Boi Bride Read online

  Oh how tempted Taryn was to give in. He dared not. He didn’t want to enjoy sex with another man. His goal for a long time had been to remain celibate. If he couldn’t stop what was going to happen, at least he wouldn’t participate, even though a deeply buried part of him was thrilled at the idea. No, I can’t want it. It’s unnatural and wrong. The fact that on some level he truly wanted Soren to claim him was more frightening than anything else about the situation. To submit was to be complicit, so he stubbornly shook his head—a cowardly act when all was said and done. Soren would bear the brunt of responsibility for what was to come.

  “Very well. I shall make it quick, then. Perhaps when you are settled in your new home, you will change your mind.”

  Taryn was about to assure the man that would not happen—with false certainty—when he was startled by the swiftness of Soren’s taking command of his body. Almost in the blink of an eye, Taryn found his legs bent and splayed. Soren seated himself between them, his muscular thighs keeping them in place. His shift had been rucked up in the process, exposing his lower half with embarrassing clarity. Thank the Gods his dick was limp, but his hole clenched at the notion that it was on display.

  Soren poured oil on the fingers of one hand before slicking his cock with it. Then he stuck one finger without warning past Taryn’s puckered ring. He gasped at the invasion and tried to twist away from it. Soren held him in place with ease, a look of grim determination on his face. That finger swirled around Taryn’s channel for a few seconds before being joined by a second one. The invasion felt strange but not painful. The slow way in which the fingers fucked him was both disturbing and faintly pleasurable. That conflicting reaction bothered him. He slammed his eyes shut and tried to think of anything other than what was happening.

  Taryn pictured riding in the dry meadow on the outskirts of his town, a rare luxury of the sun shining in his face with peace and quiet—just he and a horse, the one creature in the world that did as he bid. It was the only time he felt in command of anything. He imagined he might be able to do that more often in his new home. Surely the prince would grant him some freedom or, even better, leave him entirely alone once they’d arrived at the seat of Moorcondia’s power. But the man wasn’t ignoring him now. The fingers pulled out and were replaced by something blunter, yet much thicker. He couldn’t help tensing as he realized that his hole was about to be breached by another man’s cock.

  Gods, it hurt, like being whipped from the inside. He tried to relax, to not fight it, but it was impossible to ignore the raw pain. He whimpered and tried to evade the thing that was slowly stretching his hole in a way it was never intended to be. He wanted to beg his new husband to stop, pull out, leave him alone. And yet, he also yearned to urge Soren to claim him harder and faster. He hated how his feelings warred with each other, and he uttered a cry in frustration that shamed him even more. That sound was silenced unexpectedly by Soren’s lips descending onto his own, his tongue invading Taryn’s mouth as surely as his shaft was splitting his bottom half in two.

  The man draped his large body over Taryn’s torso, and he clasped Taryn’s head between his hands as he deepened the kiss. That invading dick didn’t stop its journey until Taryn felt Soren’s big balls banging against his ass. A few seconds went by with them both lying still, then Soren began to fuck him with quick, fast strokes. At the same time, his tongue twirled with Taryn’s. This form of invasion was surprisingly welcome. Taryn focused on the softness of the prince’s tongue and shyly joined in the effort. The pain in his ass eased some as the distraction of Soren’s kiss helped Taryn to relax. But it was still far from pleasurable and failed to abate his discord, so there was no relief. Soren swallowed every cry of protest that escaped Taryn, no matter how stoic he tried to be.

  The prince stiffened and shoved his dick balls-deep into Taryn’s ass before groaning down his throat. A few more strokes, and Soren pulled out, flopping beside him. The man’s chest heaved from his obvious effort. Taryn didn’t dare look at him, instead lowering his shaking legs and pulling his shift down again. There was a deep and unpleasant ache throughout his abdomen and his hole pulsed painfully. Perversely, there were other sensations down there that spoke of some unfulfilled possibility. He chose to ignore them and instead focused on the wetness oozing past his hole. He disliked the sensation and wanted to at least wipe it away with a cloth. But that would have meant climbing over his husband, and he didn’t dare make any more contact with him.

  “Are you all right?”

  The question surprised Taryn. In his experience, powerful men didn’t worry about how other’s felt, and he was still too angry about the whole affair to give the man any quarter. “Does it matter if I am or not?” Soren might not have had any more choice than he, but the man was the only target for Taryn’s bitterness.

  Once again, Soren sighed, as if he were the put-upon one, which to be fair, he was in a way. “No, I suppose not. Get some sleep. Morning will come soon enough.” He sounded as weary as Taryn felt.

  The prince braced himself on one arm to turn down the lantern, flicked the sheet over them both, then rolled onto his side away from Taryn. It wasn’t long before the man’s heavy breathing told Taryn that he was asleep. With the discomfort of his deflowering and the growing anger over his predicament, it took Taryn a lot longer to unclench his muscles and clear his mind enough to follow his new husband into slumber.

  Chapter Two

  Soren woke with the instant alertness of his warrior training. He knew he was safely lodged in his own tent, heavily guarded, and with the day promising the start back to his home. The only difference was that while on campaign, he rarely experienced the morning delight of having a pert rump humping against his hard cock. He didn’t give any thought to indulging his instinctive desire to slide his dick into the invitation of that welcoming heat. At least he thought it had been an encouragement, but he hadn’t yet fully seated himself into that pliant place before his bedmate—his wife—roused from the effort and immediately tried to pull away.

  Soren wrapped his arm around Taryn’s slender waist and held him in place. Despite protests to the contrary the previous night, he could have sworn his wife had started to respond favorably to his touch. Taryn simply needed time to accept that his attraction to another man wasn’t something horrible to suppress. Ignoring the muffled squawk of indignation, he thrust gently to build the pleasure. At the same time, he reached to clasp the stiff shaft rising from Taryn’s groin. Its owner slapped him away with sufficient force to make it clear that for the time being, any further efforts on his part to help his bride enjoy their marriage bed were going to be rebuffed. Disappointed, he finished quickly and disengaged before rolling onto his back.

  He stared at the colorful ceiling of his royal tent, searching for words that might rectify the conflict between them. He wanted to make this marriage work, for his own sake as well as that of his country. His personal code of conduct dismissed the idea of seeking comfort elsewhere while married. And he was sure he’d detected a gleam of interest in the Marsher boy’s eyes and the way he’d responded to Soren’s kiss. There was some hope that, with patience, they could forge a real relationship in and out of bed. Before he could reason a path to achieve his goal, there was a familiar scratching at his tent. The flap opened, and his two squires entered, carrying bowls and cloths.

  Sam greeted him in the usual cheery way. “Good morning, your highness. Please forgive the early intrusion, but Sir Rolf insisted we rouse you and the duchess, as he’s eager to get the journey under way.”

  Soren lifted himself up to his elbows and gave Sam a reassuring grin. “I understand what a taskmaster he can be, and he’s not wrong. We have a long journey, and it’s best not to waste any more time than necessary in beginning.”

  Sam walked to a small table in the corner and set his burdens down, which included more than simply a washing rag. He carefully laid a colorful fold of what appeared to be a gown and soft half boots in a similar color. “If it plea
ses you, your highness, I will tend to the duchess’ morning ablutions while Tom caters to your needs.”

  Whipping the sheet off his body, Soren stood and stretched without embarrassment. His squires were well used to his nudity. “That is a fine plan.” He glanced at his wife and found Taryn sitting up with his gaze cast downward. Likely he wasn’t used to this kind of service. The Marsher chieftain looked to be the kind who saw only to his own comforts. “My dear, you’ll find Sam to be an excellent…temporary maid.” Damn, the law about this marriage might be simple, but navigating how to incorporate a male into a traditionally female role wasn’t going to be easy. He’d noticed, too, how everyone was avoiding the use of pronouns.

  What a tangle!

  Time was wasting, however, and as he figured his bride wouldn’t be comfortable being under his scrutiny, he moved away from the pallet and over to the washcloth held in Tom’s waiting arms. He kept one eye on Taryn, not sure of how he would react to all this sudden attention. After a few seconds, the boy pulled off his shift, giving Soren a glimpse of his smooth chest, which proved to be surprisingly interesting to Soren’s gaze. Then Taryn rose from the pallet, wrapping the sheet around his waist and dragging it behind him as he went to Sam. The squire, bless him, didn’t try to tug the cloth away, instead concentrating on washing Taryn’s upper body. Soren made himself look away to avoid embarrassing the poor Marsher unnecessarily. He could still hear him, though.

  “I’ll do that, thank you.” Taryn’s voice was low, yet steady. However he might be feeling, he was good at hiding it.

  Hard lessons learned being Hogard’s son.

  “Of course, your grace.” There was a rustling of cloth. “This is your traveling gown, your grace, part of the trousseau the dowager queen sent as a wedding gift. I, um, took the liberty of altering it last night to, ah, fit you better.”

  “That was very thoughtful. Thank you.”

  Taryn’s kindness to a lowly squire was a good sign. Soren always judged people by how they treated those beneath them. Taryn must detest the idea of wearing a dress as he traveled, but he wasn’t taking out his unhappiness about that, or anything else, on someone wholly blameless of the situation. Soren would be another matter. His bride didn’t seem to hesitate to cast him in the role of villain, if last night and this morning were any indication.

  And he’s not wrong. Soren knew a stab of guilt. His reasons notwithstanding, he’d hurt Taryn on a number of fronts, and while Soren was determined to make the marriage work, he needed to tread more carefully as he wooed his bride.

  “I hope these boots fit, your grace. They seem about the right size.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They’ll do well enough to keep my feet in the stirrups.”

  “Oh, um…” Sam went silent, obviously not comfortable in correcting his duchess.

  In the act of pulling his tunic over his head, Soren realized this duty fell to him. “You will not be riding,” he said, busying himself with pulling on his trousers. “We brought a carriage to make your journey back to Moorcondia. I believe I mentioned that last night.”

  “I don’t need a carriage!” Taryn’s meek demeanor was gone and now the air filled with tension.

  Soren plastered a patient smile on his face before turning to confront his bride. Taryn stood staring at the ground with clenched fists by his side. For a moment, Soren was distracted by how fetching the boy looked in the soft blue gown bordered with intricate flowers along the bodice, cuffs and hem. “The carriage is a gift from my brother, the king. He would have his new sister-in-law travel in as much comfort as he can provide. I will be setting a fast pace. You’ll come to appreciate your mode of travel by the day’s end, I’ll wager.”

  Taryn lifted his gaze, letting Soren see the depths of his anger and resentment for a few seconds before addressing Sam. “Those boots are very fine, indeed. I’m sure I’ll find them to my liking more than my old ones.” Once again, he treated the squire with courtesy, not unleashing his emotions on someone who couldn’t fight back.

  Soren felt the tension leave the tent, his squires visibly relaxing from Taryn’s efforts to diffuse the situation. The fact that his bride was so good at it made Soren both sad and furious. This was a long-honed skill, of that, he was sure. And that meant Taryn had grown up learning to placate powerful men. Nevertheless, the boy hadn’t become hardened or mean from the experience. He’d kept his innate…sweetness, Soren supposed, although reserved apparently for those not his husband. Nevertheless, it endeared his bride to him even more.

  And I am not helping this situation by lingering.

  Soren quickly finished dressing and told no one in particular, “I will break my fast at the cook’s wagon. See that a meal is brought here for the duchess.” He doubted Taryn would want to tramp through the now-muddy encampment, dressed as he was.

  Tom bowed. “Of course, your highness.”

  Satisfied that his bride was in good hands, Soren left the tent and strode to his destination. As he went, Rolf came into view, shouting orders to the men to hasten their departure. The efficient commander then joined Soren.

  “We’re nearly ready, your highness. Breaking down your tent is the last major task before we can begin our journey home. I, for one, can’t wait to see the back of this place.”

  Soren knew he should admonish the man for disrespecting a new ally, but as his own view was the same, he didn’t bother with trying to be politically correct on the matter. “Good. The tent will have to wait until my duchess has had a chance to eat. I want”—her? him?—”my bride to be as comfortable as possible. Eating breakfast while in a carriage would be messy and potentially nauseating.”

  “Certainly, your highness. The duchess’ well-being is paramount. There isn’t a man here who wouldn’t gladly give his life in service to that cause.”

  Good man that he was, Rolf was conveying that the strange circumstances of the marriage had been accepted by the rank and file without trouble. Not that any of them would dare to do anything overtly disrespectful to their prince’s wife, but it was nice to know Taryn wouldn’t be the target of any backhanded contempt.

  They reached the cook’s wagon, and the man’s young apprentice handed Soren a thick slab of bread topped by sharp cheese without being told. He was something of a creature of habit, and this was the food he liked to start his day with while on campaign. Not that this was a war situation, although it could have easily turned into one. They had come ready to battle their way home if need be. But Taryn had prevented that eventuality, and for that reason alone, Soren and his men should be grateful to the Marsher.

  Soren took the offering with barely a hitch to his stride. “Good lad.” He ate while he made his way to the front of Hogard’s longhouse. “Gods, I hate diplomacy,” he confessed to Rolf between mouthfuls. Not that he was revealing a great truth about himself. Rolf certainly already knew this. They were both soldiers and well-suited to it. Neither of them had any interest or skill in politicking.

  “It would be a terrible breach of etiquette to not bid your new father-in-law goodbye.”

  Soren nearly choked. He hadn’t really thought about how he was now personally bound to that vile man. As they got closer to their destination, he could see the Marsher chieftain standing outside with his odious heir. The two of them wore the same clothing as they had the previous night and were drinking tankards of ale. It didn’t seem to bother either of them how the liquid dripped down their bushy beards. Because the wedding itself had been such a shock, he hadn’t really appreciated how the smooth-cheeked and beautiful Taryn was nothing like his male relatives. Soren was a lucky bastard indeed that his bride didn’t repulse him.

  He quickly finished his food and came to a stop several arm’s-lengths away from his host. With the wind blowing toward him, his sense of smell demanded the precaution. “Good morning, my lord.”

  Hogard grinned, exposing his rotted teeth. “Ah, my son by marriage. Getting a late start to the day, heh?” The grin turned into a leer. “
Can I assume that the wedding night was satisfactory and the treaty stands?”

  Soren called upon his battle-honed skill of hiding his emotions, even though he really wanted to plant his fist in the man’s face. “Of course, the treaty stands.”

  Taryn’s brother pushed his way into the conversation. “So the little cunt offered up his ass nicely, did he? I’m sure it was his greatest hope come true and a tighter hole for your cock than any pussy would be.” The muck toad had the temerity to chuckle.

  Soren’s control didn’t stand against this baiting, and he didn’t want it to. He took a few steps to lean right into Hobart’s face, the stench of the man notwithstanding. Soren’s height gave him the advantage over the shorter Marsher. “Do not ever speak of my wife in such disrespectful terms. Am I making myself clear?” He let the asshole see his own death in Soren’s eyes and was gratified when Hobart backed up with obvious fear.

  “I-I meant nothing by it.”

  “Oh, I think we both know that’s a lie.” He reined in his temper and turned his attention back to Hogard. “Thank you for your hospitality. Rest assured that Taryn will be treated to all that befits the consort of a Moorcondian prince.”

  Hogard didn’t bother to hide his disinterest in his son’s future. Soren left him saying no more, eager to put the Marsher chieftain and his spawn as far behind him as he could.

  “Crack the whip, Rolf. I want out of this fetid swamp as soon as possible.”

  “Understood, your highness.” Rolf peeled off and began shouting orders.

  Knowing Taryn’s lingering over breakfast would be the biggest impediment to their haste, Soren headed back to his tent. He was pleasantly surprised to find that men were breaking it down. Taryn stood at the back of the carriage that was hitched and ready to leave as soon as its passenger got in. One of the Marsher servants was hoisting a battered trunk onto the luggage cart at the back. By the time Soren reached them, Taryn had opened the trunk and was peering inside.