heart skips in your chest.
Before he says a word, the dance is over. You bow to him, bow to the others. Brunet’s eyes never leave yours.
Celia’s request—less of a request than it is a challenge—presses into your imagination. Brunet’s fingers on yours, the callouses on the tips rough against your skin. They send sparks up and down your veins; you almost can’t breathe, thinking about him stepping closer, lowering his lips to yours…
The warmth of Blond at your back, his hands holding you steady as Brunet draws in.
You flee.
*
It’s not long after when you slip out of the dancing hall and into the corridors, heart still pounding from the close call.
Matron had nearly seen you. A half second later, and she might have.
You’re still not entirely certain she didn’t, truth be told. The best thing to do is to hurry back to where you belong, hope you arrive before she comes looking, pretend you’ve been there all night, rather than dancing with handsome strangers far from your station…
You hurry, your slippers making almost no noise on the wide stone floor.
And then.
“I know I saw that wretched girl!” Matron’s voice hisses through the corridor. “She won’t have gotten far.”
You let out a quiet gasp before darting down a hall as quick as you can. There’s a passage along here somewhere, you know you’ve seen it before, if you reach it before she sees you—
You turn the corner and run smack into a wide chest, almost knocking yourself down again.
Large, strong hands catch you by the arms, holding you steady. They’re gentle, though, the way they wrap around you, and when you look up to see who’s caught you…
It’s Brunet, with Blond right behind him.
Your eyes go wide. You open your mouth, ready to speak—
“When I find her—!” growls Matron, footsteps snapping down the corridor, closer and closer.
Brunet’s eyes dart away from your face, to somewhere above your head. They’re narrowed when they glance back at you again, but there’s no malice or suspicion in them. A sort of wary confusion, perhaps: a question that you don’t think is meant for you, even as he asks it.
“Hide me,” you whisper.
They don’t hesitate. Quickly, Blond moves to shield you, while Brunet spins you around, slipping you behind the tapestry on the nearest wall.
No sooner than the heavy curtain has fallen over you, shrouding you in dim light, than you hear Matron’s frustrated voice crack through the silence.
“Did you see a girl run through here?”
“A girl?” You don’t recognize the voice. It’s a bit higher pitched than Blond’s, as incredulous and disdainful as if Matron had asked about a llama and not a woman.
“Yes, a girl! Wearing a golden gown she no doubt stole! You must have seen her!”
“My lady, we saw no one,” says Blond, calm and polite. You imagine Matron going up on her toes in her fury. No matter that Blond is twice her size.
“Do you require help?” says the first man—Brunet, you realize. “If she’s a thief—”
“Ha! She’ll receive her own reward, I’m sure. Gentlemen!”
Matron’s footsteps fade as she continues down the hall, and when at last the tapestry is moved, your heart still pounds.
“My lady?” says Blond.
You look up sharply, the air vanishing from your lungs. “What?”
“Are you all right?” asks Brunet, concerned.
“Oh. I—I’m fine. Thank you.”
Brunet reaches for you, helping you step out from behind the tapestry. “Who was she?”
“Oh. Matron. She means well, most of the time, but she’s very strict,” you say wryly. “I wasn’t meant to be at the dance.”
Blond frowns. “I thought anyone was invited.”
You shrug. “Not everyone. It’s all right. I’ve slipped in without being caught before. My luck was bound to run out sometime.”
“And if she discovers you went?”
You don’t answer, just giving a non-committal shrug. “I’d rather not find out.”
“Do you have a safe place to go?” asks Brunet.
You glance back and forth between them. Their concern is… sweet, really. Entirely unlike what you’ve been told of the people from across the sea. “I… I do. I think.”
Blond frowns, and touches the empty scabbard at his side. “We’ll take you there. If you require protection along the way.”
Your heart twists; your stomach twists, too, though that’s less painful. The thought of either of them, either side, standing so close, keeping you safe between them…
“My lady—” begins Blond.
“Don’t call me that,” you say quickly, your heart thumping. “I’m not a lady.”
“Our golden girl, then,” says Brunet, low, almost gruff.
“Let us help you,” says Blond.
You let out a breath. “All right. Follow me.”
*
The gardens are beautiful by moonlight; quiet and cool, a soft breeze rustling your hair and the skirts of your dress. It’s a relief after the stuffy dancing hall, the air chilly on your still flushed skin, and you tip your head up to the moonlight, relishing the soft air on your brow.
“Gorgeous,” breathes Blond—Steve, you’ve learned.
“You should see them by daylight,” you agree, without opening your eyes.
Brunet—James, though he says he prefers Bucky—chuckles, low.
“I don’t think he meant the gardens, golden girl,” he says, and your eyes spring open in surprise. “Don’t act all innocent now, you’re the one who said you’d like to—”
“Buck,” says Steve, a warning, and Bucky’s bold grin slides into something smaller. He hasn’t stopped staring at you, either, eyes boring into you like he’s searching for gold.
Or, maybe, if you meant what you’d said, back in the dance hall. Since apparently he hasn’t forgotten.
Celia’s suggestion had been bold and terrible and completely inappropriate. You can’t stop thinking about it, either.
“Hardly innocent,” you say, turning away from him, because if you keep looking at him, it might make him bolder. “Perhaps in your land, men say such presumptuous things to women they intend to court. I am unused to such… barbarianism.”
Bucky lets out a bark of laughter; even Steve is smiling, when you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “Didja hear that, Stevie? We’re barbarians.”
“Suppose we are, at that,” says Steve, amused. “You are, anyway.”
There’s a scuffle between them, gentle shoving with no malice in it, given that they laugh back and forth. You ignore them, sniffing first the roses on the bush nearby, then sitting on the stone bench nestled in between.
“Ruffians, then,” you say cheerfully. “Or schoolboys, given how you play.”
“Known each other that long,” says Steve easily.
“I envy you.” Steve’s eyebrows go up, questioning. “Having a friend of your station. Celia and I—”
“The redhead?” asks Bucky.
You nod. “It was easier, to be friends, when we were younger. No one minds a pair of toddlers or little playing together, no matter their parentage. I never understood why growing older meant our friendship had to change. It’s one of the reasons I sneak into the dances when I can—it’s one of the few places we don’t have to hide our friendship.”
“Then I’m doubly sorry you had to leave the dance,” says Steve. “If it was meant to be your time with your friend.”
You smile, appreciating the sympathy. “We come here, sometimes. It’s easier, amongst the roses, to pretend we’re the same hue.”
“Further from prying eyes, as well,” says Bucky. “Not many places anyone from the castle can see where we’re sitting.”
“Yes,” you say, a bit surprised.
“Again with the surprise, golden girl,” says Bucky. He sounds amused. “Don’t you know, that’s what I do?”
“Bucky’s the best at reading people,” says Steve.
Your chest flutters again. “Are you?”
“Sure am. Read you the moment I laid eyes on you.”
“Oh?” you say lightly. “Do I want to know what you saw?”
Bucky’s smile is slow. “I saw a girl in a borrowed gown, dancing a reel she learned by herself. Trying to be invisible but with a smile as bright as the sun. Tasting joy like she thinks she’s never going to have another chance.”
Your mind reels.
Because it’s true, almost all of it. The borrowed dress, the reel you learned by candlelight with only Celia to teach you, long after you should have been asleep in your bed. The smile you couldn’t hide, even though you knew every person in arm’s length could see the joy on your face, would undoubtedly remember the girl in the golden dress who threw herself into every dance for the sheer joy of it.
Your hands shake; it’s impossible to keep your breath steady, but you keep your tone as light as you can. “It’s not that I don’t belong in the castle—”
“You must, if you knew about this garden,” says Steve gently.
You nod. “And I’ll have another chance,” you reply, hoping they don’t hear the crack, that tiny bit of uncertainty. “I just don’t know when.”
Bucky leans back, observing you. “You’ll take it, though. When it comes.”
“Of course,” you say. “If I can.”
“I thought you might. I think you enjoy the challenge of it. But I think, maybe, you might be afraid of taking too much. Of reaching too far. Of specifically asking for something you want, only to be told no.”
“Afraid?” you say, sitting up. “Why do you think I’m afraid?”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Why did you run after our dance was over, golden girl?”
You splutter. “B-because… the dance was over!”
He leans closer. “You wanted a kiss. Do you still want one?”
He sits at arm’s length on the grass at your feet; even in the moonlight, you see the light in his eyes, the shape of his mouth. The curl to his hair, where it brushes on his shoulders, where it’s tucked behind one ear.
He is so much larger than you are, when you’re standing. Thinking of a kiss from him in the brightly lit hall was safe, even with the oversized strength he displayed, even knowing he could overpower you and carry you off without a single protest landing. With all the people around, he wouldn’t have dared make it anything more.
Sitting down at your feet, he doesn’t feel quite so large. Large yes, but also submissive, ready to follow your lead. He feels safe, but like he might take the kiss, yes—but he wouldn’t take more.
He rolls forward—no longer sitting, but kneeling, so close that he could touch you, if only he reached out. “If you ask, I’ll give you one.”
“I—” you stammer, glancing at Steve, who watches closely, solemn and quiet. Your heart hammers hard against your chest, almost painful. You barely feel your fingers, your arms; it feels like the blood is pressing against your skin. “A kiss? From you?”
“Or Steve,” adds Bucky. “Either of us.”
He pauses. “Both of us.”
Your head spins, dizzy.
“You can ask, golden girl,” he continues. “Have you ever been kissed?”
“Y-y-yes.”
“No one can see. No one will tell. Here in the garden, we’re all the same hue.”
You don’t know where to look. Not at them, waiting so patiently, eyes only on you. Not at the roses surrounding you, filling the air with their scent, thick and cloying. Not the stars above, the only witnesses to anything in the garden.
Not the castle, where distant music continues, dancing on the breeze, a party you were never meant to attend continuing without any of you, as though no one has noticed your absence.
But you don’t run. You could. You think they wouldn’t stop you. Instead, you grip the edge of the stone bench, holding yourself still.
Steve moves first, sitting next to you on the bench, his hand on the stone, inches from yours. “Please ask,” he says, his voice husky, full of something that you think you recognize as want.
You recognize it. You feel it, more than the fear, more than the ache of your heart pounding, more than what you might do, alone in your bed if they go, taking something with them that you aren’t even sure you can name.
You nod, so small that it’s more felt than thought. Neither of them move a muscle.
They’re waiting, watching, patient.
“Please,” you whisper, eyes darting between one and the other, not even sure who you’re asking.
It’s Steve who moves, one hand reaching over to cup your jaw in his hand, to draw your face close to his.
His lips brush over yours: soft, gentle, teasing. The warmth of him more than the touch of him.
“Please what?” Steve whispers, breath ghosting over your skin.
You swallow, your throat dry, your tongue too big in your mouth. You open your lips, taste the air that he breathes—cinnamon and spice, something smooth like the mead served in the hall.
“Kiss me,” you breathe.
His mouth crushes against yours, his fingers pressing firmly to pull you into him.
This is nothing like kisses you’ve had before: stolen kisses from boys in the castle, some stammering and shy, some egotistical and smirking.
Steve controls your mouth like he owns it, like he’s thought of nothing else but kissing you since the moment he saw you in the hall. Confident, consuming, careful. Tongue sweeping inside your mouth, like he knows the taste of it already, knowing every tooth and every curve of your tongue. Like he likes the taste of you, the way he swallows you in.
His hand, warm on your jaw, fingers cradling your ear, one thumb so close to your lips that you think he’s pulling your mouth open, keeping it ready for his kiss.
Anyone watching would surely think it’s a violation, the way he holds his arm around you, holding you in, plundering your mouth. It doesn’t feel like a violation, not the way you lean into his warmth, the way you rise up to meet his mouth, your eyes closing with every zing of pleasure that fires through your veins.
Your back grows warm; surely from the blood under your skin, the way Steve’s kiss has you on fire. Or so you think until Steve pulls back, your lips tender and bruised, and you hear Bucky’s voice in your ear.
“You can ask me too, golden girl,” he whispers, and you turn to him in surprise, twisting in Steve’s hands, until you’re face to face with Bucky, now sitting on the bench behind you.
You lean toward him, and Steve lets you, his hand dropping from your cheek to graze lightly along your neck, your chest, to rest on your thigh, heavy with reassurance. His other hand remains on the small of your back, steady.
Bucky’s gaze is as intense as before, but his eyes are brighter, hungrier, maybe, the way they’re looking at you. You reach for him…
He catches your hand, kisses the fingers one by one, then the palm as you brush lightly over the stubble on his cheeks. His lips suckle at the inside of your wrist, then down the soft skin of your forearm, before resting in the crook of your elbow. His hair brushes against your fingers, soft and feather-light.
Bucky’s fingers on your face are reverent, gentle, callouses catching on your tender skin. Different than Steve’s demanding, confident hold; Bucky would let you slip away, if you wanted. He’d let you pull back, move closer, slide to one side or the other, perhaps following, but letting you take the lead.
You don’t want to move; but knowing you can is powerful. You lean into him, even as his mouth plunders yours, his lips nearly a bruise on you, desperate to taste more of him, honey and spice. Already loving the way his tongue teases yours, pulls you into him, dizzy and breathless.
He draws his kiss down, away from your mouth, and there’s a soft chuckle at the noise you make, a soft mewl of distress, followed by Steve’s mouth at your ear, shushing and soothing you.
Bucky doesn’t come back to your mouth, though. His lips suckle at the skin of your jaw, your neck, the exposed parts of your shoulder, nipping your skin with his teeth as your head falls back onto Steve’s shoulder, and you turn your face into his neck, smell the sweat and salt of him. He smells fresh and clean, like the grass he’s been sitting on, like the roses that surround you.
“Go on,” says Steve, roughly. “Kiss me, sweet girl.”
You lick at his skin, delicious: musk and man and earth and salt. You close your mouth over the throbbing veins in his neck, tentative, but Bucky sucks harder at your shoulder, fingers digging into your back and your hip. You cry out against Steve’s skin, sucking and pulling back in turn, too undone to concentrate on any one thing, until Steve tips your head up again, and takes your mouth with his.
His kiss is just as firm, just as certain as before. You tremble between them, teetering between Bucky’s give and Steve’s take.
“Been this far before, haven’t you?” says Bucky roughly, and maybe the sound you make in reply is agreement. There’s no words to it, anyway; you’re not sure you can speak. “Have you ever gone further, golden girl?”
You’re barely aware of Bucky pushing down the neckline of your dress, exposing the top of your breast, suckling the tissue there. One thumb brushes over the round hardness of your nipple; when Steve releases your mouth, your surprised cry fills the air, bright and high.
“God, golden girl,” groans Bucky. “Steve—”
Steve’s hand moves up to your other breast, and you hear the words catch in his throat. “Yeah,” he says, rough. “What do you think, golden girl? Still scared?”
It’s too much, it’s the sensation of hands and pressure on the parts of yourself that you didn’t think to touch, didn’t know could feel so good. You knew of what’s between your legs, you knew what your fingers there can do; you’ve touched yourself there in the dark of night, your breath caught in your throat.
But their hands, tracing soft circles around the hard nubs of your nipples, is so much more; the warmth of their palms and their mouths on your skin, you’re starting to wonder if there’s something you’re missing, that they can show you.
Something much, much more than what you could find on your own.
Your heart is a skittish thing; they’ll wait for your word.
The power of it is a rush, straight through your blood until you can’t even think.
“Answer the question, golden girl,” Bucky says into your breast, looking up at you through his eyelashes. “Does this scare you?”
“God, yes,” you whimper, even as your chest presses into their hands, even as your fingers cling to whatever of them you’re touching, pulling them closer.
“We can stop,” continues Steve. “Tuck you safely back where you belong.”
“Or,” adds Bucky, “you can belong to us.”
You close your eyes, imagining it. Them, and you, and you between them. Feeling this, both power and surrender in one heartbeat.
“Say the word, golden girl.”
“Yours. Yours, I want to be—” you babble.
Their mouths descend: Steve’s on yours, swallowing the rest. Bucky pushes the fabric out of the way until your nipple is briefly chilled in the night air, and then warmed by his tongue, warm and wet, suckling it until you cry out into Steve’s kiss.
It’s a full-on assault; you’re only dimly aware of your skirts being drawn up, until you feel their hands on your exposed thighs, the fabric bunched up by your hips and your waist. Their fingers brushing your knickers, thin and soft, tickling the curls pressed inside.
Your eyes spring open, every muscle going taut, your heart fluttering in your chest. Your fingers grip tightly; one on Steve’s doublet, the other on Bucky’s forearm, both articles of clothes bunched in your grip as you pull them tightly, your breath stuttering, your eyes wide and your chest heaving.
“There, now, golden girl,” Steve murmurs into your mouth. “Never had this before?”
“N-n-no…”
“She’s wet already,” says Bucky around your nipple, one finger brushing against the fabric over your sex. You shudder, every nerve tingling and sparking under your skin.
These men will be your undoing, you think.
“That means you’ll like it,” Steve tells you.
And God, do you want to be undone.
Bucky’s finger brushes against you again, following the line of your sex, a tingling, tickling touch that forces the words right out of your nerves. “Yes, yes, please, please, I want… yes—”
Their fingers find their way under your knickers, your legs falling open to the cool night air. One hand brushing against the slick, wet folds of you, silky smooth. Sliding in between, finding deep crevices and puffy pillows, pulling out more slick to rub along your skin, to brush up against the nub at the very top, the one you know sings when you touch it in the dark of night in your bed.
The one being touched now by sure fingers, in circles and flicks. Their fingers rub against each other, teasing you as if they’ve done this dance before. Know exactly how to work together, in tandem, to wrest every last morsel of pleasure from your body, to make you cry out into the night, gasping and panting while they both watch you, eyes dark and hooded, their own mouths damp with spit and kisses.
Your pleasure crests, bright and smooth, an easing up and a soft, gentle landing, as you nuzzle into Steve’s chest, press Bucky’s cheek into own, desperate to be close to them both.
“Look,” whispers Bucky, and you feel his fingers pull away from you. You open your eyes to see them shining in the moonlight, slick dripping down. He puts them in his mouth, pulls his fingers out slowly as Steve swallows, hard. “Delicious.”
Your chest aches from pounding; your sex, without his fingers to warm it, aches too. All the nights you’ve touched yourself; you never made yourself feel so light, so liquid.
“Fuck, Bucky,” groans Steve. “I need…”
You press a kiss to his throat, just where it bobs as he swallows again. “Yours,” you whisper. He can have anything, all of it, if you could feel that again.
“Not here,” says Bucky. “It’s too exposed. We could take her back to ours.”
“Across the castle? We’d never make it without being spotted.”
You turn your head back to the moonlight. “I know a place. Close.”
They help you stand; your legs are shaky at first, but every step is less so. You lead them across the garden, back to the castle, where the open balcony leads into a secluded suite of rooms.
The rooms are opulent, beautiful, with soft couches and chairs, a table already laid out for breakfast, heavy curtains to shield anyone from seeing inside. You light the candles waiting by the door, and turn to see both men staring at the tapestries and paintings that line the stone walls.
“Whose rooms are these?” says Steve.
“Fit for a princess, feels like,” says Bucky.
You smile. “Yes. But she’s not here, she’s been sent away. No one will disturb us here.”
“Good,” says Steve. He wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you into his chest, kissing you with one hand to hold your head still. It’s a claiming kiss, as much as the earlier ones, but rougher now, and you recognize the change in you, too, the way your sex—still damp, still tingling from its previous assault, sings out, aching, pressing close to his body…
Feeling Bucky up against your back, his arms on your shoulders, drawing down the loose sleeves of your dress as he kisses the back of your neck, your shoulders, the top of your spine. Fingers trailing inward to the ties of your corselet.
You hear the sound of the ribbons slipping through the eyes before you realize why you suddenly feel so loose, so cool. As if everything holding you together is suddenly gone, leaving you free from every responsibility you’ve shouldered your whole life long.
The corselet slips down as Bucky pulls it away from your body. It lands with a soft thump on the floor and Bucky’s hands rest on your waist, warm and large, molding to your curves.
You pull back from Steve’s mouth, taking in a deep breath, gasping in the air, feeling the stretch of your chest and your back, before you reach and pull yourself up into his kiss again, Bucky helping to lift you, to hold you against him, mouthing against the skin of your shoulder, pushing the now-loose dress further down until one breast is fully exposed, the hardness of one nipple running rough against Steve’s clothes.
“Can’t get enough of your skin,” mumbles Bucky, his grip tight.
“Then let’s take it all off,” says Steve, strangled, his hands already pulling up the filmy fabric.
Bucky pulls away, only briefly, and returns to pull you around, to face him.
He’s still dressed, mostly—but now his doublet is gone, his shirt open to the waist, though still hanging from his shoulders. His breeches fall open, the ties hanging loose, and his length hangs hard and dark and heavy against the thin cotton of his smallclothes.
“Eyes up, golden girl,” he says soft, tilting your chin up until you see his face and not his manhood. “I promise it’s not so frightening in person.”
“No,” you whisper, “not frightening at all.”
“Such a pretty liar,” says Bucky, leaning in to press his lips gently against yours, kissing and licking, sucking against your tongue, while he and Steve both pull your knickers from your hips, down to your feet.
Bucky picks you up, still kissing you, and the knickers are left behind on the floor as he carries you into the adjoining bedroom, where he lays you out on the bed, stretched above the blankets.
“Our golden girl,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, down your arm to your fingers before pulling away.
When is when you feel the bed tilt at your feet, and look down to see Steve, bare and bold and beautiful, kneeling at your feet.
He’s naked, gloriously so, bright as the sun, his cock jutting out, thick and red, from his pale body. The thatch of hair at the base is reddish-blond, and his sacs hang heavy below.
Your eyes widen, staring at his cock, heart pounding heavy against your ribs. Your skin is covered in goosebumps; your nipples are pebbles in the cool of the room.
But Steve moves slowly, leaning in to kiss your toes, eyes fluttering shut. First, your toes, then the soles of your feet, the back of your knees, the soft skin of your inner thigh. He kisses the wetness of your cunt, the damp curls just above, staying there long enough to run his tongue through the remaining slick, and you cry out, your thighs shaking, as he pushes them apart on the bed, meeting only the briefest of resistance when you try to close them.
“Don’t be shy now, golden girl,” whispers Steve, looking at you from between your legs. “Unless you’d rather we stop.”
You shake your head, your chest heaving, and let your legs fall open.
His mouth is warm, soft against your nub; his fingers slip into you, so smooth and easily that you arch your back, pressing back.
“God, you’re so wet,” groans Steve. “Buck—”
“Don’t rush it,” says Bucky, somewhere to the side of the bed.
It feels like a rush to you; the stretch of it, the sharp ache that settles into pleasure as his fingers slide in and out and around, filling you one moment and leaving you gaping and wanting the next.
But he doesn’t stay; instead, he continues to crawl up your body, though now when he leaves kisses behind, they’re wetter, slicker; you know he’s leaving some of your slickness on your skin with every press of his lips.
And his eyes never once leave yours; he looks at you through thick lashes, taking each of your breasts in turn, sucking your nipples into long, aching, almost painful strands as he rolls them between his teeth, soothing the sharp pain with the flat of his tongue.
When he reaches your neck, he suckles briefly below your ear, resting his body on yours. The weight of him is more than the corset ever was on your body; the warmth of him is heavy, and between your legs, you can feel the hardness of him, the coarse hair rubbing against your inner thighs.
He holds himself steady over you, blue eyes gazing into yours, his hands under your head, holding you still, holding you in place.
He could take you now, shove himself into you, without a single word, without having to move very much at all. You can feel the length of him against your sex; it wouldn’t take much to slot into place. And he is stronger than you are; you could push and fight, and he might not even feel it.
You’re caught. There’s no escape.
But still. He waits, he watches, almost every muscle still, though you can feel every twitch of his length against you, pressing into your wetness like it’s desperate for your warmth. Like he’s carved a space inside of you, just for him to fill back up again.
The bed tilts as Bucky stretches out next to you, his hand gentle on the crown of your head. His shirt still hangs from his shoulders, though you think he has taken everything else off. You turn to him, lips dry, and he kisses them, gentle, soothing.
“Say the word, golden girl,” says Bucky into your mouth. “You’re so ready for us.”
“Please,” you whimper.
Bucky covers your mouth with his, pulling you close to him, as Steve thrusts his cock into your body.
It’s so much more than his fingers—deeper, thicker, heavier. You cry out into Bucky’s mouth, every muscle tensing with the invasion, but even as you stretch your muscles, you can feel the pleasure zinging through your bones. You’re soaring, caught between them, one on your mouth and one in your cunt, sucking and licking and taking.
The pleasure builds, thrust by thrust, Steve pulling your mouth from Bucky’s to kiss you himself, bruising and desperate, biting and possessive, and when he bites down on your lip, you cry out in pain—maybe for the first time.
Which is when Bucky shifts his grip from your head, to Steve’s, yanking him away from you, and giving him a savage kiss instead. It’s brutal and raw and you push your head back into the mattress, arching your back as the pleasure pushes you over a crest you didn’t even know existed: it’s a thousand times stronger and more intense than what you felt in the garden.
It’s as you reach the zenith, your orgasm shattering around you, that you feel them kissing you again, one on either side of your mouth, whispering soothing words of comfort and praise.
Yes… that’s it… so good for us… our golden girl… keep breathing, love…
You’re not even all the way down from the high before they’re whispering to each other, too. Tasted so good on my tongue… can’t wait to taste you too. Wanna lick you out of her…
“Ohh,” you sigh, your heart fluttering, and you hear Steve’s low chuckle.
“Like that idea, don’t you, golden girl?” he says as he pulls out of you, shifting on the bed, until he’s behind you, spreading his legs over his thighs, his cock still hard, nestled near your folds.
Bucky kisses down your chest: long, trailing kisses and licks and nips of his lips, catching your skin as he passes over your shoulders, your breast, your stomach, your hips. His fingers tickle as they lightly brush over your skin, closer and closer to the damp curls between your legs.
He shifts on the bed as he moves, and you see his cock hang thick and heavy between his legs, dark red along the shaft and nearly purple at the head, the skin pulled so tight it looks painful.
His mouth presses lightly against your cunt, and your eyes flutter closed, a soft mewl on your lips. Your hips press toward him, and he moves away, though you still hear the sounds of kisses, Steve's gutteral moan behind your ear.
Steve's hips, pressing into yours. Bucky's mouth, returning, warm and wet, as Steve's cock presses against, but not into, your folds. Bucky holds them open, licking up and around you and Steve together.
You open your eyes and watch Steve suck Bucky’s cock in his mouth. It’s give and take, as you shyly first lick the soft, thin skin of Bucky’s shaft, then pull what you can into your mouth, the side then the tip, then the entire head, trading back and forth with Steve. In between kissing Steve, slipping from one man to the other as easily as breathing, tasting Bucky’s skin on Steve’s tongue, and your slick on both.
It's hard to concentrate, sometimes, with Bucky’s mouth on your sex, but you see Steve’s eyes flutter closed too, and when you start to ride the crest again, your pleasure overwhelming and taking over, it’s Steve who kisses you through it. You’re still coming when Bucky pulls away and changes position, sliding his cock into you, letting you ride out your orgasm on his dick, while Steve fondles your nub. It’s even more intense than the last, and you’re all three exhausted and sweaty, tangled together, when you fall into a doze.
When you wake, they’re talking together softly.
She’s beautiful.
She’s perfect.
Who is she?
Can we keep her?
I don’t know. Maybe we can get her to agree to come with us when we leave.
If she’s no one important, maybe they won’t even miss her. Not like we would.
No, not like we would. We’ll ask when she wakes up.
You wrap your hand around Bucky’s arm, still in its sleeve. “You left your shirt on,” you murmur.
He goes still. “There’s scars, golden girl. I didn’t want to scare you.”
You open your eyes, run your hand up to the back of his neck, and reach up to kiss him. “You can’t scare me anymore.”
“Take it off, Buck,” says Steve, softly, and he’s the one who pushes the shirt off Bucky’s arm.
The scars really are horrible; criss-crossed from his shoulder to just below his elbow. More scale than scar, really, but you lean in and kiss every one of them, until Steve has lifted your leg, your damp sex exposed to the cool air, and he slides his cock inside you as you lavish attention and kisses along Bucky’s arm. Stroking gently, until he slides out… only for Bucky to take over, sliding in where Steve has left you wanting.
His turn, then, for a few strokes. Back and forth between them, easy and free, simple and soft, until Steve comes inside of you, and Bucky comes next.
“Come with us,” Steve whispers in your ear.
“Thought I did,” you say, half asleep.
“No, I mean—” He kisses your neck. “When we leave on the morrow. Come with us.”
You go still.
“You said no one will miss you,” Bucky reminds you.
“That’s not exactly—”
He kisses you gently. “Come with us, golden girl. You can be ours, for every dance.”
Your heart pounds; your breath comes quick. You look at Bucky, then Steve, words caught in your throat. “I—”
POUND POUND POUND.
Both men go freeze at the pounding on the door.
“Shit,” whispers Bucky, tense.
Your eyes open wide.
POUND POUND POUND.
“We need to go. Now,” hisses Steve, pulling away from you.
Pound pound, goes your heart.
“No,” you say, flinging your arm over him. You sit up, grabbing the blanket and wrapping it around your breasts. “It’s fine, it’s… stay.”
“Golden girl—” begins Bucky.
You scramble off the bed, your footsteps flying across the outer room, until you fling open the door, your head held high and your shoulders thrown back.
“How dare you,” you hiss at the guards on the other side. You know your eyes flash with anger; you can see it in the way the guard stiffens. “The king will have your head for disturbing me here.”
The guard, true to his station, loyal to his fault, doesn’t meet your eyes. “The king has asked for your presence, Princess.”
You lift your chin. “Then you can tell him, he will wait.”
The man glances behind you. “Princess—”
“He wants to see me? Fine. Go. Tell him, I’ve made my choice. We’ll be there shortly.”
The guard gives you a brief nod, and you slam the door in his face.
And rest your forehead against it, breathing, your heart still pounding in your chest.
Because you hadn’t lied. Not really. Not to them.
These rooms belong to the princess. She’s been sent away.
She had, sort of. You’d put that mantle away when you put on the borrowed gown, so unlike the much finer things you normally wear.
I wasn’t supposed to be at the dance.
Too many commoners, too many ruffians, too many who normally wouldn’t be allowed to lay eyes on you. Of course your father would never allow you to attend.
Celia and I, we’re not of the same station.
Celia, your friend since you were girls, the daughter of a knight and the daughter of a king. Neither of you ever cared who was ranked higher when you were together.
I’m no lady.
You never lied. Not really.
“Your highness,” says Steve from the doorway, humble, soft.
You close your eyes, pained. “Don’t call me that.”
They’re quiet, behind you.
And then you feel the gentle, soft touch on your shoulder. Bucky, you think.
When you turn, it’s Steve. Half dressed, the shirt hanging off his shoulders, smallclothes twisted around his hips.
You clutch the blanket tight around your breasts. “Did you mean it? When you said you wanted me to come with you?”
“We didn’t know you were the princess,” says Steve, low. Pained, you think.
“I didn’t lie,” you say quickly. “But I didn’t want you to find out like this, either.”
You glance back at Bucky, who leans against the door, arms crossed in front of his still nude body.
He stares at you, gaze just as solid and steady as it was at the dance. Eyes boring into you, seeing the bits you never intended to have on display.
“Still think you read me right?” you say, a little nervous.
He cocks his head to the side, then gives you a slow nod.
You glance back at Steve. “Will you come with me to see the king?”
Steve’s face darkens. “You think I’d leave you now? Run like a coward? Let you face whatever punishment he has in mind alone? My lady—”
You rest your fingers on his mouth. “That’s not what you call me.”
“Golden girl,” says Bucky from the far side of the room. His voice is low and deep, rolling with a tense danger that sends a thrill straight through to your stomach. “You should know, before you invite us along. We’ll kill whoever tries to lay a finger on your body. King’s orders or no. King, or no.”
You smile at him. “Please don’t. I just found you both. I’d hate for you to kill each other.”
Steve’s forehead creases in confusion.
Bucky, however, smiles, catching on.
You step closer to Steve, so close you can feel the warmth of him through the blanket. “Come with me to see the king,” you whisper, up on your toes, mouth closer to his. “I’m choosing you. If you still want me to.”
“Yes,” breathes Steve, and kisses you.