Page 10 of When Kings Bend
My fingers move faster in and out of her while my thumb works in quick circles across her clit.
“Oh, God, Yes, Diarmuid. That’s it.”
Her encouragement makes me move faster, and I slip a third finger inside her, widening her as far as she will allow.
“Oh. God.” She groans.
I bite harder on her earlobe and squeeze her breast.
“Yes, yes.'' Her cries are loud, loud enough to attract attention, but my staff are used to their constant screams.
“I’m going to come,” she cries out as her juices pour across my fingers. I kiss her ear as her body trembles with her release and trail more kisses down her jawline. I slowly extract my fingers before I release her breast and place a kiss on her forehead as she gasps for air.
“Good girl,” I say.
She looks up at me, and I want nothing more than to have my own release, but I’m aware I need to leave.
I enter the bathroom. The cold water runs over my hands. I raise my head to look into the mirror, catching Selene’s familiar outline behind me. Her reflection meets mine in the bathroom mirror.
An orgasm or two usually sends her on her way. Yet here she stands, an anomaly in her usual pattern of retreat.
"I would like to come with you today," she states, her voice cutting through the bathroom's serenity.
I pause, water dripping from my fingertips. It's an odd request. We have our shared evenings, but by day, we each retreat into our separate lives. Until now, neither Selene nor Niamh has shown any interest in what I do in the daylight hours.
"Why?" I ask, turning off the tap, reaching for a towel. The fabric scraps roughly against my skin as I dry my hands, turning to face her directly.
"I want to learn more about your role in all of this," she replies, her gaze steady, probing.
"You do understand that anything you see or learn must be kept a secret for the rest of your life?" My tone is stern, not out of irritation but of necessity.
"I understand," she assures me, her voice unwavering.
"I’m serious, pet," I emphasize, a flicker of concern etching my voice. "You could be killed for even whispering about it."
"It sounds like you are more scared than I am," she counters, a challenging tilt to her chin.
Selene's words linger in my mind like the aftertaste of strong liquor. It's not the first time she's been cavalier about the risks; her reckless bravery is both admirable and terrifying. Underneath that composed exterior, there's a tempest that she hides well—too well, sometimes. Add that to my growing list of concerns that seem to expand with each passing night.
I give her a nod, signaling that she should take a few minutes to prepare. While she disappears back into our room, I take the opportunity to walk down the hallway towards Niamh's door. My hand hovers before the wood, heavy with hesitation. The large bed in our room could easily accommodate all of us, even four, yet giving them separate spaces feels necessary, a small gesture toward maintaining some semblance of individuality.
Niamh hasn’t emerged since the morning, and her self-imposed isolation isn't unusual. There's a quiet understanding between us that sometimes distance is needed—space to breathe, to be alone with one's thoughts without the intrusion of others. I let my hand fall away from the door, deciding not to disturb her sanctuary. She knows where to find us if she needs company or comfort.
Turning away from Niamh’s door, I make my way back to the main part of the house.
When I return, Selene is ready, looking every bit the part of someone about to step into a world she doesn’t yet understand.
"Ready?" I ask, my tone gentler than before. She nods, and together, we step out into the night. The air is cool and crisp. As we drive away, the house recedes into the background, a temporary sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world. My mind wanders back to Niamh, and I hope that her solitude provides her with the peace she seeks.
The pub is alive with the electric buzz of a Friday night, the air thick with the scent of ale and the distant cheer of football fans. The jukebox croons softly in the corner, ignored and overshadowed by the raucous shouts from the patrons watching the game.
Alan, behind the bar, spots us immediately. His nod is subtle, a silent acknowledgment. He doesn’t miss a beat, pouring a pint for a waiting customer even as he gestures subtly toward the back. The unspoken communication is clear; everything will proceed as usual.
We weave through the crowd, the noise enveloping us like a second skin. Reaching the manager’s office, I press a hidden latch, revealing the false wall. A brief glance at Selene shows her eyes wide with a mix of nerves and excitement. She's stepping into the underbelly of my world, and the weight of her trust in me feels both heavy and invigorating.
The secret room behind the office is just as I remember it from days spent overseeing its operations. Wooden crates, some marked with inconspicuous labels, are stacked neatly against the walls. The smell of gunmetal and wood polish is strong here, a stark contrast to the yeasty fragrance of the pub. Beer kegs connect to the bar above us, hissing softly with each use, a living part of the machinery that is my family’s legacy.
"No one can say that you don’t take me to nice places," Selene quips, her voice tinged with irony as she surveys the room.