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“Yes,” I said. “Both. Please.”
The swan woman exhaled like she’d been holding it all year. She took my face in both hands and kissed me, deep and slow and wet, while I felt the wolf’s big hands settle on my shoulders from behind and ease the tailcoat off me. The coat hit the floor. My cravat followed. Fingers worked down my shirt buttons, hers in front, his from behind, until I stood bare-chested between them and shaking a little.
“You’re lovely,” she murmured. “Look at him, darling. He’s lovely.”
“He is,” said the wolf, in my ear, gravelly. “Does he like being touched?”
“He does,” I said. My voice cracked and they both laughed, kindly.
She undid my belt and my trousers dropped, and my cock sprang out hard against her silk skirt. She wrapped one hand round it, thumb sliding across the wet tip, and I swore. Behind her, the wolf unzipped her gown, and the whole thing slithered down her body. She was pale and lush, heavy breasted, dark nipples, a soft round belly, black stockings and nothing else but the feathers on her face.
Her husband cupped her breasts from behind. She leaned back into him, still stroking me, and looked up at me through the white feathers.
“Now,” said the swan, breathless. “Tell us what you want, highwayman. One of us will happily do it. Or both.”