Virginblood (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 4) by Georgia Fox Page A

she could kneel in the straw and pray for her soul—and that
of her mistress.
    "Lady Isobel has been led astray," she
whispered into her fingertips, eyes clenched tight as if that
might, somehow, erase the vision of what she'd just witnessed in
the main hall. But it did not. She saw once again the scene of
three d'Anzeray brothers penetrating her mistress’ body with their
swords of flesh, possessing all entrances, while their four
siblings waited their turn, petting and stroking her mistress. For
Jeanne, who had never been touched intimately by any man, it was a
picture she could only watch with one eye open. But she could not
look away. "My Lady Isobel has fallen to the sin of lust with these
terrible men," she shivered, "and I came here with her because I
could not leave her side. I could not leave my lady here without a
friend. Now I fear that I—"
    A sound in the straw behind her
brought Jeanne's prayers to a sharp halt. Her eyes flew open. The
skin at her nape, under the long braid of hair, prickled in fear.
Was that a man's breath? Or was it merely a breeze making the barn
door creak, shuffling through the loose straw? Every sense was on
alert, stretched taut, ready to snap. If they caught her praying,
what would they do to her? Shivers stroked her skin beneath her
garments, as she considered the many and lurid ways she might be
punished.
    The eldest brother—Salvador, had
threatened her with a spanking once when she got up the gumption to
call him a "godless, stinking heathen". But he had said it with
laughter in his voice and a bemused light piercing through the
sinister dark of his brooding eyes. As if a spanking might not
necessarily be punishment for her. Not knowing what he meant by it,
Jeanne had stayed out of his way as much as possible.
    She gathered her courage, twisted
around and looked back over her shoulder, but saw only the empty
barn behind her. Afternoon sunlight, muted to a soft bronze at this
time of year, slipped through knotholes in the timber walls and
caught on tiny specks of hay dust, making them twinkle as they
danced and drifted through the air. All else was peaceful,
still.
    Satisfied that she was alone, Jeanne
turned back to her prayers, but once again she was distracted by
thoughts of what she'd witnessed half an hour ago—those seven
bastard sons of Guillaume d'Anzeray rutting with her fine, noble
lady, taking her in every orifice, filling her with their filthy
seed. Sweating bodies gleaming in the light of the fire as they all
writhed about on the furs, stroking, petting, licking and suckling
her mistress. A tangle of limbs and tongues. Seven large shafts,
erect and eager, pushing in wherever they could, thrusting and
throbbing and pumping. And Lady Isobel—once so elegant and
dignified— submitting to it with the eagerness of a whore, crying
out unashamedly whenever they brought her to climax.
    Jeanne swallowed. Slowly she slid a
hand down over her belly and between her thighs. The wicked need
had come upon her, and she knew it would not leave until she'd
satisfied it. Today it was worse than usual, a fierce, grinding
hunger that threatened to devour her if she did not bring herself
relief somehow.
    She spread her knees in the straw and
touched her pussy, but the thick wool of her winter gown was in the
way. Impatient to appease the wicked, fiery beast in her loins and
get back to saving her soul with prayers, Jeanne tugged the gown up
to her hips. Then there was only the thin, worn material of her
under-shift. As long as she kept that as a barrier between her hand
and her flesh, perhaps it would not be quite so sinful.
Perhaps.
    But when she pressed her fingers to
the pulsing heat between her legs, the under-shift quickly became
wet and then she might as well have fondled her cunny directly for
the damp patch of cloth was thin as gossamer. And growing larger as
her dew spread upon it. She bit down on her lip, fighting the urge
to groan as the heat gathered in steady waves, mounting