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Late night walk date

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“Must you truly go?” Miranda wheedles. James must, but to see her imploring him from the bed, naked, hair a wild storm of dark waves across the pillows, face still flushed with pleasure and several of his marks still visible on her neck and shoulders… What was it? Ah yes, he must go.

His hands have paused in fastening his waistcoat, which he now resumes buttoning, telling Miranda, “You know I must,” with genuine regret.

She pouts, which is underhanded. He gives her what he hopes is a stern look, but he fears his sternest has little effect on her any longer. When a woman like that knows what you'll do for a hint of her quim, there’s little hope of maintaining your dignity.

Miranda sighs, theatrically resigned. “Very well, then, go. Go, and I shall pray hard to find it in my heart to forgive you for deserting me on the very night of your return after all these months with my bed empty.”

“You lying minx,” James chuckles, buckling his belt and looking for his coat. “Thomas was explaining to me just this afternoon—in great detail and with tantalising delight, I might add—some of the ways in which he kept you entertained in my absence.” He gathers up his coat and dons it.

“Well, yes,” Miranda admits. She rolls to the edge of the bed and props herself up on her elbows as James returns to kiss her farewell. “We did keep each other amused whilst you were across the ocean. But we got rather creative about the locations, so you see,” she smiles sweetly up at him, “my bed was, on the whole, rather empty indeed.”

He kisses her with a growl of frustration now that she’s set his imagination running about the creative locations she and Thomas might have found for their entertainment. It is, he is sure, entirely deliberate on her part. He has not had the privilege of observing them with each other. His departure for Nassau came not long after Thomas took him to bed for the first time. He’d been carrying on with Miranda separately for so long and then been so caught up in the discoveries of carrying on with Thomas that they had not yet explored the possibilities in carrying on all three together. Although he is, by now, fairly certain of his place in both Hamiltons’ affections and their shared place in each other's, the three of them have remained a triangle in which each point connects only separately with the other two.

He’d hoped that perhaps today, with his eager journey straight to their townhouse from his arriving ship, the three of them might jointly celebrate his return. Only Peter was at the house, and the Bahamas situation was discussed over long hours, and there were Miranda’s dire sounding warnings about the dangers should they arouse more scrutiny. He’d had to cadge his welcomes where he could, first a thrillingly rough interlude with Thomas in a curtained alcove in the library, during which Lord Hamilton was very excited to discover certain preparations James had made in the carriage from the docks. And then, after supper, he’d taken his sore yet eager body upstairs to Miranda’s bedroom and passed a slower, though no less thorough, evening buried in the sweet-smelling linens and sweeter-smelling body of his lady love.

But the evening is ended, and after satisfying himself with both his lovers, James is well and truly spent. His bodily aches are myriad and constant, and his cock is as depleted as it has ever been. The thought of his own bare rooms is not a pleasant one, but it feels a great deal too dangerous to think of anywhere else—luxuriously appointed or warmed with love and laughter as it may be—as home.

“Goodnight, my darling,” he presses one last kiss to Miranda’s tempting mouth. “I shall return tomorrow to make plans for our appeal to the Admiralty.”

“Goodnight, Lieutenant,” she says with a warm smile. “I am very glad you’re back safe to us.” She holds lightly to his lapel as he steps away so that the edge of his coat trails through her fingers, at the very last dropping from her grip with a sad little flop. James opens her bedroom door behind him and treads blindly backward into the hall…

… only to be caught up against a tall, solid body at his back.

“Were you going to leave without bidding me farewell?” comes a low voice in his ear. “That’s not very kind of you, given you’ve only just returned. And with dashing new facial hair I have hardly had time to explore.” This last is accompanied by a hand along his jaw, rubbing with the grain of his beard and then against.

James shivers and bites down on a groan. The hall is dark with Miranda’s door shut. The glow of one solitary lamp by the stair casts hardly any light to where James now stands, pulled back against Thomas, feeling his breath stir the hair James has not yet re-tied. They are in a corridor where any of the servants might pass, but the blackness feels like safety, like permission to forget all the reasons why they should stop and he should go.

“I wish it were otherwise, but I have nothing left in me with which to sate your desire for exploration,” James whines and writhes as Thomas continues to bedevil his ear with kitten licks and puffs of air. “It was hours ago that you had me in the library, and you’ve had supper and recuperation time since, while I was further engaged seeing to your good wife.”

Thomas hums against his cheek. “I hope you weren’t saying anything of import just now. The only bit I heard was how it’s been hours since I’ve had you.” He tugs James back with him until they jolt against the wall on the other side of the corridor. “I want to have you again,” he says, and James can feel the truth of it pressing insistent and firm at his low back, just at the rise of his arse that’s still sore and loose and slick from those earlier attentions. Thomas could probably just...

If he had not come straight here from the ship and the bodily exhaustions of weeks-long seafaring, James might indeed be able to rise to the occasion for a third time this day. Thomas knows just how to touch him and tease him and by God, he has missed these hands. He can’t think clearly with Thomas pawing at him and pulling his hips back into that warm, hard body and kissing at his jaw.

“Thomas, you’re making a spectacle of James in our hall.” Miranda’s voice snaps James’s eyes open (when had he closed them?) to see her silhouetted in her bedroom doorway, the candlelight in the room behind her making an utterly pointless garment of the shift she wears. The sight does not calm his blood.

Thomas lifts his head only slightly from where he’s been nosing under James’s half-tied—now untied, now slithering to the floor—neckcloth. “James is too bloody gorgeous to be anything but a spectacle, with or without my help,” is Thomas’s unhelpful response.

“James might rather you took your attentions somewhere more private,” Miranda chides. She does not sound truly angered, but James suddenly recalls her earlier warning to him about Thomas’s blindness to the dangers of gossip.

“James is right here,” says James for himself, shaking free of Thomas’s grasp. “And James should be going.”

Thomas looks at Miranda forlornly. “Look what you’ve made him do,” he sighs. He turns a face on Miranda that the light spilling from her bedchamber illuminates. James well knows that look, and he is quite glad to see it focused on someone else. He is utterly powerless against Thomas’s puppy eyes.

“I have made him do nothing at all.” Miranda appears to have greater force of will than James, or perhaps merely years’ more exposure to harden her to Thomas’s manipulations.

“But he is leaving,” Thomas retorts. “And a moment ago, I swear I had him convinced to stay.”

James looks him over, disheveled and flushed, the front of his dressing gown bulging obscenely. His cock makes a valiant, if still futile, leap in response. He must get out of this house. He begins to pad quietly, slowly in reverse, eyes on his lovers whose eyes are all for each other.

“And what were you hoping to do with him, once convinced?” Miranda asks slyly. She steps forward into the corridor towards Thomas, and James is still close enough to see her breath coming shallow and quick. His determined retreat slows.

“I was hoping to fuck my cock inside his arse,” is Thomas’s reply. He reaches for her hand and pulls it to the front of his robe. They both shiver as she grasps him, and James stills, hardly daring to breathe lest they stop.

“Husband!” Miranda gasps. “What a base and debauched idea.” Her voice has gone hoarse and low the way it does in bed. “And how you want it,” she continues, rubbing at Thomas through the thick fabric.

“Wife!” Thomas gasps back, his hips rocking into her hand. “Of course I want it. You know what it is to want that man. How it takes you over. How it masters you.” He wraps an arm round her waist and tugs sharply so that, with a small, high inhale, Miranda is tight against his body, her hand caught between them. Thomas's hips don’t still, and James cannot stifle the guttural noise that escapes him.

They turn to look at him as one, and James swallows, his throat gone dry. “You see how we want you, yes?” asks Miranda. James nods. “You see how hard he is?” She draws open Thomas’s robe and lifts his shirt beneath. His cock stands, crimsoned and thick in Miranda’s hand. James nods again. He wants to go near them. He wants to not move a muscle. He wants to be on his knees.

“And she,” Thomas adds, wicked and assured. “She wants you just the same.” He lifts her shift and, with an ease borne of years’ repetition, slides two fingers through her thatch of dark curls and into her body. He rotates and flexes his wrist, and Miranda mewls. “She’s positively dripping,” he hums. “Jesus, Miranda, you’re so wet.” He sounds in awe of her, hungry for her. He repeats the flexing rotation, and she whimpers and grips at his shoulder with the hand not on his cock.

“Let him taste,” Miranda shivers. “He likes to taste.” And just like that, James is unfrozen, and any thoughts of leaving flee from his head in his haste to cross the hall back to them. Thomas slides his fingers out of Miranda and lifts them to James who takes them deep in his mouth instantly. The pungent sharpness of Miranda’s cunt sends a thrill through him, and the way Thomas’s two fingers invade his body makes him moan.

“If my body were the equal of my desire—”James begins as he releases Thomas’s fingers.

“Nonsense,” Miranda cuts him off. “Thomas said he is hoping to put his cock in someone. And my cunt is wet with wanting a cock in it.” James and Thomas groan in tandem. “It seems there is an obvious solution,” she purrs.

Their bodies curve into each other, Thomas’s robe askew and Miranda’s shift fallen from one shoulder. The dim hall light flickers across their bared, pale, unmarked skin, her hair a frenzy, his eyes dark and wild. They look the absolute picture of carnal gratification. And all the more when Miranda arcs her head back, brings Thomas’s mouth to her throat, and looks up at James, sloe-eyed with heady desire, to ask,

“Would you like to watch us fuck, sailor boy?"

Here they finally are, standing at the line they have not yet crossed, the three of them together. Perhaps it is momentous or worth marking, but right now all James can think is Yes, can say is, “Yes”.

Thomas bites a groan into Miranda’s throat. Miranda gasps at it and murmurs, “Thomas, he said yes. He wants it. We all want it. All of us, at last.” James feels full to bursting with desire and excitement and love, even without the rise of his cock.

“My room,” Thomas pants, motioning further down the corridor. “The bed is larger and my lamps are still lit.”

They stumble down the hall ineffectively, for none of them wants to lose contact with the others. Every few steps, one of them is pressed to another, to the other, to the wall. James grabs Miranda’s hips to kiss her. Thomas pulls James’s hair to do the same to him. Miranda brings one of Thomas’s hands to her breast. They cannot untangle themselves to make real progress down the darkened passageway.

“I think it’ll have to be my dressing room,” Miranda gasps as James slips the heel of his hand between her thighs and she drives into the pressure. “It’s closest. Else we’ll fall to it right here and scandalise the staff.” Thomas groans his acquiescence over James's shoulder as he watches her satisfy herself, driving his own prick against James’s backside. James wants always to be here, used like a tool by both his lovers for their pleasure. That his cock is too exhausted to stiffen has ceased to concern him. His bliss will come from theirs.

Miranda holds his wrist, pressing it where she wants him. “Don’t you love how she takes her satisfaction from you?” Thomas sighs in his ear. “How she sates herself as eagerly as any man?” James does. He loves it the more for hearing that Thomas loves it just the same. And suddenly, thinking of how she sates herself with Thomas, the lure of seeing her come against his hand like this is not enough.

“I want to watch you please her,” he says. “Want you to please each other.” He pulls his hand from between Miranda’s legs and lifts her with both hands beneath her plush backside. She laughs her surprise and moans her delight as he carries her through the nearest doorway into her small dressing room, still lit with its candles. Thomas follows close on his heels, shutting the door behind himself, enclosing the three of them like a set of jewels in a velvet box.

James turns round the space, looking for where he might put Miranda down in a room without a bed. She herself is no help, having wrapped her legs round his hips and aligned herself to rub against his belt buckle.

“There,” Thomas commands, desperation clear in his voice. “On the dressing table.” 

Miranda moans her enthusiastic assent, so James sweeps aside the ribbons and gloves on said piece of furniture with one arm and sits Miranda upon it. She beams up at him from a face well-flushed and bright and beloved, then reaches over his shoulder for Thomas, who has—fuck—who has removed both dressing gown and shirt and now comes to Miranda’s summons naked as Adam.

The sight of all of Thomas’s skin steals James’s breath, and he forgets himself until Miranda urges him to, “Move aside, James. Don’t go far. Only give Thomas room.”

James stumbles a half step back, watching as Thomas jolts Miranda’s hips to the edge of the table with the lack of finesse he only displays at his most wanton. She splays her legs wide, and he thrusts inside her all at once.

She cries out, a sharp, loud, “Ah!” and Thomas gives a guttural, grunting sigh, and the way they look at each other holds James near as enthralled as he might be with his own body interlocking with one of theirs.

“My love,” Miranda says hoarsely. “Move in me.”

Thomas does as bid. He draws his hips back slowly, then rushes them forward again with a low keen that James knows. His sounds are familiar. They are the same sounds he makes when he fucks James. The same sounds he makes now, fucking someone James knows he adores. That they are one and the same, those hedonistic noises, makes James glow with the realisation that he is not less to Thomas for being lover, rather than wife.

Thomas is steadily at work in Miranda’s body now, thrusting fast and twisting his hips at their deepest point to make her moan and clutch at him. She has one leg curled high about Thomas’s waist, the other curving down round the flexing and clenching muscles of his arse. “Oh, yes,” she calls, clinging tight to his shoulders. “Thomas, yes. Ah! That’s good, you’re so good. More.” And he complies, feverish in his pace and wordless in his pleasure beyond the grunts and moaning that James knows, that James loves.

His lovers are gorgeously, intimately carnal. James feels teasingly overheated in his clothes, wants his skin against their skin but has no patience to disrobe. More than anything, he needs to see. He fumbles to remove Miranda’s shift from where it’s been rucked about her waist, and it is as though he awakens her from the trance into which she and Thomas have fallen. She maneouvres her shift off with James’s help, still panting in rhythm with Thomas’s hips. They are both naked, exposed at their most artless, while James is standing by, missing only his neckcloth, like some twisted paragon of military watchfulness. He keeps close and feels a fierce, protective devotion pounding in his chest like the surf.

“Is this how he fucks you?” Miranda asks, her head turning to James and her voice slurred. “So deep on that lovely big cock of his that– ohhhh– that it’s all you want in your body?” She nudges Thomas’s head up from where it is buried in her shoulder. “Thomas,” she moans. “Thomas, do you fuck James like this? You fuck me so well. Do you give him the same?”

Thomas looks dazed with lust, as though it is difficult for him to understand or make words for a moment. James knows that look, knows Thomas is not prone to speak during this act. “Yes,” James speaks for him. “He fucks me into pleasure I never knew before.”

Miranda, though, likes to talk. “Does he make you feel like this when he fucks you?” she pants. “Like you’ll die if he stops, like you— Thomas, yes! oh, again— like you’ll die of the pleasure he’s giving you.”

She flails one hand out to grasp at James’s collar and pulls him close to the heat radiating from his lovers’ frantically coupling bodies. “Tell me how it feels,” she pleads, and he is fascinated and inexorably drawn to them and powerless not to respond.

He presses his forehead to Miranda’s temple and looks down to where Thomas’s cock enters and retreats from and enters her body. “It feels like discovery,” James breathes. “Like delight that is near unbearable. Like he’s stretching me open to take in more than my body knows how to take.” He reaches a hand between them, circling two fingers around the base of Thomas’s cock, wet with Miranda’s juices. Thomas groans like a wounded beast and bites hard into James’s shoulder through his coat. James wills it to bruise.

“He is relentless and driven,” he goes on, to Thomas’s grunts and Miranda’s moans and cries. “Like all his pleasure is to be found in my body and he wants to wring it from me. Like he wants nothing more than to fuck and fuck and fuck and come inside me for the rest of his life.”

They are all three of them dripping sweat now. Thomas is groaning against James’s throat and his rabbiting hips are losing their rhythm in an animal need to rut. Miranda is only upright with one arm round each man’s neck, slipping on their wet skin. “Yes,” she sighs, in some beatific place beyond the frantic pace of their fucking. “Yes, that’s just how it feels. Do that now, Thomas. Fuck into me and come. I’m so wet for you. Fill me wetter.”

Thomas growls, and his thrusts go shakier and harder.

“Oh, love!” she calls. “Yes!” She reaches for James’s hand between them and pulls it higher between her legs. “James, make me come.”

He wants to. He wants his hand there and his mouth and Thomas’s cock, all at once. Between her legs right now is everything best in this world: the slick, obscene sounds of Thomas’s prick in Miranda’s cunt; the ripe, hot scent of their combined arousal; the waves of molten heat they are generating together, and James wants in. He eases her back onto elbows that shake beneath her, and he kneels beside them, burying his face into the damp, hot tangle of hair. Miranda gasps, and Thomas manages a single, shocked, “James!” and then James is contorting sideways to use his tongue fast and firm on the nub that will drive Miranda to completion.

She is making the whimpering moans she makes near the end, and Thomas the heaving breaths that come near his, and James knows these sounds, has known all his lovers’ sounds this night, knows—in a way he has not had proved before now—that they are all three equally beloved, equally desired. He reaches one hand up between Thomas’s legs to flicker fingers across his hole, and Thomas howls and bucks and freezes buried deep inside Miranda, clenching through the throes of his release.

It takes him some moments to finish the last of his twitches, and then he braces his palms at either side of Miranda’s elbows, supporting her quivering body. His voice comes back to him now, hoarse words still filled with lust, “Finish her off, James.” Thomas withdraws his hips slightly, his spent cock coming free, and James looks at where Thomas just was. Miranda’s cunt is flushed and glistening, and as he watches, a spill of Thomas’s seed slips from within her body. He glances up in question to where their faces, flushed and expectant, are now both turned down towards his.

If he was a man hungered before, he is now a creature possessed of an appetite entirely new. He turns his neck and buries his face into Miranda’s cunt, lapping, licking up inside her, sucking at her skin and Thomas’s seed like he’ll never be sated. He puts a thumb over the nub of her, rubs how she likes, and when she convulses, he takes the pulses of fluid that are pushed from her into himself like some depraved benediction. It floods his tongue and his senses in a wash of feeling so strong it is as though he has spent, himself. He sinks gratefully...

... and surfaces after what must have been several lost minutes to find his cheek now pillowed on Miranda’s thigh as she sits perched upon her dressing table. She is petting his hair—an act she knows he loves, though it took him some time to confess it—and speaking with Thomas in a low, fond voice. “He is an absolute treasure, you’re right,” she says.

Thomas presses one hand warm at James’s neck, chuckling, “If only we could guard him here like one.”

“Well, I do believe we’ve convinced him to stay at least for this particular night,” Miranda says. Her smile is audible. Then, more seriously, “He is not the sober check to you he once was. I fear our little world within these walls will not always be so secure.”

Thomas replies, “It will not matter when we are in Nassau together. When he needn’t always be the pragmatic Navy strategist. When he can speak his mind in whatever room he chooses.”

Miranda hums. “When he may unleash his fiendish dry wit on any unsuspecting neighbour.”

“When they will all be felled by that uneven half smile of his.” And now comes Thomas’s hand shifting up to scratch lightly at James’s scalp.

At this, James grumbles, “He is not a cat to be cossetted and cooed over.” He opens his eyes to look up at two much-adored faces, looking down at him. 

“Don’t be silly,” Miranda says. “You are much more intriguing than a cat.”

“Indeed,” Thomas agrees. “Not to mention a vastly superior conversationalist.”

“I'm glad you've noted it,” James says. “Though I hasten to add you are both still petting me like one.” 

“Which you don’t really want us to stop, do you, darling?” Miranda asks.

In response, James rumbles and rubs his face over her soft thigh.

Thomas laughs."Ah yes, not at all feline.” He urges James to stand, then wraps one large hand round the back of his neck. “You know, don’t you, that we don't see you as our pet?” he says, gone grave and earnest.

James does know this. He does. There is still something that eases in him to hear it spoken aloud.

“You are our beloved Lieutenant,” Miranda adds. “Quite beloved.” She, too, is regarding him with solemn sincerity.

James nods to them both.

“Like a pet, though, we do propose to keep you,” Thomas says with a smile. A smile that, after a moment, turns devilish. “And we will happily provide all the cream you should desire.”

Miranda groans and smacks lightly at his shoulder. James rolls his eyes, but his heart is aglow.

“Keep me, then,” he says quietly. “And I shall keep the both of you.”

“We shall all keep each other,” Thomas agrees.

And Miranda adds,

“Welcome home, James."